Mildred Hatch signaled the man, who went through the more-often-used door A, the source of the medicinal odors that permeated this place. Five minutes later, following two more extended phone calls, Miss Hatch gave Boldt the nod, permitting him to enter the inner sanctum which, as it turned out, was through door B—just to the left of the Coke machine. He helped steady his son’s bottle and found his way down a narrow corridor flanked by several workers tending computer work stations. Was the database of their donors available to any one of them? Was one of these persons directly or indirectly involved in the harvests? With this the only plasma bank in the city and a policeman’s knowledge that something connected the four runaways, Boldt experienced the electricity of anticipation. He didn’t believe much in “sixth-sense” phenomena, but there was no denying the quick beating of his heart and the internal sense that there was evidence to be uncovered here.
He put questions to a Ms. Dundee, a two-seater black woman with no neck and huge breasts. Her hands were swollen like some corpses Boldt had seen, and she wheezed when she spoke. She guarded all her explanations, and smiled in the same contrived manner as a used-car salesman. Her face was so bloated he could barely see any eyes and so round and wide that she seemed more a caricature of herself. Miles didn’t like her either. On first sight of her he started crying and became a pest. He pushed his bottle aside demanding Boldt’s repeated attention. An ever-cautious Ms. Dundee requested Boldt’s police identification.
Boldt went through the ruse of pretending to search for it, realizing at that moment that events had led him to the inevitable. Would she call downtown and ask after him? Whether she did or not, Boldt now had no choice but to pay Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz a visit. Technically, he was impersonating a police officer. It seemed ludicrous to him, but he could be arrested for it.
“Just answer me this, please,” he said to the huge woman. “Is Cynthia Chapman in your database or not?”
She nodded reluctantly.
Boldt felt a flood of relief. Curiosity surged through him. So many questions to ask. Could the harvester have selected Cindy from this database? Had he kidnapped her, or was a child desperate enough to sell her blood also willing to sell a kidney? Were the names of Dixie’s other three “victims” in this database as well? “Does BloodLines keep an active database of all its previous donors?” he asked.
She viewed him suspiciously.
Their eyes met. “This can all be done formally,” he informed her. “Warrants, subpoenas. Attorneys. Press. Have you ever been to our city police department, Ms. Dundee?”
“There is a database of all our donors, yes.”
Boldt withdrew his notebook from his coat pocket.
“I have three other names I’d like to check,” he said. He supplied her with the names of the three runaways—Julia Walker, Glenda Sherman and Peter Blumenthal—all of whom had been missing an organ at the time of death. Ms. Dundee entered these names into her computer terminal.
A moment later she said, “Nope. None of them.”
“Damn it all!” he protested in disappointment. Then a thought occurred to him: “How far back do your records go?”
“A donor is kept active twelve months. The database is swept monthly.”
“Swept?”
“Cleaned up.”
“And what happens to those records?” he asked.
“Our data processing department in our home office maintains a complete donor list. That’s required by the federal government in case health problems arise in the blood supply.” She added, as a way of showing off the care they took, “You can’t donate without a social security number, a current address and a phone number.”
Boldt, having witnessed the street person in the reception area, wondered how careful they were in obtaining accurate identification, but he didn’t press the issue. “Can you check these three names with the home office?”
Another expression of disapproval. Boldt’s patience was running thin. How much could he tell her? “This isn’t about traffic tickets, Ms. Dundee. A little cooperation now could go a long way toward protecting your company’s image later. This branch’s image.”
“Just what kind of trouble are you talking about?”
“Why don’t you make that call for me, and let’s see where it leads? Then maybe we’ll discuss it.”
A few minutes and a brief phone conversation later, she informed him, “They’ll call back. It won’t take long.”
Boldt used the down time to press for more information. Miles had dozed off. “How many of your employees would have access to your donor database?” he asked. She hesitated, unsure how much to share with him.
“A woman was kidnapped, Ms. Dundee. Kidnapping is a federal offense. The kidnapping may or may not be related to her association with BloodLines. Am I getting through?”
She answered, “At this branch, about two dozen of us would have access to our client base, maybe more. Hard copies of the files are kept behind registration.”
“And is registration manned constantly?”
“Constantly? No, I would doubt it. No.”
“You said ‘this’ branch? How many are there?”
“In Seattle? Just this one.”
“And the others?”
“We’re a regional corporation, Mr.... Boldt. Twenty-four branches in eleven states. I can give you the literature if you want. Or I could put you in touch with our home office in San Francisco.”
“The database would contain a donor’s blood type, would it not?”
“Blood groups. Of course.”
“And personal information?”
“Meaning?”
“You tell me. You mentioned home address. How about age? Marital status?”
“All of those, yes.”
“Accessible from any terminal?”
“No, the terminals deal with donors only by donor number. The personal information requires an access code. Only I have the access code, and only two terminals share the complete database: reception and mine. But there are the hard copies, as I mentioned, though they are locked up in a vault at night. We don’t take our situation lightly, Lieutenant.”
“Sergeant,” he corrected. “No, I’m sure you don’t.”
“We take client confidentiality quite seriously.”
Miles stirred.
Boldt asked, “What if I entered a particular blood type into the computer. Would it be able to give me back the names of all those donors with that particular blood type? Can it sort that way?”
“You should talk to our data processing about that.”
He hated these kinds of answers. “Back to your employees. How many of them do you know well?”
“Depends what you mean. I know them all. I hired them. I don’t know about how well I know them.”
“How long have you been with BloodLines?” he asked.
“Me? Goin’ on nine years now.”
“And your employees? Have any of them been with you, say, two or three years?”
She considered this. “Three or four, maybe. I could check for you if I had the home office’s permission.”
“And that would be up to me to obtain,” he reasoned.
“Yes, it would.”
Miles was awake and quickly losing control. Boldt resigned himself to leaving. He tried a long shot. “Of those three or four long-time employees, one of them has shown a particular interest in your computer system. Which one would that be? Maybe he or she helps you out with the system now and then.”
She appeared both surprised and impressed by what he’d said. “You never did show me any identification,” she reminded.
“No, I didn’t.” He paused. “Which employee?” he repeated, sensing she had the name on the tip of her tongue. “I need that name.”
Her phone rang, sparing her from answering. When she hung up, she faced him with a dazed expression. “That was your call. The three names you gave me? They’re all on our list. They were all clients of this office. Seattl
e. Were they kidnapped, too?”
Boldt repeated softly but severely, “I need the name of that employee. The one who helps you with the computer.”
Ms. Dundee nodded ever so slightly, muttered, “I hate computers.” She picked up her pen and wrote out the name: Connie Chi.
10
By five-thirty that afternoon, over one hundred cars had filled the lower parking area of the Broadmoor Golf Club. Mercedes, BMWs, Acuras, the occasional Cadillac and Olds. A spectacular turnout. In one corner of the enormous walled party tent, high-spirited kids dressed in Ralph Lauren’s finest took turns, blindfolded, swinging a Louisville Slugger at a yellow-and-black piñata in the shape of a toucan. Heaters hummed softly, the champagne flowed, and the conversation reached a feverish pitch that all but drowned out the announcer’s running commentary on the dog show taking place just off the practice putting green. A string quartet was all set up on a small platform stage at the far end of the tent, the musicians, in their formal wear, sampling the buffet as they awaited the “special guest” and a cue from their hostess.
Dr. Elden Tegg moved through his guests agreeably, if not comfortably, taking their hands, making small talk—charming, flattering. He wore a navy blue cashmere sport coat, a turquoise Polo shirt, khakis, and brand new leather deck shoes. He glanced over at his wife, Peggy, and offered a soft, appreciative smile—everything was going well. Two weeks earlier, Peggy had turned forty; to look at her, you might have guessed thirty. She was in her element here, mingling with the top of the heap, rubbing elbows with the real power of the city.
The banner behind the buffet read:
3rd Annual
Friends of Animals Benefit
Tegg mentally ran down the list of the day’s events: the dog trials, a small wine auction, an awards presentation, and then the special entertainment Peggy had arranged. A few of the members of the opera’s board of directors were already here. All of them had been invited. Tegg spotted James Hall and his wife, Julie, and crossed over to them.
“This is a better turnout than even last year,” Jim Hall said, shaking Tegg’s hand. “You’ll raise a fortune.”
“You must stay for the entertainment, James.”
To his wife the man said, “The mystery musical guest. I’ve been hearing about this all week.”
“Peggy’s trying awfully hard to curry favor with the board, Elden. Don’t you think?” Julie asked. She had a way of speaking her mind, of speaking the truth, that put you on the spot.
“How’s the art world?” Tegg asked her, attempting to steer her clear of his wife’s ambitions.
“Dodging the question, are we?” she replied.
One of the kids broke open the piñata right then, sparing Tegg an embarrassing moment. Peggy most certainly was trying to win favor with the board. Julie knew it. Everyone knew it. But it wasn’t the type of thing you talked about! He had personally paid to fly in the winner of the Milano Festival to sing two arias here today. The string quartet, also brought in specially, had wowed Aspen last August. It had cost him a fortune! If this didn’t impress the board, nothing would, except perhaps the donation he was planning to make.
With the prospect of the heart harvest now on the immediate horizon, Tegg faced the difficult decision of what to do with the enormous sum of money it would generate. He could “buy” his wife a seat on the opera board, or he could “buy” himself a transplant practice in Brazil. He knew whom to pay off; he knew which wheels to grease. Elden Tegg, M.D., F.A.C.S. Her dream or his? Could he leave all this behind?
He excused himself and hurried over to the children who were collecting the candy that had spilled. His son, Albert, and his daughter, Britany, ran up to show him their take, offering it like pirates’ treasure. A bunch of the children gathered at his feet, excited eyes sparkling. They wanted another piñata, another game. It gave him great pleasure to bring the children this kind of joy, to include them in the event this way. How could you possibly benefit animals without involving children? The two seemed fundamentally linked.
Tegg signaled his veterinary assistant, the plump and officious Pamela Chase, and turned the children over to her. Pin the Tail on the Zebra was next. Last year some Democrats had complained about using a donkey.
Everywhere he went people called out softly, “Wonderful party!” “Terrific event!” “Having a great time, Elden!” He felt like Santa Claus, pleasing so many people at once.
He glanced out the door in time to see a collie—Elsie was her name—paraded on leash around the circle. As Dr. Elden Tegg, he had healed a gunshot wound to Elsie’s humerus. Scanning the field of contestants, he recognized several animals as patients of his. He knew each by name, knew each case history in detail; in a way, he regarded them as members of his own family. He hoped that Elsie won something—if for no other reason than to prove his own expertise with a scalpel. In another vet’s hands, she would have been a three-legged dog today.
His wife’s nervous voice came from behind him. “It’s going beautifully, don’t you think?”
He turned and kissed her. “Splendidly. The food is excellent. You’ve done a wonderful job.”
“We might consider using these same caterers at our party next week. If we could get them. What do you think?”
“It’s a great idea.” This, he knew from the hopeful glint in her eye, was what she wanted to hear, so this was what he told her.
She kissed him lightly, as an excuse to whisper into his ear. “Be nice to the Feldsteins. He’s had prostate cancer, you know?”
“Alan has?” He relied on Peggy to keep him up on such things. How she kept it all straight was anybody’s guess.
She reminded, “Alan is very close with Byron. He has his ear.”
The aging Byron Endicott, who ran a multinational shipping company, was City Opera’s chairman and someone Peggy would have to win over in order to be invited onto the board.
“So, basically, what you’re saying,” he teased, “is I should avoid asking Alan what it feels like to be reamed with something slightly larger than a penlight.”
She winced and chased a waving hand aimed at her from the crowd.
Tegg headed straight to Alan Feldstein. “Feeling better, Alan? Hmm?”
“They got it all, I’m told. Nothing like the big C to get you thinking, I’ll tell you that.” He studied Tegg and said confidentially, “You’re a doctor. How much of what you tell your patients is B.S.? I don’t believe half of what my doctor tells me.”
“My patients have four legs. We don’t enter into a lot of conversation.”
“I suppose not.”
“Have you seen Byron this afternoon?”
“I don’t believe he’s here,” Alan Feldstein said, stretching his neck. He added, “If you had a wife that young, would you be here?”
“Well, at least we know your operation was successful,” Tegg whispered quietly to the man. Feldstein grinned. Tegg bailed out while he was still ahead.
He was on his way to check how Pamela was handling Pin the Tail on the Zebra when he spotted a leather jacket out of the corner of his eye. Maybeck, pretending to be one of the public spectators of the dog show.
Tegg did his best to contain his anger. He brushed off several attempts to snag him, cut outside the tent, and walked over to stand beside the man, facing in the direction of the dog show.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Connie found an AB-negative in the database,” Maybeck said softly, screening those horrible teeth from sight with his hand. “Ninety-five pounds. Single. She ain’t been an active donor in over two years, but she’s in the phone book—lives in Wallingford.”
Tegg experienced that weightless feeling in his stomach of being in an elevator that was falling too quickly. It was one thing to consider performing a heart harvest, another thing entirely to actually set it in motion. “Can you deliver?” Tegg inquired. They had never attempted a kidnapping.
“This ain’t pizza we’re talking about.”
“Don’t toy with me, Donald,” Tegg said, knowing how the man disliked the use of his proper name. “Are there any other AB-negs?” Tegg asked rhetorically, knowing AB-negative accounted for less than four percent of the population. He was one himself. They were extremely lucky to have found even a single match.
“None.”
“Age?”
“She’d be …” Maybeck attempted to add in his head. It bothered Tegg it should take him so long. “About twenty-six.”
“That’s very good.”
“Why you think I’m here? I know it’s good.”
“Look into it. Find out if it can be done.”
“We can do it. I already got it figured. I been watching her place. Back door is fucking perfect for this.”
Tegg didn’t trust his assessment. Maybeck was more than likely blinded by the possible money. What wouldn’t he risk for that?
“But I’m gonna need your help.”
“My help?” Tegg asked.
“You’re the one who’s going to get her to open the door for us.”
Us? Tegg was thinking. Their relationship was symbiotic: Tegg needed a flunky, a go-between with the runaways and with Connie Chi at BloodLines; Maybeck liked the idea of large amounts of cash for relatively little work. But us? Tegg seldom thought of them as any kind of team. It was an arrangement, was all—often an unpleasant one at that.
“I’m telling you, Doc. I got it all worked out. We go for it tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow? Tegg wanted this chance at a heart. But how badly? How far was he willing to go? He glanced at his watch; he would have to make arrangements with Wong Kei. Could he arrange a meeting for later tonight?
The Angel Maker Page 6