“Yet you know he’s dead. And you’re passing envelopes back and forth with a bigwig from Evaris over greasy food.”
“Of course I know he’s dead. He was my mentor for years. What I don’t understand is why his death is a secret.” He dropped into a chair. “And you have no proof of anything.”
“I don’t?” I pulled my BlackBerry out and called up one of the photos I’d taken at the diner. “Surely someone on the university’s board will recognize your companion. Crenshaw, right?” The more agitated he appeared, the cooler I kept my tone. “Help me understand.”
He grabbed for the phone and I pulled it back. “I’m not a moron. They’re backed up.” Only because of Chad’s haranguing, which I was suddenly grateful for.
He stared at the far wall for a minute, then swung a fist down into the arm of his chair. “Look, kickbacks from the drug companies are part of the business.” He slouched back in the seat, rumpling his expensive camel pinstriped suit. “I prescribe their stuff instead of someone else’s, and they make a fortune. So they pay me to prescribe their meds.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What if a competing drug would have a better result for your patient?” I had to fight to keep calm there.
“They’re not that much different.” A defensive edge crept into his voice. “I can’t say for sure what will work best on who, anyway. Evaris’s technology is just as good as everyone else’s.”
Sure. That’s why they had to cheat and use bribes to get their stuff prescribed. I jotted a few notes. In balance, admitting to being a douche and taking kickbacks was better than copping to murder, so I wasn’t entirely sure I bought his story. But I didn’t get the feeling he was lying, either. I looked up from my notes and arched an eyebrow at him.
“I’m not up on my medical/legal technicalities, but I’ll take your desire to hide what you’re doing as a sign you shouldn’t be doing it. Is that all you’re selling them? Access to your patients?”
“What else would I possibly be doing?”
“Selling them Maynard’s research.”
He snorted. “They don’t want it. Maynard was on a quest for a cure. No one in this business is interested in that.”
I closed my eyes and pulled a breath in for a ten count. When I didn’t actually slam my fist through his smirk, I counted it a win.
“Is that why he went off the grid?”
“I’m not sure I’d phrase it that way. He made enough money to go do what he wanted.”
“But none of the pharma companies he worked with wanted to sponsor the studies.”
“He didn’t want them to. David was a brilliant doctor, but lady, he was a little crazy. A massive heap of do-gooder. He wanted to find a cure—so he could give it away. He used to proselytize about how something that could benefit all of mankind belonged to the people. Like he thought he was Jonas fucking Salk. He complained all the time about how medicine had become a business.”
I scribbled notes, considering the words as I wrote. Who would have been interested in Maynard’s research?
“Insurance companies?” I asked.
“What about them?”
“It would save them a ton of money if someone found a cure. Would they have wanted to know what he was working on?”
“Only so they could stop him,” he chuckled. “You think drug companies are bad? They got nothing on insurers. A free cure for one of the most expensive, catastrophic illnesses a person can get? Do you know how far their premium structure would plummet? And with the law requiring insurance now, the government would lean on them to practically give policies away to young, healthy people. Their bottom line would get eaten right up.”
I didn’t miss a word, my thoughts speeding past his assertion. “There really was nobody who wanted to help him?”
“I can name twenty people who wanted to stop him.”
I looked up. “Yourself included?”
He rolled his eyes and ran one hand through his sandy hair. “Look—”
“I know. I don’t get it.”
“This is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Don’t most people become doctors because they want to help people?”
He stood, pacing the office. “I did.” A muttered refrain of something I couldn’t make out followed. I couldn’t tell if the tirade was directed at himself, me, Maynard, or Jesus. But he was selling his point hard.
He stopped and turned to me. “I spent years studying for this career. Several of them under one of the most brilliant oncologists of our time. I wanted to help people. But yeah—I wish Maynard had felt differently about things. We could have revolutionized treatment if he wasn’t so stubborn.”
Stubborn? That’s what we’re calling wanting to save people’s lives now? Nice. “I’m not sure you’re using the right word,” I said. “Humanitarian, maybe?”
“Come off it. What’s wrong with making a few bucks along the way if you’re going to save the world?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure a person like yourself is going to understand the answer to that if I bother to offer it, Dr. Goetze.”
Journalism in any age where money is a concern 101: people who hunger for it seldom understand what it means to want anything else. Or how to be happy.
I made a few more notes and stood.
“I’m sure you’d like to keep these photos off our front page.”
He nodded. “Something tells me I don’t have much say in that.”
“One last time.” I stepped closer to him. “What was Maynard working on?”
“I don’t know.” He spread his hands. “Why wouldn’t I tell you if I did?”
I studied his face and nodded. “But you know someone who does. Let me suggest that you find out. By six o’clock tomorrow evening. I’ll see you then.”
I didn’t wait for him to answer. My temper levee had held so far, but it was failing fast. I strode for the door and slammed out before memories of my mom, connected to a million tubes and wires and writhing in a bed, let the dammed-up anger flow at Goetze.
I sped toward the courthouse, the clock on the dash telling me DonnaJo was probably good and annoyed with me. She’d get over it, though—her case was a slam dunk. She just liked seeing her more memorable speeches quoted in the newspaper.
I stopped at a light, my pulse finally slowing from the furious hammering that sent me running from Goetze’s office.
What did I know?
That Goetze was a greedy bastard.
That someone, somewhere, had to know something about Maynard’s research.
That the murders were connected. Aaron might not be convinced, but after talking to Goetze, I sure was.
Could I print any of it?
I needed proof. Letting everyone know what trail I was on before I found the end wasn’t smart.
Would Goetze actually nose around—or pretend to nose around—Maynard’s research? Maybe. But my chances were even up that he’d just vanish. Hoping a sense of responsibility for his patients would prevent that had evaporated during our short conversation. That dude was in medicine for the money and the God complex. Not the good of his fellow man.
My BlackBerry started buzzing as the light turned green, and I glanced at the screen as I put my foot on the gas. My lips tipped up in a smile.
“Hi there!” I said brightly, putting the phone to my ear.
“Nichelle, dear, it’s been too long.” The warmth in the voice on the other end was genuine, and so close to my mom’s it made my grin widen.
“I talked to you last Saturday, Grandmother.”
“I do love the sound of that word. And that’s a long time, when you have as much catching up to do as we have.”
“I suppose it is. I’ve been a little wrapped up in work.”
“Of cou
rse, of course.” She got quiet. “Your mother called.”
“So I heard. We’re kicking around coming to California when I have enough of a break from dead people.”
“She didn’t tell me that!” Her voice edged up slightly, and I frowned. There was something there, but it wasn’t excitement.
“Everything okay?”
Nervous laughter. “Of course it is. It’s perfect. I’m just thinking. You don’t want to come here—we’re in the middle of this dreadful drought, and there’s nothing to do but go to the beach.”
“I love the beach.”
“Everything here is so blasé. I require something a bit…more…for meeting my only granddaughter. Not the same old sunshine and waves I see every day.” She took a breath. “I know! We should have a girls’ vacation, the three of us.” Words tripped out of her. “My treat, of course. Where would you like to go? New York? Paris? A spa? A cruise?”
I smiled, unable to believe I’d let resentment keep me from knowing her sooner. She was light and bubbly and enthusiastic—an older version of my mom.
“A vacation sounds amazing,” I said softly. “But not necessary. I just want to meet you.”
I’d ask her to share what she remembered about my father when I could hear it face to face. I wanted to know her better, I wanted her to trust me, and I also wanted to be able to watch her expressions when she spoke of him.
I’d never been terribly curious, but the possibility of unknown people walking around with similar DNA had chipped away at my resolve in the past few months. I still wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but I needed to.
What I didn’t want was for my mom to hear me ask. It had been hard enough for her to tell me the things she did.
“When can we go?” she asked.
“Work is crazy for me right now, but it will calm down soon. I hope.”
“I had a feeling you were trying to find out more than the paper lets on about the man who was murdered last week,” she said. “You take care of yourself, young lady.”
I laughed. So much like mom. “Yes, ma’am.”
I turned onto Ninth and had a thought. “How about right after Thanksgiving? The anniversary of Mom’s remission is that week. We’ll celebrate all at once.”
“Remission?”
Um. “Breast cancer. This will mark seven years.”
“Lila had breast cancer?” Strangled such that I barely heard it. Damn.
“I had no idea you didn’t know. But she’s fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that, sweetie. And I know you didn’t mean to upset me. But she’s my only daughter. How could she shut me so far out of her life that she didn’t tell me she was that sick? That’s the kind of thing you call your mother about.”
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t think it was the time to point out that they had shut my mom out, not the other way around, but the urge to jump to her defense was so strong, I felt a sudden need to hang up.
“Thank you.” The words were stiff. “And late November should be perfect. Where?”
“I’ll ask Mom.” I said. “If that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Thirteen kinds of awkward silence. I didn’t mean to upset her. And I shouldn’t get in the middle of a conversation she needed to have with my mom, no matter whose side I could see or what I thought.
I stopped at a sign a block from the courthouse and clicked my tongue. “I’m sorry, Grandmother, but I have to go. I have a trial to cover, and I’m already late.”
“Of course, dear. We’ll talk soon.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I clicked off the call and parked the car, opening a text to my mom.
“Grandmother is upset because she didn’t know you had cancer…until I told her just now. Sorry. She might call you.”
I hit send and noticed the missed call icon in the corner of the screen, clicking on the number. Nope. Still didn’t ring a bell. I touched the call back button and waited. A man’s voice, rough and breathless, was behind the “hello?” but my bells still weren’t ringing.
“This is Nichelle Clarke,” I said. “Did someone try to call me from this number?”
“If you want to know what happened to Maynard, meet me in the rear parking lot at Cary Court at five thirty.”
Click.
“Hello?” I repeated it a dozen times, then pulled the phone away from my head and stared at it.
Jiminy Choos, what was I jumping into this time?
The voice still running through my head on a loop, I started toward the courthouse, spotting Kyle walking out a side door with Jonathan Corry, the local Commonwealth’s Attorney and DonnaJo’s boss. I raised an arm to wave, but they were so deep in conversation, they didn’t notice.
It wasn’t until I’d squeezed into the last seat in the last row for the meth trial that it occurred to me to be nervous about what Kyle wanted with Corry.
Surely it didn’t have anything to do with Joey.
30.
The second shooter
I ducked DonnaJo and Charlie both and sped across town to St. Vincent’s as soon as the judge adjourned for the afternoon. Alisha should’ve been at work for an hour and a half. Hopefully that was long enough for her to be able to get a break without catching anyone’s attention.
The beefy guys at the desk—still there a week later, and quite possibly a permanent fixture in the lobby—just nodded in my direction, and the sweet ladies in their candy stripes and matching red lipstick smiled and waved.
I stepped off the elevator and nearly walked into Goetze, who was talking to a tall, gray-haired doctor I remembered from the day of the shooting. I didn’t catch a word of what they were saying before Goetze fell silent, his wary eyes settling on me. I skipped mine right over him and smiled at the other doctor.
I turned for the nurse’s station and the two of them stepped onto the elevator. I didn’t need to turn around to know Goetze was glaring a hole through the back of my tank top. Not that I cared what a man like him thought of me, but I wanted information I was fairly sure he could get. In that respect, I was glad to see him. Maybe he was looking for dirt on Maynard’s work.
Alisha wasn’t behind the nurse’s station, nor was she in Amy’s room. I peeked into two others before my eyes settled on the door I’d watched the slight, quiet man move to and from in the past few days.
Alisha wasn’t in there, either, but he was kneeling next to the bed, holding an elderly woman’s hand to his forehead and sobbing what sounded like a plea or a prayer. I didn’t recognize the language.
His mother? She was still and silent, the beeping of the heart monitor and whir-click of the IV pump the only sounds in the room that weren’t coming from him.
I swallowed an onslaught of painful memories and stepped backward, pulling the door behind me.
“I’ve never seen anyone keep a vigil like that with a parent, and I’ve been here a long time.” Alisha’s voice came from behind me.
“I can relate,” I said. “My mom is a breast cancer survivor.”
She nodded. “How long?”
“Six years—well, seven next month.”
“Good odds.” She tried for a smile and managed more of a grimace.
I glanced around and dropped my voice. “I heard you were looking for me this morning?”
She nodded, tipping her head toward the door, then waving me toward the little break room.
The medical supplies and bottles from the closet had taken up residence on wire shelves, crowding the tiny kitchen. Alisha squeezed between the fridge and a shelf, looking behind every piece of furniture in the tiny room before she started to speak.
“Look, I know you’re writing this series on Tom and Amy and what led him to a breaking point,” she said. “I also know he’s probab
ly going to prison from here, either way this works out. But it’s capital murder if he killed Stephanie, right?”
I nodded. “Possibly. Murder committed during the perpetration of another felony qualifies, but it would depend on the prosecutor.”
She sighed. “I want to protect them all,” she began, then stopped, turning huge, tear-filled eyes up at me. “Can I trust you?”
“Of course. The people are what make this job for me, Alisha. Not the headlines. I don’t want Tom to go to prison for something he didn’t do.”
She sniffled and nodded. I waited. She stared at the floor.
“He didn’t do it, did he?” I asked. “And you know it. I know it. I’m pretty sure my friend Detective White will buy it if we can come up with proof.”
A hitching breath in, and words spilled out. “I don’t want to give up Benny and his family, but maybe there’s a way we don’t have to?”
“I’ll do my level best.” My gut twinged. “Benny is the gentleman across the hall with the sick mother?”
“Their visas are out. They’re refugees, but getting the INS to recognize that gets harder every year, and they’ve run into a problem with a judge in California. He’s scheduled to be deported in six days.”
“What?” I fumbled for a notebook and started scribbling.
“They’d deport her too, but she’s too sick to move.”
My head spun. I had exactly no experience with the immigration service, but surely they wouldn’t send this man away from his dying mother. Even bureaucrats have mothers. And souls.
“I need you to slow down a touch. Tell me what’s going on. From the beginning.”
“Benny came here with his mother from Serbia about six years ago. They ran from the military, where service is forced on all men over eighteen, because he’d never signed up for the draft. His father and brother were killed in an accident and there was no one left to take care of his mother.”
I kept my head bent over my notes, catching every word, and nodded for her to go on.
Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) Page 24