Death of a Cure

by Steven H Jackson

  “Get you there in no time, Colonel!” he exclaimed with a bob of his head and a little louder than I thought necessary. I hoped that hearing was his only sense diminished by time.

  “Thanks. We have plenty of time. No hurry,” I plead my case, not needing him to show off driving skills that began with the Model T. I needn’t have worried. Ricardo drove carefully yet just aggressively enough to survive the urban combat that New Yorkers think of as driving through Manhattan. The car had a large passenger compartment, the kind where there is only a back seat and your legs stick out in front of you onto a small, carpeted lake. There was a well stocked bar with an ice bucket recently filled. The limo was clean and must have been equipped with extra sound insulation as it was very quiet. Ricardo, to his credit, left me alone with my thoughts. We worked our way to the east side while traveling north to 125th and then across the bridge to the Grand Central Parkway taking us right to the airport. Ricardo was right. The trip was quick.

  He dropped me off at curbside and gave me a card with his cell. We were in a place where he could wait and not have to circle because he was a commercial vehicle. TSA’s security failures are nothing if not consistent. I headed into the baggage claim area. Marilena’s flight had been scheduled to land five minutes ago. I checked a monitor to further narrow down where she and her bags would magically appear. The flight status showed that her arrival had actually been a little early. She might already be in the baggage claim area. Just as I absorbed this thought, I heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey mister, give a girl a ride?”

  I turned and replied, “I don’t know, lady; I got my reputation to think about. What’ll people think?”

  “Ha! Your reputation couldn’t be hurt with an axe in the hands of an ambulance-chasing lawyer.”

  “Ouch! I guess the truth really does hurt,” I said with a grin. Our mutual attempts at humor, while not ready for a prime time sitcom, had allowed us to reconnect and put off more serious conversation — at least for the time being.

  She gave me the full 1,000-watt smile and replied, “Don’t worry, being seen with me will move you back a little in the right direction.”

  “Thanks, I’ll take anything I can get.”

  I looked at her hoping to see no more than the teasing eyes of a friend engaged in playful talk. There was more. She was studying me, looking for something else. Her divining and discernment skills were in overdrive. Maybe she was trying to measure the stress I had been under, maybe she was trying to figure out if there was anything more in my call for help than just the need for her professional skills, maybe I was reading more into her look than it deserved. I don’t know. What does any man know about something like this? I was a complete believer that men are from Mars and women are from some other not-necessarily-parallel universe. Putting my inabilities aside, I was just glad she was there. Mostly.

  There are many beautiful women in the world, but few who truly take your breath away. Marilena constantly caused respiratory distress, guaranteed among those fortunate enough to carry the “Y” chromosome. Although she stood only five feet four inches tall, she commanded attention. She was olive skinned and voluptuous, benefiting from her Mediterranean DNA, had thick auburn hair, and radiated an intensity around her that defied description. When she passed through a crowd or entered a room, she captured the thoughts of everyone in view. She had that ethereal quality of “presence” in any group. Marilena did not have to say much; she just used her eyes and posture to convey her attitude. I waged the first of many battles with my inner, lecherous self that I would have today. Stay focused, Tommy. Think Chicken Woman!

  The hug we mutually started was one that you would expect between friends given that one of us had just suffered a terrible loss. Even with the difference in height, we fit together well. After what seemed to me like an appropriate time, I attempted to disengage. She held on a couple of seconds longer before stepping back to look me over again.

  “You look good, Thomas,” she said, offering an appraisal.

  “I’m not the one everyone is looking at.”

  “Whatever are you talking about? I’m an FBI Special Agent — I blend,” she said with a straight face.

  “Yeah, right.”

  Her blending ability was hampered by the combination of classic beauty, truly exceptional curves, and the outfit she was wearing. The skirt was tight and cut mid-thigh. Her white blouse a trendy European-cut that was sheer enough and cut low enough to be extremely interesting. I did not kid myself that she had dressed just for me. It was her usual style. I had previously termed it “classy provocateur.”

  We walked arm in arm to the baggage carousel (wasn’t I just here?) and watched her suitcase emerge. I grabbed it, and we headed for the door, other passengers parting the way. She had no problem playing the role of a lady letting me do the schlepping and door opening.

  We got settled in, and Ricardo eased into traffic heading west back to the island complete with four million highly driven inhabitants. Marilena sat sideways so she could face me. It was a posture that only a woman could adopt. If I had tried it, I would have broken something on the first pothole. The limo’s mini carpet lake was now significantly improved, having her silk covered legs extended upon it, slightly bent and tucked up a little as she perched on one hip, focused on me.

  “Tell me,” she began.

  I reviewed in one fifteen-minute, nonstop dissertation my activities and observations, moments of brilliance and moments of bumbling, whom I had enlisted and whom I had angered, and the fact that I still had not resolved the basic premise that it was a suicide.

  She looked thoughtful and surprised me by saying, “Not too bad. Although you were acting on instinct, some of the things you have done may give us something to work with. But first, before we poke at the hornet’s nest anymore, we need to sit down and plan out the rest of the investigation.”

  “Does this mean you believe that there is anything to investigate? That Ron was murdered?” I asked, a little hopefully.

  “I think we need to establish a working hypothesis that he was murdered,” she spoke with quiet resolve. “Whether or not he was is not important. If he was, we will find his killer. If he took his own life, our investigation will point to that with a high enough degree of certainty to convince you. My personal belief from what you have told me about your brother and your history together is that he was murdered.”

  A small wave of hope came over me. O’Dale had said pretty much the same, but it had not had the same meaning to me.

  “You really think so?” I asked.

  “Yes. Experienced homicide investigators will tell you that anyone can take his or her life, surprising all those around, so it is not a good idea to base an assumption like this on subjective assessment of the victim’s personality, perceived state of mind, or place in life. However, that is just what I am going to do because I am adding one important item to that list of non-measurable, non-quantifiable factors.”

  “What is that?” I asked genuinely hopeful that she had something concrete to end my emotional upheaval about Ron’s death.

  She smiled, made herself look as confident as she could, and said evenly, “He’s been not only your big brother but also a surrogate parent — he was a surrogate for both parents. You are the most determined, truth be told, infuriatingly stubborn man I know. Giving up is not a part of your life. I did not know him, but I seriously doubt that it was a part of his. If he had only five percent of that quality that you have, he could not have ever considered suicide an option. I’m willing to make a bet that I think has great odds that familial DNA would have persevered no matter what the circumstances. And, beyond any challenge that he was personally facing, there is one issue that we cannot ignore. He quite simply could not have abandoned you! I know that you think of yourself as a tough guy, but in his mind you were still his little brother, the brother who would always need him. You were his first, his most important, and his last priority. If he had a problem that was
taking him anywhere near a life-ending decision, his responsibility to you would have overridden any selfish decision.”

  “You don’t think he would have kept it inside, tried to deal with it himself only to be overcome in some way?”

  “Would you have reached out to Ron in that situation?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Something that bad — no doubt.”

  “Why?”

  “We didn’t keep things from each other. When I was little, after our parents died, sure he protected me from a lot of stuff. But as we got older, we were always there for each other. I would have talked to him. Yeah, no doubt.”

  “So, here is your brother. A man in many ways not unlike you, with a natural, trusted outlet to discuss anything. A man who I am sure recognized in his younger, but no longer little brother, someone of tremendous resource who would join him in any fight without question or hesitation. He would have put aside ego and not hidden behind worries about being ashamed in front of you. He would have seen you as part of the solution. And he would have believed that there was a solution. I am certain.”

  There it was. Comfort did not begin to describe her words. It was what I had wanted to believe. It let me off the hook. Ron had not been trying to tell me something. He had not been trying to tell me that he needed me — that I had been too wrapped up in my own life to hear some quiet call for help. A call that had it come from me, he would have heard. This was what I had wanted to believe all along but needed to hear from someone else, someone smart and objective, and someone who wouldn’t say it just to make me feel good. Someone who would tell me the truth whether it hurt or not.

  “If it were a bet, what are the odds that you are right?” I asked, always trying to quantify things.

  “Nine-hundred, ninety-nine to one,” she replied without hesitation.

  “That good?”

  “Better.”

  She reached over and took my hand in hers. She held it firmly, looked into my eyes, and said, “The first thing you must do right here and right now is to believe in the memory of your brother. Regardless of the problem he may or may not have been fighting, he would never, under any circumstances, have willingly left you.”

  I looked into her eyes. The fire was there. She had hit the nail on the head. She had also validated my belief that I needed her help. Ron, no matter what he faced, would not have left me; an obvious fact that I had missed completely. I knew that in the days to come that Marilena would help me in many ways, but the most important thing she could have done for me had just been accomplished. Marilena — mistress of the obvious. My confusion had lifted. She could not have made the case over the phone. She knew this yesterday when we talked. She didn’t try to sell it then, knowing that it had to be face to face.

  To others, my brother might be gone, but for me he was back. Ron, I won’t let you down. Better than that, we won’t let you down.

  APOLOGY

  Ricardo delivered us to the condo without incident. He had that professional chauffeur approach to driving, limiting extreme movements of either the gas or brake pedal. Somewhere along the line, he had been to school and been taught that passengers should not sense any change in speed or direction.

  When I got my driver’s license in Boston as a sixteen-year old, our family driver and groundskeeper took me out for some refinement after experiencing my idea of automotive operation. He informed me, man to man-cub, that squashing my dates into the dash, car doors, or the floorboards would not get me a return engagement. Focusing on the hormonal aspects of driving got my attention. I had laughed at first but then discovered that he was dead serious about pretending that there was an egg between your foot and the gas pedal. Breaking the egg demonstrated bad form. An egg? I hadn’t heard anything about the accelerator egg in Driver’s Ed. Over two decades later, I had come to appreciate the egg, at least when other people drove, and I further appreciated the fact that Ricardo was egg-savvy. Further, I decided that Ricardo was now my New York driver. We swapped cell numbers. He seemed to like the idea of semi-regular employment. More probably, he was looking forward to seeing Marilena again. Her proximity would keep his testosterone levels at pre-ninety-year-old levels.

  We arrived at Central Park West just as a rain shower had started. Three doormen raced to the car with umbrellas and provided a moveable rain canopy lest we start to dissolve in front of their very eyes as only the spoiled can do. They, of course, walked next to the oversized umbrellas and never showed any signs of melting. Marilena made all the right sounds of appreciation and enrolled three more unsuspecting males into her personal fan club. They never had a chance.

  Entering the lobby, Marilena stopped in mid-stride. She looked quickly around, taking the room in. I stopped and turned to her thinking that something was wrong. I scanned the room quickly, looking for the threat, yet seeing nothing or anyone out of place.

  “Your brother lived here?” she asked.

  “Well, not in the lobby. Upstairs.”

  Ignoring my sarcasm, she continued, “Not your average foyer.” She didn’t say “foyer” the way homegrown Americans do.

  I looked again at the lobby that I had walked through a couple of hundred times. “What’s the matter with it?” She headed for the elevator without answering me. I moved to catch up. One of the doormen had already summoned the lift, and the door was open as we approached. He wished us good day as he always did, the door closed, and up we went. Was I missing something?

  I slipped the key into the condo door, and we entered the apartment. Marilena was looking around and wearing the same inscrutable look that she had in the lobby. She slowly walked through the unit, stepping briefly into each room. She didn’t say a word. I stood and watched, having no idea what was causing her odd behavior. She made a second pass and studied the furniture and the artwork, still mute. Finally, she turned to look at the view eastward into Central Park, standing motionless. I left her to her inspection knowing that sooner or later she would come back to Earth — hopefully before dinner.

  “Thomas, do you know what this place must have cost to buy? To furnish?” she asked, turning to me.

  “Not really. I guess that the condos in this building are on the pricey side. We may have talked about it when he bought it,” I answered.

  “But your brother was a research doctor, not a practicing specialist?”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  Then it occurred to me why she was struggling. Since I had met Marilena, I had never spoken much about my family background. I remember telling her that Ron and I were pretty much on our own, having lost our parents. I am sure that I told her that Ron was a neurologist and working in research. Never mentioning that our parents were well off, it never had become obvious as a lieutenant colonel could have easily paid for the things we did together; especially one having no visible significant financial obligations. Most of the time that we were together, I was in uniform, and when I wasn’t, my choice in clothing was never “rich-guy” expensive. Additionally, whether we were in the ops center at the base in Tampa or in the field together, the work environment was unusual to say the least, and there would have been no way to correlate anyone’s financial standing. Taking in what she had just seen, she was beginning to see that her on-again, off-again, hoped-to-be on-again boyfriend really didn’t need his day job. I watched, as her features became a little sharper. Uh oh. When any woman, especially one who knows that she is pretty shrewd about sorting people out, thinks she has you classified, categorized, and pigeonholed, and then she discovers a major misalignment, it can go bad in a hurry. This is true even if the misalignment in her assessment is something where you were perfectly innocent. If, of course, you believe that any man can ever be innocent in any way, much less perfectly.

  “Thomas, are you wealthy?”

  We knew each other well enough that the question was not inappropriate. “Well, Dad did real well in a couple of businesses. Ron and I didn’t need to borrow money for med school.”

  “Why didn’t you
tell me?” reading a lot more into my dodge than I wanted her to.

  “I don’t have money problems, so I don’t worry about it, so it’s not something that ever comes up, so there are always more fun things to talk about and that’s really all there is to it.” All the words in that sentence tried to come out at the same time. “If I was broke, you would have heard about it — probably a lot,” I said trying to make light of the issue. She studied my face looking to see if I was being disingenuous. Deciding that I was leveling with her, she relaxed. I was out of danger for the moment. Still not time to get cocky. Until this was laid to rest, I had better demonstrate my sincere side. Unfortunately, my sincere side, much like the backside of a full moon, doesn’t get a lot of sunlight.

  “If we are going to look for motives behind your brother’s death, you need to do a little better than that,” she said with the beginnings of a smile. While her justification was true, and the smile told me that while I was a little off the hook, she still wanted to know for reasons that were more a part of her personal investigation of me. This was certainly an area missed in the initial FBI-trained, agent recon.

  Money was a topic that I was uncomfortable talking about. It was obviously not a problem for her. At least asking about my family money was not a problem for her. I lived well but did not think an inheritance separated me from my friends or those with whom I worked. While I appreciated my inheritance, it was not how I measured myself. It was mine to spend, but it was family money.

  As much as I would have preferred to answer in generalities, I knew she wouldn’t give up without some level of specifics. I said, “Ron and I shared equally in the family estate. The total value goes up and down with the market, real estate, whatever. He stayed closer to it than I did. Last time we even talked about it, it was just over nine hundred.”

  “Million? Nine hundred million?” she whispered, eyes growing very large.

  “Yeah,” I shrugged.

  “Oh, boy. I never knew. You never let on.”