Wendell Black, MD

by Gerald Imber, M. D.

  “My goodness. And do you police suspect Dr. Sheppard?”

  “Actually, we do not, but it is important to locate her.”

  “Hmm. Who was the unfortunate plastic surgeon?”

  “Farzan Byarshan.”

  “Good God. I know Byarshan well. A good man. I think I may just know the girl as well.”

  17

  I had spent hours following up even the most farfetched threads of Alice Sheppard’s life and got nothing worth the effort. The Internet is great, and I learned all sorts of stuff about the history of English plastic surgery but nothing about Alice. Sir Peregrine was indeed the big fish I needed.

  On Saturday morning, before nine, I called the St. Regis Hotel and asked to be connected to Mrs. Byarshan’s room. It had been three days since the death of her husband, but since the body had not been released by the medical examiner, it was a fair bet she would still be in New York. The operator put the call through immediately, without asking my name. A gentleman speaking slightly accented, very proper English answered the telephone. I identified myself and asked to speak to Alaleh.

  “Yes, please. Who is this?” she asked. I identified myself again, and she responded, a bit put off.

  “Dr. Black, my father said you were the police.”

  “Sorry. I may have misled him a bit to be sure he would let me speak with you. Alaleh, I have to ask you some questions about your husband and Alice Sheppard.”

  “Yes, of course. They were good friends.”

  “I need to know more than that, if you can help.”

  “Of course,” she answered. “I think they may have dated before Farzan and I met. He was very fond of her. I have not spoken to her in two days. How is she?”

  “That’s what we would like to know. Alice is missing. We have been contacting her associates here and in the UK, trying to find some direction. How well do you know her?”

  “Oh, not very well at all, Dr. Black.” It was time to go at it from another direction.

  “Please call me Wendell. Alaleh, where did Alice and Farzan meet?”

  “I think they were fellows together at Queen Victoria Hospital.”

  “Ah. And when Farzan opened his surgery in London did Alice work with him?”

  “No, Wendell. Farzan never said that.”

  “Do you know if they saw each other in London?”

  “Yes, I think so, or at least she called the house a few times. Farzan didn’t speak about her often. I think he believed I was jealous.”

  “Did Alice know Tahm Tahani?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I actually do not know.”

  As a matter of family tradition, Deuce tried to spend Saturdays with his boys, and I almost felt guilty interrupting him. Whatever he had been doing, he answered his cell phone on the second ring. I took a deep breath and started from the beginning. “Alice Sheppard was never a fellow or a student at East Grinstead, where she claimed to have trained, but Farzan Byarshan was. Alice showed up at social functions as Farzan’s girlfriend, and Sir Peregrine Freely . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Here we go. Deuce is a pretty funny name, too. Just hold on for a minute, okay? Sir Peregrine is a famous plastic surgeon in England. Alice says she trained with him. Freely says she didn’t. He”—I made a point of not saying Sir Peregrine again—”remembered her from my physical description as a lovely young doctor who visited with Farzan several times. She had a London accent, and he said they knew people in common. I have the names. Maybe you can get the addresses from Scotland Yard. But I still have no idea where Alice learned her trade. She’s good at it, she’s definitely real, but Alice Sheppard isn’t.”

  “They all knew one another. We already knew that, and Alice isn’t Alice. At least one of the other two got himself killed the other day. What does it mean?”

  “It means you were right,” I admitted to Deuce. “This is bigger than we thought. We have to find out how Alice fits into the puzzle.”

  “I’ll get the London guys on that, too. But don’t expect a hell of a lot. Alice covered her tracks like a pro. She’s up to no good.”

  I stuffed my laptop and a change of clothes into a carryall, tossed Tonto’s bowls and his food into a shopping bag, which excited him no end, and headed for the car. It’s about a hundred and twenty miles from Manhattan to the eastern end of Long Island. Sometimes the trip is so slow it takes the wind out of your sails. Today it was just over two hours, and actually pleasant. The humidity was gone for the year, so the sky was crisp. The morning temperature in the low sixties allowed for open windows instead of AC. A good start. I found an a.m. news station and was surprised to hear that the death of a visiting plastic surgeon was part of a war between international drug cartels. Amazing. I was afraid to read the Post.

  By noon we were walking the beach. I was feeling a little blue and a lot confused, but melancholy doesn’t hold up to an empty expanse of beach. A supercharged dog running from breaking waves, attacking on the ebb, and cajoling me to play along is just too much fun. After an hour we retired, beat and sandy, to the little motel unit on the dunes.

  The furnishings of the room weren’t much to speak of. Not stark or modern or really anything but beachy, comfortable, and appropriate. There was a big bed with a headboard upholstered in the same blue-and-white striped canvas as the rattan chair and ottoman and bedspread. An old tube television and cable box were about as far from the bed as possible. One of the night tables had a clunky phone on it, and immobile half-length draperies braced the big ocean window like a frame. There was a pull shade for use when privacy was necessary.

  The bathroom was small and clean and of indeterminate vintage, with a tiny frosted-glass window. There were no sample plastic bottles of shampoo and body wash, and the small bars of soap wrapped in paper were actually easy to open. That was as luxurious as it got. After a quick shower I wrapped myself in a decent-sized towel, plugged in the laptop behind the headboard, and set it on my lap on the bed. I hadn’t considered the issue of Internet service, and I was relieved to find myself on the Seabird Motel Network. I went right to e-mail and found a few disappointing responses from the English medical establishment. By now I wasn’t surprised. I tried hard to concentrate, but my eyes shut almost immediately. Half an hour later I was ready to work, which was more than I could say for my companion. Tonto was off in dreamland, alternately snoring and wildly waving his paws. I laughed at him for a bit, and then I remembered Deuce and checked my BlackBerry. Nothing. No messages other than a single missed call from a blocked number and a voice mail, which I retrieved. I was prepared for more anonymous cop bitching when I heard Alice’s voice.

  18

  The message was very short and very serious. No personal chitchat.

  “Wendell. Sorry for running out. I need your help, and I must speak with you alone, it’s important. I will ring you again at ten, your time. Please, please, don’t say anything to your colleagues. Thank you love.”

  It was pure Alice, no doubt about that. The timbre of her voice was strained and she was all business, except maybe the “thank you love,” but I had often heard her use the term addressing patients, so it was more likely habit than bond. She was out of the country. We already knew that, or at least we knew she had left via JFK and was in a different time zone. Whatever was going on, I worried for her safety and contemplated calling Deuce. It was probably the right thing to do. In the end, common sense—or maybe lack of common sense—convinced me to hear her out before calling in the cavalry.

  The day finished in blue and gold and finally red. There was the beginning of a chill in the air, and the lack of humidity made the colors and shapes in the sky crisp and clear. There were no neighbors to be seen, and the slab porch was a great place to enjoy the early evening. I sat on one of the Adirondack chairs and took it all in. The seat was deeply angled and all slats, and after twenty minutes I got uncomfortable and antsy. I fed Tonto, freshened his water, and let him out to cruise the dunes and do his thing. He was back
like a boomerang in less time than it took me to use the toilet, pull on a sweater, wash up, and run my fingers through my hair. I was hungry and anxious to fill up and get back for the call. I opened the door and Tonto was out in a flash and waiting at the car. That wasn’t the plan, but if he wanted to sit in the car in a parking lot while I ate, it was his problem.

  Deuce hadn’t called and I didn’t call him. I would wait to hear what Alice had to say first. Errors of omission don’t feel as rotten as lies, and I didn’t want to lie to Deuce. In the fading light it took all of five minutes to find the business district of Montauk and the direction of the harbor. Montauk had changed a lot over the last few years. I was amazed at the super-hip vibes everywhere. Not much was left of the fishing village I remembered. It was another couple of minutes before I was parked in the very quiet lot of a large lobster restaurant that I visited every decade or so. The place was as empty as the parking lot, and I got a nice welcome. A single at a waterside table for four would never happen in season. I ordered a dry Belvedere martini and a large bottle of bubble water.

  I listened in on the bits and pieces of the few conversations around me until the frosty silver bullet arrived. I savored a sip, complimented the waitress, and ordered steamers, a boiled lobster, and a baked potato. I even took a chance on corn. That was a mistake. The first bite reminded me that the season was over. If it hadn’t been yellow, I might have been hard pressed to identify it. The rest of the meal went down well. The waitress was more than cute and visited my table a bit more than necessary. The place was pretty empty, and she had plenty of time to flirt while I finished my coffee. I enjoyed the moment but let it pass.

  I managed not to check my BlackBerry during dinner, but I was anxious to see what was going on. Back in the car with Tonto, I endured the obligatory doggy licks while managing to scan three texts. Two from Deuce and one from Rodriguez. It was nine fifteen.

  At precisely ten my cell phone rang. It displayed an unknown number, which didn’t surprise me. I had been stretched out on the bed, on top of the throw, and was lost in thought. I bolted up to a sitting position and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hello.”

  “Wendell?” she asked, as if unsure that she recognized my voice. “It’s me. Are you alone?”

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  “Wendell, there’s a lot going on that you don’t know about.”

  “That’s for damned sure.”

  “Don’t be angry.”

  Don’t be angry! That threw me over the edge. I lost my self-control and let Alice know that I felt she was screwing me over.

  “You haven’t been straight with me about anything. Everything about you has been bullshit. Don’t bother making nice. Just tell me what the hell has been going on. Whatever you’re in the middle of, spell it out right now. Just don’t backpedal and jerk me around.” Then I was quiet for a few seconds. In the quiet, I realized that I had been shouting. The silence was jarring.

  “Can I rely on you not to repeat what I’m about to tell you?”

  “No, you fucking well cannot.”

  Alice was silent. When she spoke again, she was forceful, her manner formal and official. I got the message.

  “Wendell, the drug smuggling and the murders are not really about drugs. That’s the least of it. This is about terrorism. The details are still unclear to us, but the operation is being run by known terrorist cells in the Arabian Peninsula and the UK.”

  “Who is us? Who are you?”

  “Wendell, I work for an antiterrorism unit of the British Secret Intelligence Service, and this is our business.” Jesus. I didn’t know whether to laugh or salute, and I still had no idea who I had been sleeping with for the last few months.

  “MI6? James Bond? Give me a fucking break.”

  “Hardly James Bond, but yes, MI6. There’s a lot to talk about. I would like to do it face-to-face and as soon as possible.”

  “Sweetheart, it is very unlikely that you will get back into the country. The NYPD, the feds, and the customs people have you on the BOLO list. Your pretty face is everywhere. They’ll pick you up the minute you step off the plane.”

  “I don’t think you understand. This is my world. I will be wherever you wish to meet. You needn’t worry about me.”

  I was no longer sure I was worrying about her. “This is a big mistake . . . big mistake. You should call our authorities, clear your name, and let them help you with whatever needs to be done. I won’t be of any use to you.” I felt like I was talking to Farzan again.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that. Not now.”

  Very much against my better judgment I agreed to meet Alice the following evening. There was never any doubt that I would, and she knew it. I’d read enough detective novels to insist on a public meeting place. Alice suggested I pick her up outside the Ritz-Carlton hotel in Battery Park at seven Sunday evening. As I thought it through, that wasn’t what I considered public, but at least I would be able to check out the circumstances. Whatever her level of criminal activity, the idea did not strike fear in my heart, and I agreed. The entire conversation lasted less than two minutes, and, of course, I didn’t know much more then than I had before the call. What I did know was I had to avoid Deuce for the next twenty-four hours.

  There wouldn’t be a damned thing going on at the tip of Manhattan on a Sunday night other than a little hotel activity, and I remembered that the entrance was as visible as the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. She was either confident that I wouldn’t set her up or had some plan for monitoring the scene. As far as I was concerned, there was little chance of being grabbed; the one-eighty view of the entrance would protect me. I could look for first sign of anything irregular and take off before they were on me. I thought about it a little more, then tried to push the whole thing into some recess of my mind and get some sleep.

  Autumn is definitely a magical time on Eastern Long Island. Relief from crowds and traffic may be the least of it. Skies are clear, days are warm, and the evenings cool enough for sweaters. It was one of those nights that demanded to be enjoyed. I struggled a bit to jimmy the windows open in the hermetically sealed room. In a few seconds the ocean breeze lifted the curtains and blew the musty smell out of the room, replacing it with a wonderful salinity. I pulled the covers down, tossed one of the crummy foam pillows across the bed, settled my head onto the other, and reached for an old Charles McCarry novel I had been looking forward to reading. It never happened.

  I woke up at first light, snuggled between the still-unopened book and a snoring dog. Not quite the romantic seaside weekend I had envisioned, but I was clear-headed and rested. I had nothing to do for the day but duck Deuce and try to figure Alice’s angle. The first proved far easier than the second. Deuce called at nine and left a “call me” message. By midafternoon it became “Where the hell are you? Call me.” That was it. He was likely parading around in shorts and an extra, extra-large T-shirt, surrounded by kids and laughing like one of them. That’s who he is, and it won me over years ago. Deuce had a reputation as a hard-ass, as tough as he looked.

  The first time we met off-duty, it was at his home to plan a retirement party for Tony Rocco. Lieutenant Tony was Deuce’s mentor and the son of an old family friend of my dad’s, so we were obvious candidates. The idea of drinking beer and hearing war stories before noon on a Saturday left me cold. Spending an hour with the notorious Lieutenant Secondi left me more than cold. He answered the door with a remarkably well-behaved four-year-old on his shoulders. The child sat there happily for the better part of half an hour. He smiled and fidgeted a bit, but with none of the fist-throwing hostility tolerated by so many parents. Deuce kissed the boy’s leg whenever he spoke, occasionally mussed his hair, and periodically trotted over to the playroom and checked the howling group, who were having more fun than I could dig out of my own childhood memories. We planned our party, had coffee, and talked about childhood. I didn’t want to leave. Since then, Deuce and I have become friends. We have different
lives and different styles, but we respect and like each other and have fun together. I think we trust each other, but now I was pressing the issue.

  Sunday morning meant not shaving, for the Black family. My dad taught us—my brother, Billy, and me—the joy of a day off, and when I didn’t have to work on Sundays, I joined the club. Nothing to do with the three-day beard thing so fashionable with young guys trying to look cool. The Black family men weren’t cool. For us, it was just a day of freedom when we didn’t have to pull and scrape. We are easy men to please.

  Tonto and I enjoyed an early run on the beach, and I was showered and in East Hampton by ten. For a town that was unlivable six weeks ago, it was strangely pastoral. I understood what drew people out here years ago. I attached the leash to Tonto’s collar, which he didn’t seem to mind, and tied him to an empty bench. There were a couple of people with the same idea, and it took almost ten minutes to get a coffee and half dozen powdered doughnuts. Health food. It was only a couple of times a year . . . what the hell. Tonto was out of his mind by the time I set up the newspaper, napkins, coffee, and rolled back the top of the brown paper sack already transparent with grease. I refused to think of what the doughnuts had been floating in just five minutes earlier, but they were warm and fragrant. Tonto drenched the pavement with saliva by the time he got his first hit. Once he realized he was in the game, he calmed down. He was one funny-looking pooch, sneezing from the powdered sugar on his nose and licking at it wildly. It had been a lovely, natural weekend, and I really gave no thought to what would happen tonight.

  19

  I found a pair of dark gray pants just back from the dry cleaner and got a fresh blue oxford shirt from the drawer. With shined loafers and a tan sport coat, I looked pretty good. Running my fingers through my hair, I realized this was not a first date . . . or any date. I had taken the hook big-time. Not only was I being worked, I was working myself as well. I tried to shake it off and laughed. I put the gray dress pants back on the hanger, threw a corduroy sport coat over the jeans I had worn all day, and changed to the clean shirt. I checked my pockets, then went to the little safe in the bedroom closet for the Beretta. I hadn’t had it out in months. Mostly I use it to qualify. It wasn’t part of my job, but I had a carry permit that was legal and up to date. I clipped the holster behind my right hip and tried to get comfortable. I felt like a fool, carrying to meet my girlfriend—or, rather, the person who used to be my girlfriend—but I would have been an even greater fool going bare.