by Dan Koontz
“Well anyway, years down the road when J’Quarius is starting to make a name for himself as a middle school basketball prodigy, somebody asks Melvin if he has an illegitimate son, just joking around with him. Says the kid looks just like him. So Melvin actually looks into it. Turns out the kid was born on the exact date his longtime girlfriend had died.
“And that’s when he got me involved. It didn’t take me too long to find out J’Quarius was in an orphanage, and within a week we’d started the process of trying to arrange DNA testing. The only problem was Avillage had found out about J’Quarius a few weeks sooner.”
Ryan pulled the car into the Hampton Inn lot and waited while Weinstien checked into his room. About 20 minutes later, Weinstien reemerged from the lobby sans the suit coat carrying a small file folder.
Without so much as a greeting, he plopped back down in the passenger seat of the parked car and started right back in where he’d left off, detailing the child pornography charge, the suicide, and his delayed discovery of the letter Melvin had sent him, a copy of which he took out of his file folder and handed to Ryan.
Ryan quickly scanned the letter. “So he didn’t want to stay and fight because he thought his son would be better off without him?”
“Yep. But he couldn’t stand the thought of living without his son,” Weinstien added. “So he asked me to make sure he was taken care of.
“I truly don’t remember filing the letter away. I must have. But I don’t remember it. I’m not sure there’s anything I could’ve done anyway, but if I could’ve somehow extricated J’Quarius from Avillage and left him in the custody of the Washingtons... Who knows?”
They sat in silence for half a minute, both staring out the front windshield, before Weinstien was the first to snap back to reality. “Speaking of the Washingtons,” he continued, as if he’d never paused, “I did track them down. They’re really another casualty of this whole thing.
“Hansford just couldn’t come to grips with it. He claims he was the one who talked J’Quarius into playing in that final game. The head coach and some of the other players tell a different story, but he’s convinced J’Quarius never would’ve played if it weren’t for him.
“He ended up getting heavy into alcohol, lost the coaching job he’d held for over 20 years, and eventually watched his marriage fall apart. His brother took him in, but he’s still an absolute mess.
“Arlene seems to be doing considerably better, working to raise awareness for childhood heart disease and drunk driving, which is what killed her first son. But she told me privately that the only thing that drives her is an interminable sense of guilt, which she knows will never allow her any kind of fulfillment. She puts on a smile for public events and speaking engagements, but she told me she hasn’t had a single good day since J’Quarius died.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he continued nodding after Weinstien finished his story. “How would you like to do some pro bono legal work for an Avillage kid?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Well, my parents were killed in a car crash – a head-on collision 3 months before I was adopted by Avillage. I saw it. The car that hit them was in the wrong lane, going way over the speed limit and, I’m pretty sure, had to have blown through a stop sign. There’d have to be police records from that night. Would you have any interest in looking into something like that?”
“Trust me, I’ve got nothing better to do. Just give me the details.”
~~~
James Prescott’s secretary must have been on her lunch break. Bradford hesitated just outside the cracked door to the CEO’s office. It sounded like he was on the phone. There was no need to interrupt. He usually kept his conversations brief.
“So what did you find?” Bradford overheard.
“And what about the spot in the liver?”
The liver? Bradford squinted his eyes almost shut and leaned in toward the door.
“So will we need to do another biopsy or do we just presume that it’s the same thing?
“I see.
“And what kind of treatment options am I looking at?”
Bradford’s heart sunk. It turned out the only man he’d ever admired was indeed mortal. But as he stood in the anteroom with his ear as close to the crack of the door as possible without creating a shadow, he couldn’t keep his mind from visualizing a new Avillage – an even more efficient one – with himself at the helm.
Prescott was a big picture guy, but he had a tendency to overlook details at times. Bradford didn’t. If he were given the opportunity to extend his reach into every orphan’s upbringing the way Prescott did, sure, he may have a few more casualties, but the ones who were really fit to thrive would reach even higher heights.
“I didn’t hear surgery,” Prescott said into the phone. “Are there any other centers in the world that are offering surgery for this?
“I see.
“Alright, bottom line it for me. And I know you don’t have a crystal ball, and the numbers that you’re giving are by no means absolute, but I have a very important business to run, and I need to be physically and mentally able to run it for as long as possible. Between chemo and palliative care, which one would give me the more meaningful time.”
Chemo? That confirmed it. It had to be cancer.
“No way. Not a chance. I absolutely cannot miss that much time.”
Bradford had been with Prescott for over twenty years. His compensation had gone nowhere but up, and the number of employees reporting to him had increased exponentially, but he could never really be promoted. There was nowhere for him to go. Unless Prescott were somehow no longer around.
“No, Dr. Timmons, you don’t understand,” Prescott said forcefully. “Let me explain something to you. I’m not coming to work everyday, clocking in and out, to earn a paycheck so I can meet next month’s car payment or maybe take the family on a nice beach vacation. I haven’t taken more than a 3-day weekend off in over ten years. What I do is important. And my physical presence has broad implications for a lot of people’s lives – present and future – on an international scale.”
That sounded like he was leaning toward palliative care to give him more time at the office, Bradford thought, almost giddy. Then an idea popped into his head. He knocked firmly on the door, intending to strike while the iron was hot.
“Thank you very much. I’ll get back to you with my decision in the near future,” Prescott said loudly into the phone before hanging up and calling for whoever it was at his door to come in.
“Hey James, you ok?” Bradford asked, walking in with a pseudo-worried expression. “You look a little peaked.”
“Never felt better,” Prescott replied unconvincingly, obviously preoccupied.
“Well I hope you’re still feeling good after you hear the news I’ve got for you. I just met with the entire orphan ID division,” Bradford lied. “And it’s worse than I thought. They’re telling me our wells are almost completely dry. They keep getting more and more referrals of progressively lower quality, with no trace of a can’t-miss prospect in sight. I don’t think this’ll turn into the worst-case scenario we’ve always talked about, but who knows? It’s bound to happen one day – where we won’t have an IPO for a month and a half. Or two.
“And the big Avillage ETF that runs about a third of our volume is already seeing a lag in volume. These next three months could turn out to be the most important quarter Avillage has seen since we opened.”
Prescott’s shoulders relaxed as his trademark warm smile returned, now certain of what he had to do. “Have we ever backed away from a challenge?” he asked.
“No sir,” Bradford said, smiling duplicitously back at his boss.
As Bradford left the office, he dialed Jen Glass, VP of orphan identification. “Jen, it’s Bradford. Listen, I want you to send me the full portfolios for your top five orphans and stop all progress on their launches. I just finished talking this over with Mr. Prescott. Your orders are not to go ahead wi
th any of these IPOs for now. Is that clear?”
~~~
“Mr. Ewing?”
“That’s me,” Ryan said rising to a stand, rubbing his sweaty palms down the front of his jeans.
“Follow me,” the nurse said with a sympathetic smile. “And don’t worry. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
But she didn’t know why he was there.
She brought him back to an exam room, had him change into a gown and took a quick 12-lead EKG. “You can leave the gown on for now,” she said as she walked out of the exam room. “Dr. Easterbrook will be right in.”
Ryan gave a polite nod. As the nurse walked away, he could just make out, through Dr. Easterbrook’s cracked office door across the hall, the familiar red “Veritas” seal on a framed diploma that could only have come from Harvard.
After several reassurances from the nurse that it would only be a few more minutes, Dr. Easterbrook finally hurried in the door. “A young one,” he noted with a smile, leafing through Ryan’s thin chart. “EKG looks good,” he muttered under his breath. “So what brings you in today.”
“Well I’m home for summer break from college in Boston...”
“Oh really? Which one?”
“I go to Harvard.”
“Really?” Dr. Easterbrook said, lighting up. “My old stompin’ grounds. Which dorm are you in?”
“Wigglesworth.”
“Ha! That’s where I lived my sophomore year,” the doctor beamed. “Long time ago. Long time ago. Hey, is Grendel’s Den still around?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, happy to be putting off his next line of questioning. “I just ate there last week. Cool place.”
“You thinking about medicine?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m an econ major.”
“Yeah, the world needs business people too, I guess. So what brings a healthy young man like you in to see the cardiologist?”
“Well, I first saw a doctor up in Boston after I passed out,” Ryan lied. “I think he actually said he trained here. Have you heard of a Dr. Jared Ralston?”
“Oh yes. I helped train him. Very strong clinically.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Maybe not the best bedside manner.”
Dr. Easterbrook laughed out loud. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just I’m not surprised to hear you say that.”
“Well, I probably would’ve stayed with him despite all that, but I think he left Boston. You wouldn’t happen to know where he ended up would you?”
“No, I really don’t. I used to run into him at some of the national cardiology conferences for the first few years after he left Cleveland. Then I guess he stopped going. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years.” As he spoke, he sunk the head of his stethoscope down the collar of Ryan’s gown onto his chest. “Just breathe normally.”
“He never had any discipline issues here or anything did he?” Ryan asked.
Dr. Easterbrook quickly pulled his stethoscope away, and glared at Ryan suspiciously. “Now that would be none of you business!” Then, as quickly as his scowl had materialized, it vanished, as it suddenly dawned on him. He was looking at Ryan Tyler.
He quickly did the math in his head. The age worked out.
He placed his stethoscope back onto Ryan’s chest. “All I can tell you is that he was one of the best fellows ever to come out of this place. But he was always in the shadow of his colleague, Dr. Ryan Tyler.” He paused to listen as Ryan’s heart rate immediately accelerated by twenty beats a minute, confirming his suspicions. “I can tell you honestly that Dr. Tyler was the best fellow I ever trained.”
He looked up to see tears welling in Ryan’s eyes. Ryan fabricated a few coughs and reached up to wipe his eyes. “But they pretty much got along, right?” he asked.
“Seemed to. As I said, I’m not at liberty to discuss any disciplinary action that may have taken place at this institution, but if the state medical board ever took any formal action, that’d be public record. And it’s permanent. You can do a license check on any doctor ever licensed in Ohio at license.ohio.gov.”
Then he smiled warmly at Ryan. “Your heart’s in perfect shape.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said, looking Dr. Easterbrook straight in the eye. “Thanks a lot.”
As soon as he got home, he typed “license.ohio.gov” into his computer’s browser. For some reason, he felt the need to search his parents’ names first. Each page came up with their full name, place and date of birth, and residence on top. “Deceased” was listed next to “current residence” for his parents. In the middle of the page was the license number, credential type and status (active or inactive). And at the bottom was a section entitled “Formal Action.” As expected, no formal action existed on his parents’ inactive licenses.
He then searched for Jared Ralston. There was only one – born in Richmond, Virginia. That sounded right The age was right. His residence was listed as “George Town, Cayman Islands – Out of State.” Hmm. And his license status was “Inactive – Expired.” What in the world was he doing if his license was expired?
At the bottom of the screen Ryan saw, peeking up from the final section, “Formal action exists.” He frantically spun the wheel of his mouse to reveal three separate entries. The first was from November five months before his parents died: “CITATION – PRESCRIPTION OF MEDICATION OUTSIDE OF STATE AND OUTSIDE THE SCOPE OF A TRAINING LICENSE, THE FACTS UNDERLYING WHICH INVOLVED HIS PRESCRIPTION OF INSULIN TO AN ACQUAINTANCE, WHOM HE HAD NEVER TREATED, CALLED FROM CLEVELAND, OHIO TO A PHARMACY IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON ON OCTOBER 30.”
The next entry read, “BOARD ORDER: PROBATIONARY TERMS, CONDITIONS, AND LIMITATIONS FOR AT LEAST SIX MONTHS ESTABLISHED. ORDER MAILED 11/15. EFFECTIVE 11/16.”
The final entry was from six months later and indicated that the doctor’s request for lifting the probationary period had been granted by the state board. Just in time for him to move to Boston, Ryan thought, shaking his head and gritting his teeth.
He grabbed his phone and slammed his finger down on Weinstien’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
“Mr. Weinstien, I’ve got one other thing for you to look into,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I want you to look into the official cause of death – and any unusual circumstances surrounding my grandfather’s death. He died on October 31st in Seattle, Washington, within five months of my parents. I’ve got a strong suspicion Avillage might have had something to do with that too.”
CHAPTER 13
“What do you want for her?” Dillon asked, salivating over the poorly-maintained olive-green ‘72 Chevy Impala, tucked away in the back corner of Jerry’s Affordable Pre-Owned Auto Lot in South Boston. The body of the car was pocked with hundreds of rust spots, some neglected for long enough to have chewed actual holes through the metal frame, and its threadbare white-wall tires looked as though they may spontaneously pop at any moment. Microbubbles pervaded the amateur purplish-black tint job on the side and back windows, rendering them nearly opaque, and the tail pipe hung precariously, halfway between the chassis and the ground.
“If you’re willing to take her as is... seven hundred bucks?” Jerry probed almost apologetically, with every intention of taking half of that to rid himself of what was probably the most dilapidated clunker in a lot full of them.
“Sold!” an uncharacteristically ebullient Dillon shouted to the dealer’s surprise, peeling off seven one-hundred dollar travelers cheques from his money clip. He wanted the sale to be trackable.
Jerry slapped his clueless customer on the back and heartily congratulated him on his new car.
After a few papers were signed, Dillon slung his backpack into the passenger seat, sputtered off the lot, and set a course for the I-95 New Hampshire rest area. He’d probably be about fifteen minutes late, which didn’t give him a moment’s pause. That scumbag could wait.
After just under an hour’s drive, he pulled off the interstate and parked his car illegally at the curb right outside the en
trance to the travel plaza. As he rounded the back bumper on his way into the building, he stooped down to affix a generous amount of duct tape to the loosely hanging tailpipe. Then he strutted confidently into the food court to find Bradford hunched over a half-drunk cup of coffee at a remote table in the back of the seating area.
Bradford looked up from the table to see him approaching and made no effort to mute his expression. He nearly laughed out loud, watching Dillon walk in with some kind of king-of-the-computer-lab bravado. The intensifying glare that fronted Dillon’s 110-pound frame only made the scene more delightfully ludicrous.
That’s right, shitface. Go ahead and enjoy it – while you still can, Dillon thought.
He tossed his backpack into the booth and took the seat facing Bradford, who could barely contain himself. “You’re the one who’s been snooping around our intranet for the past four or five years?” he taunted. “What? Did you get into hacking when you were six?”
“If you’d taken ten seconds to learn anything about me, you’d know I was taken away from my dad when I was 12,” Dillon fumed. “But you wouldn’t give a shit anyway.”
Completely unfazed, Bradford continued to stare right back at him with bemused disdain. “I’m sorry. This is just unbelievable to me.”
Dillon struggled to tone down his glare and leaned back in his seat. “I know about J’Quarius Jones’s medical exam before he died,” he said, trying his best to project a confident even keel. “And I know about Annamaria Olivera’s surgery when she was 13 years old.”
Bradford’s grin faded just slightly. “And? So what? I mean, is that supposed to scare me? A lot of people know about those things. I had nothing to do with the surgery, and I’ve been exonerated in J’s untimely death.”
“J’Quarius!” Dillon snapped. “Don’t you dare refer to him as a ticker symbol!”
“Look, kid,” Bradford fired back. “You’re in no position to be making demands of me! I’ve got hard evidence against you. You got greedy with your Avillage trades. Frankly, I can’t believe the SEC wasn’t already on to you. You’ve got some serious federal charges coming your way.