by John Shaw
"How about I just drop by the house tomorrow morning?"
"That's fine with me. The earlier the better. I'm sure he'll sleep all day otherwise."
Jordan took down the Sperrys' address and hung up.
***
Ryan and Jordan had a late dinner at a Chinese restaurant. As they sat waiting for the check, Ryan had a thought. "One thing is obvious about the package."
Jordan's eyes widened. "Go on."
"It's this delivery guy. The lab has no record of receiving a package and UPS has a delivery confirmation signed by Dave. This guy is either in cahoots with the bad guys or he's been paid off."
She considered this for a moment. "From the descriptions of him given by the receptionist and confirmed by his wife, he doesn't seem like a sterling character."
***
Still frustrated after reminiscing over the day, Ryan flicked on the TV in search of news about their case. The TV roared to life in the middle of a loud commercial touting the benefits of "a single pill, taken once a day. . . ." Ryan stabbed at the remote control, searching wildly before finding the mute button, but not before Jordan stirred to life. He looked over at her, embarrassed. "Sorry about that."
Curling up again, she muttered, "Come to bed. We've got a long day tomorrow."
He pulled the covers over her and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be right there," he said. "Go back to sleep." He knew that sleep would not come easily for him that night.
Chapter 32
After Wiley and the senator had left, Stedman dismissed his assistant, and he and Craven were alone at one end of the table.
Craven found himself on the receiving end of a steely gaze from Stedman.
"The senator's insistence that he handle Carver puts us in a difficult position," Stedman said. "Dr. Carver knows too much."
"I agree," Craven said. "That's why I hired our friends in South Africa to finish the job. They've already left Johannesburg and should be touching down early tomorrow."
"You what?"
"It's time to bring in the heavy artillery. The senator is blowing smoke. He obviously has someone inside our operation—someone who's keeping tabs on our progress. But if he had any real clout, he would have stopped us by now. Besides, we can't sit back and assume that some federal agency with a three-letter abbreviation is investigating Carver's clinic in Mexico. And even if this is in the works, it will be a long road before they can make a case against her. She'll be off to Mexico in no time and outside of U.S. jurisdiction. Hope is not a strategy. She and Matthews are a clear threat. Hell, while we were trying to find them up here, they were breaking into our clinic in Mexico. We've taken them too lightly, and it's time to stack the deck in our favor."
"Let's set aside for the moment the issue of whether or not I agree with you," Stedman said after a long pause. "My question is, why didn't you consult me first?"
Craven let the question hang in the air. "Because I thought I was hired for my independent thinking and my expertise in this field. Am I wrong?"
Stedman jumped on the question. "There is an enormous difference between thinking independently and acting independently. This sort of decision can't be made without my consent, much less without my knowledge."
Undeterred, Craven tried to strengthen his case. "Matthews is ex-Bureau, and it's probable that he has the Feds on our trail."
"What about the senator?" Stedman countered. "He has now made his wishes known. I fail to see how deliberately going against him strengthens our position."
Craven bit his tongue. He had already considered all of Stedman's misgivings and had worked his way through them with ease. Now he had to wait for his boss to catch up. "Think about it, sir. The damage is already done. We've already got a body count that made the headlines. If all of this was an unforgivable act, the senator wouldn't be issuing toothless warnings. If he were going to go against us, he would've already done so."
"Be that as it may, he has now drawn a line in the sand. I don't relish the prospect of crossing it."
"But what other choice do we have?" As Craven asked the question, he saw a flash of recognition on Stedman's face. Yes, they were in a bind. Yes, killing Dr. Carver would quite likely put their relationship with the senator in jeopardy. But the alternative—to let her and Matthews keep digging until they found enough evidence to bury them all—was unthinkable.
"Fine," his boss said, his jaw clenched. "We'll call her death unavoidable."
"Collateral damage," Craven said, "when we take out Matthews."
"That's right," Stedman said, bristling at the interruption. "After we eliminate the doctor, we'll pump a few million dollars into the good senator's campaign coffers. I can't see him getting too ruffled if the problem is eliminated, even if it is not done exactly as he had planned."
As they were about to adjourn, Craven's cell phone began to vibrate. Lifting the phone from his coat pocket, he looked at Stedman. "This may be important, I should take it." After getting the nod from Stedman, Craven answered.
It was Sulari. "It's done. I put him to sleep with a hot shot of dope. But I had problems. Two cops busted in while I was getting away. I had to handle them."
Craven suddenly wished Sulari were in the same room—and within strangling distance. He paused a moment to compose himself. "Dead?"
"As doornails."
"Are we in trouble?" The question was a deliberate fake-out. There was little danger of anyone tracing Sulari's miscues back to FSW. But the thug had just signed his own death warrant. He, too, would have to be erased. He had been put in charge of dousing a small brush fire, but instead had set the forest—in this case the Chicago P.D.— ablaze.
"I doubt it. The kid's dead in his room from an OD. The two cops went down a couple of blocks away, both shot. There's no tie in between the two. Depending on how many visitors the kid has, they probably won't find him for a week. Nobody will notice a foul smell in the hellhole he was living in. And nobody saw me except a couple of druggies who couldn't ID their own mothers."
"I see." Craven's tone was inscrutable.
"Listen, I'm gonna lay low for a few months just to be safe. You know how the Chicago cops are about their own. You'd think the president had been assassinated. But I need more green since the job involved more than I was contracted for. There'll be a lot of heat, and I need the extra dough to make myself scarce."
Craven, his hand over the phone's mouthpiece, waited a moment before getting back on. "Okay, but it's too risky to send a wire right now. I'll bring the cash. Where are you?"
"No way. I know about your 'no loose ends' policy. The money goes into my offshore account as agreed, or else."
"Or else what?"
"I rat you out. I know how to do it without messing things up for myself. In fact, I've done it before. My advice to you when dealing with the Outfit is to pay up. It'll be much cheaper in the long run."
Craven sensed a challenge. He liked challenges, because he always came out on top. "Why are you taking this attitude?"
"Because I can smell a weasel a mile away. I knew I was taking a chance with a suit like you. That's why I demanded a wire transfer to begin with."
"I'm going to need more time to do this wire transfer."
"Bullshit," Sulari grumbled. "Don't stall me."
Craven enjoyed letting Sulari dig himself a hole. But as amusing as Sulari's tough-guy act was, Craven knew he had to be careful. Keeping his patience, he calmly responded, "Look, give me forty-eight hours, that's all."
"And that's all you'll get. If it's not there, I do my thing and you hotshots go down, big time."
"I said I'd get it to you within forty-eight hours, and I will."
The line went dead, and Craven stared at his phone for a second before slipping it back into his pocket. He turned to Stedman, who had no doubt sensed the seriousness of the call. "We have another problem."
Chapter 33
It had been three weeks since Ryan first met Jordan at Rosey's. Since the death of Jordan's aunt and uncle, someone ha
d orchestrated multiple attempts on their lives. In the past two weeks Ryan and Jordan had flown from the Bahamas to Chicago; and from there, after a six-day stay in the hospital courtesy of an assassin's car bomb, to Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina. Afterwards, they had taken off to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, then traveled by car to the New Hope Cancer Alternatives Clinic in Punta de Mita, as well as to Jordan's clinic a few miles down the road in Sayulita, Mexico, before returning to Puerto Vallarta, escaping back to Raleigh-Durham via Mexico City.
After all they had been through, they still had no idea who was trying to kill them. All of their leads had been extinguished except one. Their remaining lead was thin at best, but since it was all they had left, they decided to follow it through as soon as they had readied themselves for the day.
A half-hour later, Ryan and Jordan were at the UPS driver's house. It was a rundown bungalow in North Durham in bad need of a fresh coat of paint and a day of yard work. Mike Sperry answered the door in droopy boxer shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt.
"My wife said you'd be stopping by." He gave Jordan a quick look up and down, his sleepy eyes widening. "Uh, what was it you wanted?"
Ryan jumped in first, unconsciously puffing himself up. "I believe you were scheduled to deliver a package to Kalliburton Labs last Monday, President's Day Who did you deliver the package to?"
Sperry, still groggy, didn't give his answer too much thought. "Yeah, I wondered why they were taking a delivery on a holiday. That's never happened there before. I thought it was a little weird, but I just do my job. There was only one car in the parking lot. A guy was waiting for me at the front door."
"Did he have ID?" Jordan asked.
Sperry scratched his head. "No, I don't think so."
"You gave a package to a man without making him identify himself?"
The UPS driver bristled. "Look," he snarled, "my job is to deliver the damn packages. I'm no detective. If a guy is waiting there for it, who am I to question him? President's Day is supposed to be a milk run, but I had thirty-seven damned deliveries to make. We only require a signature. I don't check IDs. Look, my wife said she thought this was important, but I really don't appreciate you coming by my house to harass me."
He made as if to close the door, but Jordan flashed him a smile that seemed to soften his suspicions. "I know this is a little aggressive on our part, interrupting you in the middle of whatever you were doing. Just believe me that this is important and a matter of life and death."
"Okay," Sperry grumbled, "what do you want to know about it?"
"Can you describe this guy?" Ryan asked, his voice calmer than before, though his irritation with the delivery man was growing.
Sperry hesitated, reluctant to answer. "I don't know, executive type, a shiny suit. I thought that was funny. Most of those guys wear white lab coats, but being that it was a holiday, I figured he was going to some fancy affair later in the day."
Ryan kept up the questions to keep the delivery man talking. "Was he short or tall? Black or white?"
"Uh," he mumbled, scratching his stubble. "Let's see. White guy, a little less than six feet, medium build, brown hair with a touch of gray."
"How about his car?"
"Uh, not sure."
Jordan jumped back in. "Mr. Sperry, think about it. You said there was only one car in the parking lot, so you obviously noticed it."
"Let me think. It might have been a foreign job; it was black, looked brand-new, maybe a BMW or Mercedes. I can't remember." A fearful look descended upon his face, as if it had just dawned on him that he was in over his head. "Look, you guys, unless you show me a badge or something, I don't even know why I'm talking to you." He backed up and reached for the door handle.
"Wait, we only—" Ryan's protest was cut short by the slam of the door.
Back in the rental car and out on the highway, they got a call from Crawford on Ryan's cell phone. "Hey, folks, we're here. Where can we meet?"
"There's a Starbucks near the airport," Ryan answered. "Take U.S. 70 West about a half-mile, and you'll see it on the right."
"Can you meet in thirty minutes?"
"We'll be there."
***
Ryan and Jordan told Crawford everything that had happened up to that point. They left nothing out, including their exploits in Mexico.
Crawford thought for a moment before saying, "First we have to find out what really happened to your friend Butters. I had a copy of the police report faxed to me—the story has more holes in it than a screen door."
"And the UPS delivery at Kalliburton Labs?"
"We can check out the security cameras, see what they tell us. But for now we have to stash you folks somewhere safe. It's obvious that some powerful people are after the both of you."
Ryan was quick to answer. "I don't think that's necessary, at least not yet."
Crawford shook his head. "I disagree. There have been at least three attempts on your life. Your luck is going to run out. I have a friend with a place on Lake Gastin. It's available, secluded, and will keep you out of any further danger until we have a chance to figure this out. That is, provided you stay put."
Ryan exchanged a glance with Jordan. "Okay," he said, "but how long do you think we'll have to hide out?"
"Give me forty-eight hours to see what we can dig up. I know I can't keep you down for the duration. But I think it's critical that you guys disappear for a while."
***
Once they reached the cabin, Ryan dialed Eric's number from the prepaid cell phone. This time he was able to reach Eric right away. "It's Ryan. We need to talk, in person, tonight."
Eric was silent.
"Eric. It's critical."
"Okay. But not tonight. Tomorrow. Twelve o'clock."
"Fine. Where at?"
"Where we used to take the girls on the weekends."
"You mean En—"
Before he could finish, Eric cut him off. "Yes, you know where I mean, no need to say it over the phone. I'll see you there tomorrow."
After dinner, Ryan and Jordan took turns calling the patients on the list they had stolen from the NHCA clinic in Punta de Mita. The plan was to use a cover story, telling patients or their mourning spouses that they were with a law firm initiating a class-action lawsuit against NHCA. They would explain that the suit was over deceptive trade practices—that NHCA had lied to desperate patients and bilked them out of millions.
The evening was filled with frustration. Call after call ended with a transfer to voice mail. After almost five hours, Ryan and Jordan had left messages for the 173 patients on their list who had paid NHCA $5 million each for their treatment.
"They're all dead by now," Ryan groaned after leaving his final message.
"In that case, we should start receiving return calls from their families soon."
Just before midnight as Ryan and Jordan were snuggling in bed, Ryan received a call from Crawford. "We've been at it all day. Not much to go on yet, but we've got all available resources monitoring the situation. Something should break soon."
"What about the surveillance videos from Kalliburton?"
"They didn't reveal much. Just the UPS driver. The person receiving the package was not in the frame except for his outstretched arm reaching for the package. The only other potential piece of evidence revealed was the right rear fender of a car in the parking lot, but the camera didn't catch the license plate."
"I'd still like to take a look."
Crawford hesitated. "Not a good idea. There's nothing significant and I prefer to keep you hidden up at the lake."
"Listen, Jim. You know I can't sit here and do nothing. I'm coming in tomorrow morning regardless. Hopefully you will show me the video."
"Okay, be here at nine. But be careful. I have a feeling that whoever's behind this knows we're involved. And if they can't find you on their own, they may be watching us, hoping that we'll lead them to you. Judging from their bold actions thus far, I wouldn't put anything past them."
Chap
ter 34
A South African Airways 757 landed at cold, drizzly O'Hare International Airport with a bounce and a squeal. Two tall men in business suits, their faces as grim as the gray skies they descended from, were among the first to disembark. They each bore a striking resemblance to the other, appearing almost identical except that one had blue eyes, the other green. After clearing customs, they headed to the passenger pick-up zone where a black Suburban was waiting for them.
The driver did not say a word on the forty-minute drive to an abandoned warehouse on Chicago's South Side. Once they arrived, the driver handed the green-eyed man the keys. "Everything you requested is in the trunk." Neither of the two passengers responded. The driver exited the vehicle without saying another word, got in a waiting car, and drove off.
***
The research provided by Craven had been flawless, and the South Africans were able to round up three known associates of Ed Sulari in no time. Before the three men knew it, they were sitting on the cold floor of an abandoned warehouse with their hands cuffed and shackled to a water pipe.
The blue-eyed South African took one of the hapless trio, an obese Mafioso cliche named Fat Tony, into a room at the far end of the warehouse, while the other took the second captive, a wiry tough named Al, to a room on the opposite end. The third man, Stanley, of medium build and a notch or two less macho than the others, remained chained in the middle.
As screams of pain and horror began to resonate from both ends of the warehouse, the third hood, on the verge of tears, began to sweat and stammer. Five minutes later—which seemed like an eternity to Stanley—the screams were replaced by whimpers, and the blue-eyed South African who had taken Fat Tony emerged. Seconds later, the other one appeared. The whimpering turned to silence, and after a short, whispered conference about twenty feet from Stanley, the green-eyed South African grudgingly handed his partner, who had made his victim talk first, a crisp hundred-dollar bill.