“The Crab Cake Benedict,” said Tree Trunk. “It’s got a nice dill hollandaise.”
His buddies laughed. Nothing like a wiseguy with his own audience. I wondered if he’d said something funny to Gyro before sending him off to the great unknown.
“Nice, like to die for?” I asked.
“Yeah, to die for.”
They laughed again.
“Nice enough to come all the way down from Brooklyn for?” I put the menu down and met his stare.
“Who wants to know?” he said.
I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to whack me right there before enjoying the Crab Cake Benedict he had driven all the way from New York for, but the way his goons shifted in their seats made me think they were readjusting themselves to make it easier to draw on me without spilling their water glasses. I figured it was as good a time as any to flip my badge.
“Matthews,” I said. “FBI.”
In my experience, when a scared animal knows it’s trapped, it starts scrambling for the exits. Tree Trunk didn’t flinch.
“Does Mr. Garotto know you’re here?” I said.
His lip curled a little. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you that lying is a sin? You could go to hell for that.”
“After you, cop. What do you want?” Tree Trunk said.
“I just want to know what you’re doing in town.”
“None of your business.”
“That bulge in your jacket makes it my business.”
“I got a permit.”
“Mind showing it to me?”
He took it out of his wallet and handed it over.
“Carmine DiPasquale,” I read. “Visiting relatives, Carmine?”
“We’re in town for a show.”
“I guess you don’t get down here much.”
“Whatever,” he shrugged.
“I’m only saying that because otherwise you’d know that there’s no firearms reciprocity agreement between New York and Pennsylvania. This piece of paper doesn’t mean shit down here.”
It’s not hard to spot a perp’s uneasiness after you’ve seen it so many times. There’s a slight shift in facial expression, the voice changes a little, and the hands, always watch the hands. I didn’t see any of that in Carmine. He was a stone-cold killer.
“You’re making a big mistake,” he said.
I could tell by the way he bent the silver-plated spoon in half that he was serious.
“It isn’t my first,” I said, “and it won’t be my last.” I pulled my service revolver from my back holster. “Hands on the table gentlemen. You’re under arrest.”
Tree Trunk was unimpressed by my .38, but Smith and Wesson weren’t my only backup. Billy and two other agents converged on the restaurant in response to the silent alarm I’d activated on my smart phone. God bless the United States of Technology.
“Read them their rights and take them away, Junior,” I said. “For starters, we’ve got carrying a concealed weapon without a valid permit.”
Billy ran through the Miranda litany while the other agents cuffed my four lunch companions. The waiter arrived with the food, and the XIX maître d' came over. I apologized for the excitement, and told him I’d take Tree Trunk’s Crab Cake Benedict and pay for the others. Carmine was right. The sauce was to die for.
An hour later when I got down to the lobby, they were carting Gyro’s body away on a gurney. Billy was hitting on Cynthia at the information desk. It wasn’t hard to see why. He had Gyro’s case. I pulled him away, so we could speak privately.
“Did you get her number?”
“I gave her my card. She said she’d text me.”
“What’s in the case? A dog?” I asked.
“Cat,” he said, holding it up so I could see into the one open side.
A scruffy-looking calico looked back at me and meowed.
“Shouldn’t the evidence guys have this?”
“They dusted it for prints and released it. They don’t want the cat.”
“Where’d they find the body?”
“1105, just like you said, one floor down. Want to take a look around? The Philly cops are still up there.”
“Not really. Preliminary cause of death?”
“Heroin overdose.”
“No shots fired?”
“No. Just a bunch of drug paraphernalia.”
“No sign of a struggle?”
“Nope. Just this.” Billy showed me the photo of the body that he’d taken on his cell phone. Gyro was lying on the floor with a flower on his chest and a needle in his arm.
“Nice touch. Did the CSI guys get this shot?”
“I guess, why?”
I held up the surveillance photo and pointed to the flower on Tree Trunk’s lapel. “Look familiar? It didn’t make it to lunch. Make sure they test the one on the stiff.”
Billy did a thumb dance on his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m texting Fink to let him know.”
I nodded. “While you’re at it, tell him to check Gyro for a cell phone. Get his call records. I’m guessing there’s one from Carmine telling him to come downstairs.”
“Got it.”
“You ready to head back? I think I’m going to call it a day.”
“Naptime, Grandpa?”
“You can walk, if you want, Junior. Your call.”
We took the stairs to the second floor and headed for the sky bridge to the parking garage.
“You’re in pretty good shape for an old guy,” Billy said.
“I try.”
“You shouldn’t drink so much, though.”
“I know.”
“Tell me something. How come Fink is higher up than you? You’ve got the seniority.”
“I drink too much.”
We stopped at the entrance to the glass-enclosed walkway that spanned Chancellor Street to watch a commotion ahead. Billy still had his FBI vest on. Somebody noticed and called out to him for help. We pushed through the crowd to where a man was passed out on the floor. They were giving him plenty of room. He was as red as a beet, and there was blood on his face and sleeve. Billy knelt down to check him out.
“Did someone call 9-1-1 or were you too busy taking selfies?” I said.
“I called them,” said a few people.
Every once in a while something like that happens to reassure me that not everyone is a jerk like me. It’s the kind of thing that gives me faith in the human race.
The guy on the ground was dressed in a pretty nice suit, except for the blood smears. He opened his eyes and started flailing around when Billy touched him.
“Take it easy, sir,” Billy said. “Help’s on the way.”
Billy loosened the guy’s tie and collar and opened his jacket. The poor bastard coughed up blood all over the kid.
“I don’t think he’s been shot or stabbed,” Billy said, accepting the offer of my handkerchief to wipe it off.
“Keep it,” I said, when he tried to give it back. “Did anybody see what happened?” I asked the crowd.
Of course, everyone answered at once. That’s just how it goes, but it sounded like the guy just keeled over on his way from the garage. I started taking down names and phone numbers, and letting people go. God forbid they miss their hair appointments or workout dates.
The ambulance pulled into the garage below us and in a few minutes, EMTs and paramedics were on the scene. We identified ourselves. Billy gave one of them his card. A cop showed up just after that. When we asked if he needed us, he said no, so we left.
I dropped Billy at the office. He didn’t want the cat. I didn’t want the cat either, but I took him anyway. I brought him home, gave him some milk, introduced him to my dog, Shep, hung my piece on the nail in the kitchen, and lay down for a nap.
Chapter 2
When the phone started ringing, Shep barked and woke me up. He was parked by the front door in his favorite spot.
I was stretched out on the sofa in the living room. The cat was wrapped around my neck like a wool scarf. I picked up the purring little sack of fuzz and set him on the floor. He jumped back up in my lap when I sat up to answer the phone.
“Matthews,” I said.
“It’s me, Bam.”
“Billy? What’s up?”
“I’m in the hospital, the fucking hospital.”
I stood up, dumping the cat on the floor. “What happened?”
“They’ve got me in isolation, Bam. The guy at the hotel died. They think he had Ebola.”
“What?”
“Ebola, Bam. Everyone on the ambulance crew is quarantined, everyone who treated him in the ER, and me because I came in direct contact with his damn blood. I’m going to fucking die because I helped a guy with Ebola.”
Two words. Two little words: “Keep it.” That’s what I’d said to Billy because I didn’t want my bloodied handkerchief back. I would have just thrown it away anyway.
“Jesus. Are they sure?” I said.
“No. They have to run tests, but he had it. I know he did.”
“Where are you?”
“They took me to Cooper Hospital. The EMTs and docs got all the good spots at Jefferson in Philly. I’m going to die in fucking Camden, New Jersey, Bam.”
“Shit,” I said, looking out the window at my friendly neighborhood groundhog poking his head out of a tunnel he’d dug under the hedgerow in the side yard. He and I had been having a disagreement of late over property rights.
“Even if you’ve got it,” I said, “there’s a good chance you’ll pull through.”
“The doc said the odds are maybe fifty-fifty since I’ll get the best treatment available. Fifty-fucking-fifty, Bam. I’m going die.”
“Sit tight, kid. I’m on my way.”
I hung up the phone, undressed right there in the living room and put everything I’d worn that morning including my favorite Hawaiian shirt into a trash bag that I tossed into the front yard. I found the pump bottle of hand sanitizer that I kept in the downstairs washroom for the guests I never had and washed my hands, my forearms, and my face. I collected every liquor bottle in the house except my scotch and took them to the upstairs bathroom where I filled a bucket with the booze, stood nude in the tub, and poured it over my head. Shep thought I was crazy. I followed that with a shower chaser, a clean set of clothes, and a stiff drink. No, I wasn’t paranoid, not much.
Feeling a little better about my chances, I hunted down my garden gloves and dragged the sofa out the front door into the yard, added the trash bag and gloves to the pile, doused it with gasoline and set it on fire. So much for naps. The last step was a Clorox rubdown of the inside of the Gremlin that turned the cloth upholstery a camouflage green. Classic touch for a classic car.
I was washing the outside of the car when a fire truck came up the driveway. The house sits about five hundred feet back from the road on thirteen acres, a lot of it wooded now since the only thing I plant there is myself. It’s pretty secluded actually, but I guess the neighbors saw the smoke and were worried. I recognized the guy who got out of the truck with half his turnout gear on. He was a volunteer, like everyone else on the town’s squad. Nice guy. He worked in the feed store up in town. He and I shot together once in a while at the local range.
“Hey, Frank,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Bam,” he nodded, looking at my smoldering sofa. “I hear they’ve got laws in this county about open burning.”
“I heard that too,” I said.
“Isn’t that your sofa?”
“Was. I had a bug problem.”
“I guess that’s one way to get rid of them.”
“Are you going to the range tomorrow?” I asked.
“Not sure. The wife wants to go down the shore.”
“Well, maybe next weekend. Listen, I’ve got to get going. There’s a guy I have to see in Camden.”
“About a new sofa?”
“Something like that.”
Frank looked up at the sky. “Looks like rain. I guess I’d better let Mr. Perkins know everything’s under control here. He was worried about his hay field.”
“Tell him thanks for calling it in, and thanks for stopping by, Frank. I appreciate everything you guys do.”
“Yeah, take care, Bam.”
I waited in the Gremlin while Frank got the fire truck turned around, and followed him down the driveway to the main road. He headed back to the station in town, and I turned right toward the entrance to the highway. The car smelled like a swimming pool even with the windows open, but once I got onto the four-lane, I cranked it up and turned the Gremlin into a wind tunnel.
My cell rang when I was about halfway to the hospital. It was the office. I let it go to voicemail. I have a hands-free hookup, but I’m not a fan of distracted driving, especially when it’s me. When I got to the Camden exit, they called again. This time, I pulled off to the side of the ramp and answered it.
“Matthews.”
“Where are you?” said Fink.
“Camden. On my way to see Billy. What’s up?”
“Are you coming back to the office?”
“I don’t know. Should I?”
“That depends. Do you want to hear what Carmine has to say? His lawyer is due at three.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up, got back into traffic and drove to the hospital. They had Billy in an isolation unit on the fourth floor that they’d set up after the Ebola scare broke earlier this year. It had its own air treatment system, double doors to get in and out, and lots of gadgets. It was all just an expensive toy until Billy showed up. Then it became the toy they all wanted to play with. Billy was sitting on the edge of the bed in a hospital gown, staring at the wall. A couple of the docs were inside with him, wearing green space suits and fiddling with the wires coming out the back of what looked like an iron lung. Two others were sitting at a desk outside the glass, watching the monitors. I flashed my badge to them.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
The one with the “J. Williamson, M.D.” nametag got up and gave me that “We did everything we could, but he’s not going to make it” look.
“We don’t know yet,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“That means he was exposed to someone who might have been infected with Ebola, but he’s not showing any symptoms. We’re still waiting on the blood tests of the deceased, and we’ll be monitoring Mr. Driscoll round the clock.”
“Didn’t you test Billy’s blood to see if he’s got it?”
“Mr. …?”
“Matthews. Agent Bam Matthews. Billy’s my partner.”
“Agent Matthews, it can take up to three days post-onset of symptoms for the Ebola virus to reach detectable levels. Your partner doesn’t even have symptoms yet, so we’re days away from knowing anything.”
“How long till the symptoms show up?”
“Two days, maybe more.”
“How many more?”
“The incubation period can be up to three weeks.”
“So, he could be in here for three weeks and not even have it?”
“That’s correct, but better here than on the street.”
“What are the symptoms?”
“Fever is the most obvious one. A temperature of 100° or more is a good first indicator that there might be a problem. Other symptoms are headaches, muscle pains, weakness, diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, things like that.”
“Like the flu?”
“More or less, but that’s just the beginning. The gentleman at the hotel had progressed well beyond that to hemorrhaging and internal organ malfunction.”
“So he had it?”
“Not necessarily.”
“What else could it have been?”
“Any number of things. Once the blood test comes back, we’ll know for certain.”
“What about the autopsy?”
“I understand they’re st
ill setting up a secure facility for the autopsy. If it is Ebola, it will be tricky and very dangerous to the doctors performing it.”
“Can I go in there? I want to see him.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not possible.”
“I read that Ebola is only transmitted by contact with an infected person’s blood. I also read that you’re not contagious unless you’re showing symptoms.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take every precaution.”
“So, loan me a spacesuit.”
“CDC and hospital protocols don’t allow it, Agent Matthews.”
“You mean your insurance won’t cover it?”
I knew I’d hit the nail right on the head. I could see it in his face. They were worried I’d sue if I got it too.
“We have an intercom and a privacy booth set up for visitors,” he said. “You’re welcome to use that.”
I didn’t see any reason to ruin the guy’s day. He was just doing his job. So, I stepped into the soundproof booth, put on the headset, and said hi to Billy. He got up and came to the window.
“I want to go home, Bam.”
“Yeah, I know, kid. Just hang in there. Doc said this is the best place for you right now.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Billy, you’re not going to die. Even if you’ve got it, which isn’t a sure thing, you’re young, you’re in good shape, and you’ve got good people looking out for you.”
He wasn’t feeling the vibes. I could tell. I wasn’t feeling them either.
“Do they get ESPN on that thing?” I nodded toward one of the monitors.
He laughed, “Yeah, right. That one pings every five seconds like a fucking submarine.”
“I’ll see what I can do about getting you a big screen TV and cable.”
“Get me a computer while you’re at it. I’m going crazy in here with nothing to do.”
“You got it. I’m on my way to the office to talk to Carmine and his lawyer.”
“Did they tie him to the hit?”
“Don’t know. You want me to stop back and fill you in?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you tell your folks?”
“My dad is flying in from California tomorrow.”
“He can bunk with me, if he wants. I’ve got a couple spare beds.”
The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller Page 2