by David Lender
Stiles stood up, “Message received.” He started toward the door, then turned and faced Madsen. “But I don’t like it. And in my experience, cops don’t like a bunch of PIs nosing around in their business, even if we tell them we’re only trying to help.”
“Then don’t tell the cops.”
Stiles didn’t answer, just turned and walked out the door.
What a cluster fuck. Madsen wasn’t sure Stiles believed him, although he was certain Stiles would set up the team and make it a priority. But that was more pushback from him than usual. Still, nobody, except maybe the FBI, could do as good a job as Stiles of putting together a team to track the bitch down. Shit, probably half the guys at the PI firms he used were ex-cops and FBI who rented out by the hour, and didn’t give a shit about anything except getting paid.
Madsen realized he was wringing his hands. Now it wasn’t just the next quarter’s earnings at stake. If any of Madsen’s murder got traced back to him, he was toast. But even worse, if this girl had what he thought she had, his whole life’s work could be down the drain. The whole reason he’d gone into the pharma industry after medical school: because he couldn’t do squat as some local Podunk doctor. Yes, he was making scads of money on the corporate side, that was obvious, but it wasn’t the point. He admitted to himself that his original reason for going into pharma, eradicating a whole generation of diseases, some grand scale notion he’d had in his 20s, wasn’t the point anymore, either. But since then the deals in his life had worked out perfectly. They brought him to Pharma International, the largest vaccine maker in the world. And he was sitting on top of it. Maybe the point now was about winning. He wasn’t sure, but this wasn’t the time to get into some soul-searching. One thing he was sure of: he wasn’t going to let some filmmaker take all he’d accomplished away from him. With his main man, Steve Stiles, on top of the situation, it wouldn’t be long before he had Maguire and his bullshit cause buttoned up. He glanced at the prepaid cell phone on his desk. Stiles finds her, the contractor takes care of her, and the data gets buried forever.
When Dani got upstairs to John McCloskey’s apartment, it was the first time since walking Gabe to school that morning she felt any sense of peace. After seeing Maguire murdered, her neardeath experience at her apartment and arguing with her own mother about what she should do, she was in the company of a friend. McCloskey was a dignified man in his early 60s, tall and lanky, with a graying head of hair and a demeanor like a college professor. His eyes twinkled as he greeted Dani with a handshake. His apartment was small, modestly furnished, with books and periodicals stacked on every horizontal surface. She remembered the cushy upholstered chair she’d sat in to interview him here in his living room as he guided her to it.
“Thanks for seeing me, John. I’m sorry I didn’t call but I’m sure you’ve heard the news about David Maguire.”
“Yes, quite a tragedy. I understand he was shot right in front of you. I saw it on the news.”
Dani’s neck went cold as he said it. She wondered if she’d ever stop having that reaction. “It was horrible. I don’t see how I can ever forget it. But I don’t know if you’ve heard what’s happened since then.”
McCloskey shook his head. Dani thought he seemed more subdued than usual, even guarded.
“After the police finished questioning me I went back to my apartment. A cop—he may or may not have been a real cop—came to my apartment and tried to kill me. I was able to escape. Then I saw on the news that another cop was killed in my apartment.”
McCloskey was listening, not responding.
Dani wondered how to bring up the USB flash drive, then just blurted out, “Maguire gave me something just before the man shot him.” Dani pulled the USB flash drive out of her blazer pocket. McCloskey arched his neck back and squeezed the arm of the sofa, in visible discomfort.
“Please don’t do that,” he said.
“What? Why not?”
“You’re in danger.”
“No kidding. Just before the man tried to shoot me in my apartment he said, ‘where is it?’ It must be what’s on this flash drive. The cops are after me now, too, because they think I may be involved in the murder of the cop in my apartment. Maybe even with Maguire’s murder.”
“It’s probably a setup,” McCloskey said.
Dani got an uncomfortable sensation in her chest. “I came here to have you help me look at this flash drive on your computer, see what’s on it. Maybe you can help me interpret it.”
“I don’t think I can be helpful.”
What? “What do you mean?”
“David and I were friends for years. I knew he was working on something, compiling data that Pharma International probably didn’t want to get out. And the fact he contacted you and brought it with him meant he had something that was probably explosive. We’re on the eve of the Senate hearings on vaccine safety and immunity for the pharmaceutical industry. The timing of David’s visit to you can’t be a coincidence.”
“Then help me get whatever’s on this USB memory drive publicized. You were in the same position when you blew the whistle on KellerDorne.”
McCloskey leaned forward. “No, I wasn’t. I gotmyinformation about the heart attacks Myriad was causing, and KellerDorne’s cover-up about them made public before KellerDorne could get to me. I was safe. But David failed. They got to him first. The same way they would’ve gotten to me if they’d had the chance. Once it’s public, they can’t kill you because it does them no good. But before that, anything goes.”
He isn’t going to help. She got a sagging sensation in her limbs. “I don’t understand.”
“I mean I can’t help you. David didn’t make it. And now whatever he had, whatever he’s given to you, is radioactive.”
Dani felt a flash of anger. You mean you won’t help me. “You’re betraying the cause.”
McCloskey shrugged. “Your cause isn’t my cause. David’s cause isn’t my cause. With Myriad, I learned something I had to disclose, as long as I could do it without getting killed. I’m not getting killed for something I don’t know anything about. I can’t help you, and whatever’s on that flash drive, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bury it.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You, the man who contacted me to get his story out through the Crusador. You believed in it. You believed in the cause, not specific to what you were talking about with Myriad, but the cause.”
McCloskey looked at her, stonefaced.
Dani continued. “The cause in which we’re all aligned against these bastards who’ll take it away from us. Take our children’s health. Take our mental health. Take our freedom to choose. Take our ability to wake up every morning with a clear head, whether it’s troubled or racked with a lack of sleep or confidence, but a clear head, not one fogged with chemical interference. And certainly not drugged up by a program supported by a government mandate we don’t believe in.”
“Come on, Dani, we can’t make that big a difference.”
“No? You don’t think your whistleblowing on Myriad made a difference? That your interview in the Crusador opened peoples’ eyes to the risks from these miracle pharmaceuticals? You don’t think you gave people a profile they could use to evaluate other drugs, put the wood to their doctors, hold their shrinks at arm’s length before accepting their prescriptions?” McCloskey sat upright, stiff, like Dani had him in her crosshairs and he was afraid to move or she’d pull the trigger. “So you’re going to sit back and do nothing? You’re prepared to allow something that might be ten times more important than Myriad to wither and die because you’re too afraid to get involved?” She leaned forward for emphasis. “I can’t believe that.”
McCloskey threw himself forward in his seat. “I’m not going to die for something I don’t believe in!”
“What’s happened to you, John? Has someone threatened you?”
“David said he had something big, but they were onto him.”
“What was it?” Dani asked.<
br />
McCloskey was looking off into space, his mind someplace else.
“John?” Dani had her hands balled into fists, realizing she was squeezing the flash drive so hard it was pressing into her flesh.
McCloskey stood. “I think you should leave now. I can’t help you, Dani.”
Dani’s heart sank. Now she couldn’t bear to look McCloskey in the eye. This, the man who stood by his truth and disclosed everything, risked everything, was shrinking like a coward. Dani felt like her soul was weeping.
Then McCloskey said, his voice gentle, as she remembered him in the past, “I’m sorry, Dani, but I have my own problems. If you must know, I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since I went public on Myriad. Remember that WikiLeaks fellow, Julian Assange? They didn’t get to him first, so afterward they discredited him by trumping up some nonsense about sexual assault. They’ll get you no matter how they have to do it. I’m waiting for a news report that I’m a financial fraud or I fondle little boys. I wish I’d never heard of Myriad.”
Dani felt betrayed. She fought back tears and wished she could recapture her anger at McCloskey, but she felt powerless. Now what?
She left McCloskey’s building and headed west across 82nd Street, no destination in mind. McCloskey of all people. He’d just curled himself into a fetal position, pulled the covers over his head and given up. Whoever was behind Maguire’s murder was winning. She saw an image of the killer’s face, laughing, mocking her. It made her shiver, then made her angry. She clenched her fists, her jaw. Damn you, whoever you are! They may have squeezed the life out of McCloskey, but she swore they’d never do it to her. Damn you!
FOUR
AFTER STARK GOT OFF THE phone with the client, he went back to tending to his eyes. Once he’d gotten a look at himself in the mirror, he’d wanted to find the little bitch. His eyes were red and swollen; nowhere near as bad as after his three days of “questioning” by the Lebanese, but they still looked like raw meat. He’d be wearing sunglasses even if he didn’t need them for a partial disguise. He’d need to change his look anyhow, since people had seen him in the office where he took out Maguire, and of course, the girl had seen his curly blonde hair. He’d shave his head.
Stark took his time, flushing his eyes with the saline he’d bought at the pharmacy down the block. It gave him a chance to think. What an asshole the client was. Obviously some fatcat boob who was used to telling people what to do. One of those guys who enjoyed seeing people shit their pants when he barked out orders. Nothing good ever came out of talking directly to the client, but in this case Xavier said the client would get another contractor if Stark didn’t speak to him. And something good actually had come out of it. It sounded like the guy was putting his own team on the girl. Any information they dug up would find its way to Stark. That meant less time chasing all over New York, pulling in his own sources to help track her down.
The sooner he got this over with, the better. If word got out that he’d let her slip away, it would hurt. Since Stark had gone freelance 12 years ago, Xavier was his most important source for projects. The last thing he needed was Xavier losing confidence in him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a prick to the client. He’d ease off the next time they talked. Toning it down was a skill he learned working for the Brits. They were such pompous fools it was hard to keep his mouth shut when he first started working for MI5 in counterterrorism. But after a few times mouthing off back at them, no worse grousing than he’d given his CIA handler in Lebanon, they made it clear they’d fire him if he didn’t button it up. Any “specialist” with his job description who’d been let go by an agency as important as MI5 wouldn’t have a way to earn much as a freelancer. So he’d learned to talk nice.
Stark finished flushing his eyes, then, the next priority, cleaned, oiled and checked his Ruger. No damage to it, but the silencer was bent. He got on the phone and arranged with Dante to locate another silencer. He put down the phone and sat back in the thing that passed for a sofa. Nobody could call the hotel room opulent, but it was clean, not too worn around the edges and serviceable. He could afford better, but why bother? This was his life. Modest hotels you could walk into with a bloody nose or shrapnel wounds on your face without attracting too much attention. It was better than most places he’d been, particularly when he was stationed overseas. A lot better. Being back home in the States made him think. He saw people living well. People who had normal jobs, normal lives. Things he didn’t let himself think about too much or he’d lose his edge. But no question about it, life was easier here, and he liked it. Even so, he’d never go back to Richmond again. And at 38, even though most would say he was getting old for the business, he had no intention of getting out. Solo jobs were still the way to go; less punishing than mercenary work, so you could extend your career. That two-year mercenary stint he did before going solo was ridiculous. He hadn’t slept in a pup tent since Boy Scouts, not even in the Army. And the pay had sucked compared to freelancing.
Enough. He opened his notebook computer, logged onto the Internet and started chasing down where the girl might be. Even the quick glimpse he’d gotten of her apartment told him she had a kid. She wouldn’t be dumb enough to go back there, or let her kid go back there, but figuring out where they might go, maybe family in the area, was a start. He wiped his eyes. They wouldn’t stop watering. Man, they still burned like hell.
Dani continued heading west across 82nd Street. By the time she reached Madison Avenue she realized where she was going: 638 Park Avenue. She took in the familiar granite arch of the façade around the doorway, the green canopy extending onto the sidewalk. It was uncharacteristic for Angel not to be standing aside the revolving door at this time in the afternoon. Particularly on a breezy spring day like this. She knew he loved the action on Park Avenue: taxis cruising and honking; the neighborhood silver-hairs walking their bichons and poodles; and the passersby, who’d come to regard him as a cheerful Park Avenue institution, bantering with him. She pushed the brass and walnut revolving doors and emerged in the lobby to see Angel behind the concierge desk. His face exploded into a smile.
“Miss Dani,” he said.
It felt to Dani as if his warmth filled her lungs. “Hello, Angel. How are you?”
“Just great, Miss Dani. Great to see you. You been away a while.”
“Yes, maybe a little too long.”
After five minutes of talking about Angel’s wife and their children, Dani boarded the elevator. It made her feel guilty that this place felt so much like home. Upstairs, she fished her keys out of her pocket, unlocked the door and eased it open, hesitant. After six weeks she wondered if she’d see the presence of another woman, then wondered how she would react if she did. She closed the door behind her hard enough that anyone in the apartment could hear. At least anyone on the first floor of the duplex. “Hello?” she called. No response. She stepped into the foyer, instinctively started to put her keys down on the breakfront, then pulled them back and put them into her pocket. She noted the flowers in the vase; Casablanca lilies. James knew Dani loved them. They were probably a means of keeping the light on for her. Now she smiled to herself. They lasted for weeks; James, a romantic but always practical.
Emotions came to her in a flood. Five years. It was the longest she’d been with any man. Five years of laughing, arguing, touching, crying, making love, growing up…She began to cry. She sat on the rug, put her face in her hands and let herself sob, her shoulders heaving, her cries resounding in the apartment. After ten minutes she sat up, wiped her face. Oh, James. Was she crying over him? Or over this horrible day? She stood, inhaled and started toward the stairs.
She walked upstairs to the master bedroom suite and took a hot shower—it felt like the first of her life. Her bathrobe was still hanging behind the bathroom door. She walked into the closet to find neatly ordered rows of her blouses, shirts, skirts and jeans. It made her heart ache. The life she had, could still have, but was gone. And now she felt a wave
of guilt.
She turned from the closet, walked to the bed, picked up the phone from the end table and punched the keys.
“Charlotte, it’s Dani. Is he there?”
“Dani.” James’ assistant’s voice went down to a whisper. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“He’s in a meeting, on another floor in a conference room. I’ll see if I can reach him.”
“No, please don’t. Just tell him I called, and ask him to call me when he’s free.”
“We’ve been trying all day. We saw your picture on television. How awful for—”
“I’ve had my BlackBerry turned off.” She felt a surge of discomfort. “Please tell James he can reach me at his apartment.”
James never called back; he was home within an hour. Dani heard his key in the lock. She was dressed by then and hurried to the stairs, not wanting to have him encounter her in the bedroom. She only made it to the top of the stairs and stood there, poised, one arm on the railing as he gazed up at her. She imagined him seeing her as if in a Hollywood movie from the 1940s. It wasn’t how she wanted it. But descending slowly, dragging it out would be cruel, so she waited for him there.
Dani could see the emotion in James’ face, the hope in his eyes, his breathing showing in the rise and fall of his chest. Then, seeing him standing at the bottom of the stairs, her own emotions overcame her. She felt a soaring sensation in her chest and realized she was holding her breath. She had expected to begin by explaining to him all over again, the words she’d said to him six weeks ago and had re-rehearsed in her mind ever since. But now it was all she could do to stand in place and wait for him to run up and take her in his arms. She buried her face in his neck, held him back as hard as she could. After a few deep breaths, she got her mind right again. “Just hold me, please,” she said.