House Blood - JD 7

by Mike Lawson

  Montoya was in her early thirties. She was slim and pretty and seemed to vibrate with energy; her intelligence was palpable. Emma quickly told her about her trip to Peru and how Mulray Pharma appeared to be working in concert with the Warwick Foundation to test drugs on disaster victims.

  “The care center in Peru,” Emma said, “is located in an illogically remote place and being operated at great expense. Mulray is obviously trying to hide whatever they’re doing there, and they don’t care about the money they’re spending because whatever they’re doing is going to make them a lot more money.”

  Montoya shook her head. “Look. I know a couple journalists who have written about U.S. pharmaceutical companies doing clinical trials abroad. The companies go to places where the standard of living is deplorable and pay people a couple bucks a day to be guinea pigs, and the follow-up on what happens to these people is nonexistent. But the companies aren’t doing anything illegal. Unethical maybe, but not illegal. So it sounds to me like what’s going on in Peru is just more of the same except that Warwick is assisting the drug company, which isn’t illegal either. Lizzie Warwick probably thinks Mulray Pharma is actually helping people, and maybe they are.”

  “Some of the people at the care center in Peru have been killed,” Emma said.

  “Killed!” Montoya said. “Do you mean by the drugs they were given?”

  “I’m not sure,” Emma said.

  “Then what makes you think …”

  Emma told Montoya the same thing she told DeMarco. “Nine out of fifty-five people have died at the Warwick Care Center in Peru since it was established four years ago, and that seems to me to be an abnormally high death rate. More startling is the fact that people have died at what appear to be regular intervals, and three people all died on the same night. Those deaths need to be explained.”

  She could see that Montoya was not convinced, but she plowed ahead.

  “And I suspect that Warwick and Mulray Pharma may be doing the same thing in other countries. Lizzie Warwick teamed up with René Lambert five years ago, and in that time she’s conducted relief operations in Uganda, Pakistan, and Indonesia as well as Peru. So what I would like you to do is confirm what I’ve told you about the care center in Peru and see if the same thing is going on in other places. I think if you wrote a story about an American drug company using a relief organization to help test their drugs on disaster victims someone will be compelled to investigate. Certainly the Peruvian government will feel some obligation, and based on what I discovered there, maybe a U.S. law enforcement agency will get involved as well. If nothing else, a story in the Washington Post will put Mulray Pharma and Warwick on the defensive and force them to explain what they’re doing.”

  “I don’t think so,” Montoya said. “Like I told you, the story’s been done before. If you had some evidence that they were doing something criminal …”

  Emma didn’t want to tell Montoya about Kelly—the fact that she had killed him in Peru—but she could see that she was going to have to.

  “Celia, what I’m going to tell you next is off the record. It has to be off the record because if you write about this I could go to jail or, at a minimum, be in a lot of legal hot water.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A man working for Warwick followed me when I went to Peru. He set up a roadblock on a remote mountain road, pulled a gun on me, and ordered me from my car. I think he was planning to kill me. I’m sure he was. And another man working for Warwick tried to kill an associate of mine.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Emma then explained everything. How she had killed Kelly; how Nelson, Kelly’s partner, tried to kill DeMarco in a fake liquor store robbery; and how Phil Downing was killed and Brian Kincaid most likely framed for his murder.

  When she finished speaking, Montoya said, “I can understand how all those things would make you suspicious, but you don’t have any hard evidence. I mean, you don’t really know why Nelson was in that liquor store and …”

  “He sure as hell didn’t have any motive for committing robbery,” Emma said.

  “… and all Kelly did was point a gun at you, and you don’t really know why he did that either.”

  “He was going to kill me,” Emma said. Still seeing that Montoya wasn’t convinced, she added, “Look, I know I can’t substantiate everything I suspect, and that’s why I need your help. Something’s wrong with Warwick. You must see that.”

  When Montoya shook her head, Emma placed her hand on the young woman’s forearm. “Celia, the possibility is very real that Warwick and Mulray have killed to test a new drug. And there’s no doubt in my mind that they’re willing to kill people to cover up what they’re doing. Don’t you want to do something about that?”

  “Okay,” Montoya finally said. “Start over. I need names, dates—all the facts you have.”

  30

  As soon as Kelly got off the plane from Peru, he called Fiona and asked about Nelson’s condition and what she was doing to help him.

  “Kelly, you need to understand that there really isn’t much that can be done for Nelson,” Fiona said. “I got him a good lawyer, but he’s going to jail. He was taped during the commission of an armed robbery, he tried to shoot a cop, and there were three eyewitnesses, one of them being DeMarco. But the lawyer says that because of his condition, they probably won’t keep him in jail for very long.”

  “What are you talking about? His condition?”

  Fiona hesitated. “He’s paralyzed from the waist down. One of the bullets damaged his spinal cord.”

  “Aw, Jesus,” Kelly said. He felt like he was going to throw up.

  “Yeah, I know,” Fiona said, trying to sound sympathetic. “But like I said, the good news is that because he’s paralyzed they’ll probably give him a shorter prison sentence.”

  “The good news? Did you say the good news?” Kelly screamed.

  “Calm down. We’re on your side, and we want to help. And if Nelson keeps his mouth shut, we’ll do everything we can for him. Special facilities, therapy, whatever. If he keeps his mouth shut.”

  Kelly, still reeling from the news of Nelson being paralyzed, said, “Fiona, if anything happens to Nelson while he’s in the hospital—an infection, a blood clot, fucking anything—if he dies, I’m gonna kill you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him, but you have to get a grip on yourself because I may need you to deal with some of the fallout from all this. DeMarco’s still alive and Emma has returned from Peru, and I don’t know what the hell they’re doing. So—”

  “What hospital is Nelson in?”

  “Arlington Hospital.”

  “Who’s his lawyer?”

  Fiona didn’t respond immediately.

  “Fiona, give me the name of his lawyer or I’m going to beat you so bad you’ll need therapy.”

  “His name is Dennis Conroy. His office is on Connecticut Avenue in the District. But you should stay away from him.”

  Kelly hung up.

  Kelly limped through the terminal as fast as he could and headed for the long-term parking lot, where he had parked his car when he’d followed Emma to the airport. He needed to get to the hospital right away and see how bad Nelson was hurt. Maybe Fiona was wrong about Nelson’s condition—maybe the paralysis was temporary. Whatever the case, he needed to see Nelson and let him know that he was there for him.

  He didn’t know where Arlington Hospital was located, but he had a Garmin GPS in his car, and he impatiently tapped the screen on the Garmin until he found the address. It seemed to take forever for the annoying female voice to tell him to “drive to the highlighted route.” He backed his car out of the parking space, his tires squealing, and headed toward the booth to pay his parking fee, and because he was driving so fast he almost hit another car. As he waited for
the other car to get out of his way, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. Fiona was right—he needed to get a grip on himself.

  Fiona was probably right about something else, too: Nelson was going to be convicted for armed robbery and attempted murder. This meant that he might have to spring Nelson from the hospital, assuming Nelson was well enough to be moved. That being the case, he needed to take his time and get all the facts he could before going to the hospital. Being seen with Nelson wouldn’t be smart until he had a plan.

  He needed to talk to Nelson’s lawyer.

  Dennis Conroy was a partner in a law firm that employed forty other lawyers and paralegals, and Kelly learned from the firm’s Web site that he had successfully defended a number of notorious people. Most of his clients were white-collar criminals, however; defending liquor store robbers was not something he normally did.

  Conroy parked his Lexus in an underground garage in the same building that housed his law firm. His name was on the parking place; there was a red star next to his name. When he stepped from his car, Kelly could see that he was an unimpressive-looking white man with a balding head and a protruding belly, but he got the impression from the way Conroy carried himself that the lawyer was confident, arrogant, and normally quite pleased with himself. Kelly exited his vehicle and caught up to him before he reached the garage elevators.

  “Mr. Conroy,” Kelly said.

  Conroy turned and looked at Kelly, and the sight of a large black man walking toward him seemed to make him nervous, even though Kelly had a cast on one arm and was limping. “Yes, what can I do for you?” Conroy said.

  Kelly didn’t answer until he was close enough to Conroy to touch him. “You’re representing a man named Nelson. I’m Nelson’s friend and business partner, and I need to know what kind of shape he’s in, how he’s being guarded, what his prospects are if he goes to court. All that sort of stuff.”

  “I can’t talk to you about a client,” Conroy said, “even if he is your business partner.”

  Kelly’s right arm—his good arm—moved like a cobra striking as he hit Conroy in the throat with two fingers. Conroy dropped his expensive briefcase, fell to his knees, clutched his throat with both hands, and began to gag. Kelly hoped he hadn’t crushed the man’s larynx. It wouldn’t be good for Nelson to have a lawyer who couldn’t speak.

  Kelly reached down and, with one arm, yanked Conroy to his feet and dragged him over to a stairwell, where there was less chance they’d be disturbed. He opened the stairwell door, shoved Conroy inside, then propped him up against a wall.

  “Listen to me closely, Dennis,” Kelly said. “You’re going to tell me what I want to know and you’re going to do whatever I tell you. If you don’t, I’ll kill you and then I’ll deal with Nelson’s new lawyer. Now, you’re probably thinking that as soon as I leave, you’ll call the cops and tell them I assaulted you. But you need to think very hard before you do that. I know you were given a lot of money to defend Nelson, and you must have known at the time you agreed to represent him that he wasn’t your typical stickup guy. You must have known that you were dealing with serious people, serious people with serious problems, or they wouldn’t have hired you. I represent those people, Dennis, and when I say I’ll kill you, I’m not bluffing. Now tell me what I want to know.”

  Conroy told him that Nelson was paralyzed from the waist down and his condition was permanent—he would never walk again. Kelly momentarily closed his eyes when he heard this. Conroy went on to say that if Nelson hadn’t been in such good physical shape he would never have survived the two gunshot wounds.

  “His doctor told me that it’ll be at least a month before he’ll be able to use a wheelchair, and when he is, he’ll be taken to court and arraigned. I’ve urged him to plead guilty, because there’s no way he’s going to be found innocent if he goes to trial. If he pleads guilty, he’ll do less jail time than if he fights the system. And because he doesn’t have any priors and with his injuries … Well, the fact is, the State of Virginia would prefer not to put a cripple in jail; it’s a pain in the ass for the jailers, and expensive, too. So if he pleads guilty, I might even be able to get him a suspended sentence so he doesn’t do any time in prison.”

  “What if he doesn’t plead guilty?”

  The lawyer shrugged. “I can probably get him out on bail, then he’ll go to trial in five or six months and be found guilty.”

  “How’s he being guarded?”

  “Look, I can’t be a party to an escape attempt. I could go to jail or be disbarred.”

  “Would you rather be dead or disbarred?”

  “There’s a cop outside his door, and one will remain there until he can be moved to a jail cell. That’s the procedure.”

  “Just one cop?”

  “Yes. I guess they figure that’s all that’s necessary since he can’t walk.”

  “I want to talk to him on the phone. Can he talk?”

  “Yes. He’s weak but he can talk.”

  “Do they frisk you when you go in to see him?”

  “Yes. To make sure I’m not bringing him a weapon.”

  “Do they take away your cell phone?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Give me your cell phone number. I want you to go see Nelson now, and I’ll call him on your cell phone in half an hour.”

  “I can’t go today. My schedule’s completely full.”

  Kelly shook his head. “I can see that you and I still aren’t communicating,” he said—and hit Conroy in the solar plexus.

  A solid blow to the solar plexus makes it difficult to breathe—in fact, a person hit in that location as hard as Kelly hit Conroy thinks he’ll never breathe again. As Conroy struggled to get air into his lungs, Kelly placed his right hand gently on the attorney’s shoulder and said, “Dennis, Nelson has become your number one priority. It’s like he’s the only client you have and you will drop everything else you’re doing and give his case your undivided attention. Now do we understand each other?”

  Kelly’s phone call with Nelson was brief. Nelson was able to talk, but he was so traumatized by what had happened to him that he seemed unable to concentrate. At one point he started crying. Kelly had never seen Nelson cry in his life, and the sound of him sobbing almost broke his heart. He had no doubt Nelson was thinking about suicide. He would be if he were in Nelson’s condition.

  Kelly told him that somehow, someway, he was going to get him out. “Just get strong, strong enough so we can move if we need to.”

  Nelson was silent for a moment, then softly said, “Hooah.”

  “Hooah,” Kelly said, his voice catching when he said the word.

  31

  Earl Lee had been ordered by Bill Hobson to come to Philadelphia, and that’s whom Lee thought he’d be meeting. He was surprised when he opened his hotel room door and saw a woman standing there.

  “May I come in, Earl?” Fiona said.

  “I don’t know. Who are you? And how do you know my name?”

  “I’m the person who told Hobson to fly you here from Africa,” Fiona said. “Now may I come in?”

  Lee stepped aside, and Fiona entered the room.

  “So what’s going on?” Lee asked.

  Fiona didn’t answer as she examined him. He was a tall, muscular man wearing a tight-fitting olive-green T-shirt and blue jeans. He had blond stubble on his cheeks and chin, and more blond stubble on his closely shaved head. She noticed that unlike Kelly and Nelson, he hadn’t kept himself in top shape; there was a ring of fat expanding his waistline. She also didn’t see in his eyes the intelligence she saw in Kelly’s—but maybe that was a good thing.

  Fiona sat down in the only chair in the room and gestured for Lee to sit on the bed. He hesitated for a moment, then complied.

  “Earl,” she said, “let me explain a few things to you. Bill
Hobson doesn’t work for Lizzie Warwick; he works for me. Kelly and Nelson don’t work for the Warwick Foundation, either. They also work for me. For that matter, the whole time you’ve been providing protection for Lizzie, you’ve really been working for me, too.”

  It took a few seconds for Lee to digest all that. “What do you want?”

  “Kelly and Nelson have been doing special assignments for me for the last five years, but Nelson’s been injured and Kelly’s become a loose cannon. I need a man to replace them.”

  “What kind of special assignments?”

  Fiona didn’t have the time or the inclination to beat around the bush. “They kill people for me.”

  Lee, instead of being shocked, smiled. “I always knew those two pricks were doing more than just delivering supplies to Lizzie. So is that what you want me to do? Kill somebody for you?”

  “Maybe. Right now things are kind of fluid, but I may need Kelly and Nelson taken out.” Lee elevated an eyebrow in surprise when he heard that. “I may also need at least two other people killed—a man and a woman who have become a problem. Are you interested?”

  “I don’t know. What’s in it for me?”

  “You’ll continue to receive your salary from Kelly’s company, the same salary they’ve been paying you to protect Lizzie Warwick and René Lambert. In addition, I’ll give you two hundred grand up front and I’ll pay you fifty thousand for every person I need you to eliminate.”

  “You’re shittin’ me!” Lee said. Then, realizing he should be negotiating, he said, “Is that how much you’ve been paying Kelly and Nelson?”

  “That’s none of your business. Now, do you want the job or not?”

  “How do I know this isn’t some kind of setup?”

  Fiona laughed. “A setup? What do you think, Earl? Do you think I’m a cop and I flew you all the way from Uganda so I could trap you in some kind of murder-for-hire sting?”