Spur of the Moment

by David Linzee

  “You see you got no reason to be scared of me, right? The faster you hand that disk over to the cops, the better.”

  They had covered some distance since she had last looked around. The old brick houses on this block were better maintained and graffiti-free. Some had small gardens in front. Shane stopped in front of one of these, opened a low iron gate, and motioned her through. As he shut it she risked a glance down the street but did not see Peter. She followed Shane down a short flight of steps under the stoop. Evidently he lived in the basement. He unlocked the door and opened it.

  There was a flurry of motion. It happened so fast that she did not even have time to feel alarm, let alone think of turning and running. She was pulled into the room and shoved against a wall. Shane was sitting on the floor. She did not know how he had gotten there. His hand covered his nose. Blood was pouring between his fingers. A man was standing over him, a man she had never seen before.

  She understood that he had been waiting behind the door to pull Shane in and hit him hard enough to break his nose and send him sprawling, then pulled her inside and slammed the door behind her, but it did not seem possible for anyone to move so fast. Shane was groaning and whimpering. The man standing over him said, “Shut up”—not loudly, but it terrified Shane into silence.

  Another man was sitting slumped in an armchair. He had matted gray hair and bloodshot eyes. Not until he spoke did she recognize Keith Bryson.

  “Who is she?”

  “Radleigh’s sister,” said the other man. His gaze returned to Shane. He reached down, grabbed handfuls of his shirt, and pulled him to his feet without visible effort. “Where’s the disk, asshole?”

  Renata realized that the apartment—one long, low-ceilinged room—was a mess. The contents of closets, cabinets and the refrigerator were spread all over the floor. Framed posters had been pulled from the walls, furniture upended. Dripping blood, Shane bent to flip over the welcome mat. The silver computer disk was lying on the floor. He picked it up, and carrying it at arm’s length, brought it back to the man.

  “Why didn’t you think of that, Schaefer?” said Bryson hollowly.

  “It’s too goddamn stupid a hiding place is why. Anybody stepping in the wrong place would’ve snapped the disk. You are such a fuck-up.” He glared at Shane with disgust. “Now the copies. Where are they?”

  “Didn’t make any copies,” muttered Shane. He picked up a T-shirt that was lying on the floor and held it to his face. His eyes fixed on the man who’d hit him. “There’s only one and you got it. I swear. Just take it and go, okay? I wasn’t gonna do anything with it. That was all Bistouri. All I want to do is disappear. You’ll never hear of me again.”

  Bryson and Schaefer were paying no attention to him. Bryson took the disk and started to put it in his pocket. Schaefer shook his head and held out a hand. “I’m gonna have to look at it, sir. Verify it’s the one.”

  Bryson reluctantly handed over the disk. He said, “Turn off the sound. I don’t want to hear any of it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Schaefer glanced at the far end of the room, where a computer with a large flatscreen was sitting on a table. He turned to Shane. “We’re going over there. I’ll turn on the computer and you type in your password. Then you sit on the floor and keep quiet.” He shifted his eyes to Renata. “Can you handle her, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Bryson, gazing at her also.

  The man strode over to Renata, righted an upside down chair, and shoved her into it. Then he turned and walked to the end of the room with Shane following him. The shirt was already soaked with blood. He was badly hurt but no one was doing anything about it. Renata thought that once Schaefer verified the disk, he was going to kill Shane and herself. He had made up his mind. Another flurry of motion, a moment’s pain, and she would know nothing more. But still she felt numb, disbelieving. She told herself that Bryson was her only hope of getting out of this room alive.

  She said to him, “You’ve seen me before. But you don’t remember. I was standing next to Bert Stromberg-Brand while you were talking to him. I wasn’t important enough to introduce to you, and you never noticed me. My full name is Renata Radleigh. You are going to remember it for the rest of your life.”

  Bryson watched her steadily with his red-rimmed eyes. He seemed to be fumbling to grasp what was about to happen, too. They gazed at each other in silence. There were clicks and whirs from the computer. Cars passed in the streets. Horns sounded. Then footsteps passed over the ceiling, six feet above their heads. Both Renata and Bryson looked up.

  Schaefer returned and handed the disk to Bryson. “This is it. You can go. Wait for me in the car.”

  Bryson shook his head. “There are people upstairs.”

  “Sir, this asshole’s a drug dealer. They’re used to being deaf to what goes on down here. Just go, please.”

  Bryson was staring at the disk in his hand. “What can the asshole do without this? Make a nuisance, no more.”

  “I don’t believe him about there being no copies. Leave him alive and he could start the shakedown all over again.”

  Bryson sighed and looked at Renata. “What about her?”

  “She’s here, so she’s a problem.”

  Bryson continued to look at her. Something was changing in his face but she could not guess what he was thinking.

  “Sir, if we walk out and leave them, you won’t know a moment’s peace.”

  “I won’t know a moment’s peace either way.”

  “Sir, you have to go now.”

  Bryson smiled bleakly. “No. I don’t. Keep an eye on the asshole. I want to talk to her.”

  Schaefer’s face was flushed, his mouth set. But he said nothing. He pivoted on his heel and walked back to sit in front of the computer and gaze at the hunched figure of Shane.

  Bryson said, “I’m willing to accept your word that you’ll keep quiet and let you go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can convince you that it’s the right thing to do. That you should not try to destroy me.”

  She gazed at him and waited.

  “This thing with Jeff Csendes was not my problem. I took it on as a favor to Helen. She was upset about the bitter things he’d said to her. She was shocked by the way he was living, how low he’d fallen, and I couldn’t convince her it wasn’t her fault.”

  “Probably because it was.”

  He went on as if he hadn’t heard. “She said, you go to him, don’t send some underling. If it’s you, he’ll know we’re sincere. That we want to make him whole. And I walked right into a trap. I suppose this little pill-pusher told you about the conspiracy they’d hatched against me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m willing to let you look at the video. You’ll see. It wasn’t my fault. How could I possibly cope—”

  “With the sort of person who is usually kept away from you.”

  He narrowed his eyes, appraising her. “Can I get you to see that there is more at stake here than one self-pitying drug addict?”

  “The one who made the key discovery, and whose reward was to have his career destroyed?”

  Bryson slowly shook his head. “This involves millions of people. You know nothing. Let me tell you what this whole thing is really about. Did the pill-pusher tell you about Bistouri?”

  “I already knew about Bistouri. I saw his body. Did you kill him?”

  “Not me. Schaefer made a mistake. Not that I blame him. It was Bistouri’s own fault. You know who he was?”

  “Some kind of private investigator, Shane said. Bugging expert.”

  “Yes. He was smart. He had an idea too good to tell the asshole about. He went to Newton-Drax. You know who they are?”

  “Of course. The big pharmaceutical company. I don’t understand.”

  “They sell Sūthyne. The most prescribed drug for UTIs.”

  “Oh.”

  “It kills enough of the bacteria to relieve the symptoms. The itching and burning stop. But then the surviving bacteria
multiply, the itching comes back, and the patient has to take more Sūthyne. Very crude compared to Helen’s elegant solution, which arms the immune system. You take it once and never have to worry about UTIs again. Not good for Newton-Drax. They make forty-seven point five million dollars a year from Sūthyne. Every year. That will drop to zero if Helen’s drug reaches the market.”

  “Bistouri was trying to blackmail you into pulling your money out of Helen’s company? He told you that?”

  “He didn’t tell me who he was working for. But I’ve thought about practically nothing else since. I’m sure it was Newton-Drax.”

  “I don’t believe you. How could they be so sure getting rid of you would stop Helen’s vaccine from being developed?”

  “At this point, it’s a long way from the market. And when I drop a project, other people are reluctant to pick it up.” He smiled bitterly. “It was my enviable reputation that got me into this mess. So what do you think, Renata Radleigh? Two people are dead, but it was more their own fault than mine. If I am destroyed, the vaccine development will stop, and Newton-Drax will be rewarded for what they have done. Is that what you want to see happen?”

  “You mean I owe it to medical science and millions of women with itchy bladders to keep your secret. Keep talking, Bryson. Explain to me how it’s somebody else’s fault that you killed Helen Stromberg-Brand.”

  Bryson’s face went as blank as a concrete wall. She had to hand it to him, he acted surprise and bafflement very convincingly. “Where on earth could you get the idea that I killed Helen?”

  “You went straight from Chicago to St. Louis. She was eager to hear how it went with Jeff Csendes. You told her, but she wouldn’t promise to keep your secret. So you killed her. You’ve had only one idea from the start: you’d do anything to save your precious arse.”

  “Helen was my partner and friend. I would never harm her. Not even burden her with the knowledge of what I’d been forced to do.”

  “You lied to her?”

  “I told her what she wanted to hear. My turning up mollified Csendes. He accepted the money. She could forget about him.”

  Renata shook her head.

  “You stupid bitch!” It was Shane, wailing from across the room. “Why couldn’t you promise him anything and save our fucking skins?”

  Bryson looked at him, then back at Renata. He said, “He brought you here to give you the disk. Didn’t he? You’d make it public to clear your brother.” He pointed at Shane. “And he’d be safe from me.”

  Schaefer rose from his chair. “She’s not going to leave here without the disk.”

  “It’s futile, Renata Radleigh,” Bryson said. “Such a waste. You will destroy me, and Helen’s discovery, and you won’t save your brother. I did not kill Helen Stromberg-Brand.”

  Shane moaned again. “No, don’t say it, you dumb fucking bitch.”

  “I won’t leave without the disk,” said Renata, and turned to Schaefer. “Stay right there, Schaefer. One more step and I’ll scream. I have quite good lungs. I can scream the bloody house down.”

  “Nobody’ll pay any attention,” said Schaefer. “And you won’t scream long.” But he was holding still, his eyes on Bryson.

  Renata turned to Bryson too. “It’s simply not on. Two more murders. And you won’t get away. A friend was following us. When he lost us, he’ll have called the police. They’re out there looking already.” At least she hoped they were.

  “It’s true,” said Shane, grasping at any straw. “A guy followed us.”

  Bryson looked at him, then bowed his head. He gave an exhalation of breath that might have been a sigh, or a laugh. “Schaefer?”

  “Sir?”

  “I owe you a head start. More than that, but it’s all I can give you. Go.”

  For a moment Schaefer stood paralyzed, but only for a moment. Then, in a split second, he was across the room and out the door, which he left swinging slowly in his wake. From outside came the sound of sirens.

  “So the friend was real,” said Bryson. Noticing that he was still holding the disk, he grimaced and dropped it. Renata snatched it up. He looked at her with bleak amusement. “You know, Renata Radleigh? You and I are going to be talking about each other for years. But this is probably the last time we’ll talk to each other. I’ll tell you one last time. I did not kill Helen.”

  Part VI

  Thursday, May 27

  Chapter 67

  The general director was waiting for her at the door of the Peter J. Calvocoressi Administration Building. She was not surprised. It was the sort of treatment she had gotten used to in the twenty-four hours since she had handed the disk, and Keith Bryson, over to the Chicago police.

  Congreve opened the door with his left hand and held out his right to her, a cordial but wary smile on his jowly face. “Well, the heroine of the hour!”

  He had obviously given his opening a lot of thought, and that was the best he could do? But she took his hand and said, “It’s been hectic, yes.”

  “Come on up.”

  It took rather a long time to ascend the stairs and go along the corridor, because people kept appearing to shake her hand and ask how she was. They sent their best to her brother, too; Don was mentionable again. Finally the door was closed and she was seated upon the plush sofa, facing him in his armchair and saying no thanks to a coffee as well as to “something stronger.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for getting right to it, but of course I’m anxious to know. What is Don’s status at the moment?”

  As soon as her plane had landed at Lambert Airport an hour before, she had called Detective McCutcheon of the Clayton police. To her surprise, he had taken the call. He had been civil and informative, which she supposed was his way of making up for his rant of Tuesday night.

  To Congreve, she said, “The Clayton police have sent detectives to Chicago and they’ve tried to interrogate Bryson, but so far his lawyers are doing more talking than he is.”

  “But there’s no doubt,” Congreve said, “that he killed Dr. Stromberg-Brand?”

  “No doubt at all. But the St. Louis County Prosecutor is being bloody-minded about dropping the charges against Don until she can charge Bryson. There’s good news, though. Don goes before the judge tomorrow, and the lawyer I’ve hired for him is confident he’ll make bail.”

  “That’s great. I’m very glad he’ll be out of jail.” Congreve sat up straight, laid his hands flat on his pinstriped thighs, and looked at her in silence.

  This was such a novel experience, Renata thought. Having important people wait with bated breath for her next word. She rather liked it. She went on, “Rachel—that’s Don’s new lawyer—is quite keen to meet with Dick Samuelson. She wants to discuss his representing Don while working for SLO. It was all too technical for me, but she used terms like ‘conflict of interest’ and ‘disbarment.’ ”

  “Renata, I’m as baffled as you are by this legal stuff. More so, because Dick kept me completely in the dark about his dealings with Don. I’m suspending him without pay, as of today.”

  So this was how it was done, she thought. You threatened Congreve, and he served some underling’s head up on a plate. She had expected a bit more finesse. “We can avoid unpleasantness, and Samuelson can keep his job, if you will accept a suggestion from me.”

  Again the general director waited meekly for her to go on.

  “When the media call you for comments about Don, I would like you to say helpful things. We were in a cash-flow crisis. We made mistakes. Basically, I’d like to hear a lot of ‘we.’ ”

  Congreve smiled with relief. “Of course. Have Rachel call me directly. We’ll work out a statement.”

  They shook hands and Renata went out. In the corridor, she paused before a window looking down on the Emerson Electric Picnic Lawn. Night had fallen, and the tables were empty: the evening’s performance of Carmen was well under way in the theater. She gazed down on the white-and-green-striped pavilion in which, five days before, it had all beg
un. The corridor was reflected in the dark glass, and she saw her friend Mike Joyce, the head of production, come out of his office. She turned and they hugged.

  “I saw you on the news this morning. What is it like, being you now?”

  “Oh, my celebrity is bound to be fleeting. I’m just flickering in the light as Keith Bryson crashes and burns. How are things going round here?”

  “Catch-22 has its world premiere tomorrow night. I will personally shake the hand of every audience member who manages to sit through it. Carmen’s fine. Iris Kortella is doing a creditable job as Mercédès.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Renata wasn’t, actually. She was tempted to ask for her part back. SLO would deny her nothing. Worse luck for poor little Iris. She smiled: amazing how quickly power corrupted. She hugged Mike again and went down the stairs and out the door.

  The parking lot was full. She picked her way among the cars of opera-goers in the darkness. Peter was leaning against the fender of his car, talking on the phone. She had watched him on the phone a lot in the last twenty-four hours. He was very Italian about it, nodding his head and gesturing with his free hand. Seeing her, he ended the call.

  “That was a Hollywood agent,” he said as they got in the car. “He says he can get me a six-figure sum for the rights to my life, just the last few days of it.”

  “You’d think some newspaper would offer you a job.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be happening. I think I’ll take an hour off from phone calls.” He switched off his phone and put it away. “Where to?”

  “Don’s. I have to pick up the deed to his house for bail and his courtroom suit. Turn left here. Then there are phone calls to return. Then I have to pack.”

  “You don’t want to be there to welcome him home?”

  “No. I’ve done enough for Don. Can I stay at your place? It will facilitate the untrammeled debauchery I have planned for the next few days.”

  Peter grinned and nodded. They hadn’t made love yet. They’d had countless questions from reporters to answer last night and this morning, and they had not wanted to be asked why they were sharing a hotel room, so they hadn’t. Fame had its drawbacks.