Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop: 2 Bugman Novels in 1

by Tim Downs

  Nick thought for a minute. “Riley says that most of the transplants in our area are done at UPMC Presbyterian; wouldn’t they keep a list of their own people waiting for transplants?”

  “That would make sense.”

  “And isn’t it likely that a single hospital’s database would be easier to break into than the one at UNOS?”

  “I would think so. Of course, I won’t know for sure until I try.” He lowered his voice. “I assume you’re asking me to try?”

  “I need a list of everyone at UPMC Presby who’s waiting for a kidney transplant—no other organs, just kidneys. And if you find that list, Leo, I want you to look for past lists. Can you do that?”

  “I can check for archived files,” he said, “or for backups of the whole system. It could take a couple of days. What are you looking for?”

  “I want to find out who used to be on the transplant list who isn’t anymore. I want to know why they dropped off the list.”

  “Either they died, or they got their kidney. What other reason could there be?”

  Nick shrugged. “Maybe they got a better offer.”

  “I don’t know,” Leo said. “This whole idea seems too fantastic to be possible. That guy in the cooler—are you positive his kidney was missing?”

  “No.”

  Leo raised both eyebrows. “A minor detail.”

  “We didn’t have time to check. The three deputy coroners came back with the pizza, and I had to kiss Riley.”

  Leo did a thoroughly Italian double take. “You kissed Riley? Where?”

  “On the lips, of course.”

  “No—where did you kiss her?”

  “In the cooler. At the coroner’s office.”

  Leo leaned forward and thumped Nick on the forehead with the butt of his palm. “Let me explain something to you. A woman like Riley should be kissed over the Salmon Wellington at the LeMont, looking out over Mount Washington at the lights of the Golden Triangle. A woman like Riley should not be kissed in a cooler, at the coroner’s office, surrounded by dead people in plastic bags.”

  “I had to think fast.”

  The waitress arrived and lifted the carafe to Nick’s cup. “Bring my friend decaf,” Leo said. “He’s been thinking too fast.”

  “I put my arm around her too.”

  “Where? At a landfill?”

  “No, on a seventy-foot yacht in the Allegheny, watching the fireworks display at the Point.”

  Leo looked at him. “How did you get access to a seventy-foot yacht?”

  “We rowed up to it in a dinghy and then flipped the boat over.”

  Leo thumped him on the forehead again.

  “Would you cut that out?” Nick said. “That hurts.”

  “It ought to hurt—I’m trying to knock a hole in it. Do you know your problem, Nick Polchak? You spend your whole life up here.” He tapped hard on Nick’s head with his index finger. “You’re trapped inside this … this charnel, this sarcophagus. Your whole life is spent thinking; you have no senses—no sense of touch or taste or smell. And do you know why you have no senses? It’s this business of yours—all these flies and maggots and decomposing bodies! You’ve shut down your senses, Nick—you’ve had to, just to survive.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Let me ask you something: what does Riley McKay smell like?”

  Nick paused. “Well, since she works at the coroner’s office, I suppose she would smell like—”

  Leo reached out to thump him again, but Nick ducked away.

  “You see? Even when you try to use your senses, you’re still thinking. Listen to me, Nick. Riley McKay smells like lavender. Have you ever noticed? And she uses Trésor from time to time, but she lets it wear off—it leaves just the slightest hint behind. Have you ever listened to the sound of her voice, Nick? Not the words themselves, but the sound?”

  Nick’s eyes floated upward behind the huge lenses. “It sounds like … a wind chime,” he said distantly. “Even when she’s angry.”

  Leo looked at him, then leaned forward and spoke softly. “Nick, let me ask you something: are you experiencing ordinary human emotions toward this woman? Because from you, I find that frightening.”

  “So do I,” Nick said. “It’s been a long time for me.”

  Leo paused. “You’re serious?”

  Nick said nothing.

  “This complicates things.”

  “It gets worse. I was at her apartment tonight. I’ve been noticing some things about her. Her back seems to bother her a lot, and she tires out easily.”

  “She’s a pathologist. What did you expect?”

  “But I’ve noticed swelling in her ankles—she’s too young for that. And she never uses salt; isn’t that a little odd? So I checked her medicine cabinet for prescriptions.”

  “An excellent start to a relationship,” Leo said. “Always check their meds.”

  “Leo, I stopped by a pharmacy on the way over here. Riley has some kind of kidney disease. It could be serious.”

  “How serious?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “This waiting list from UPMC Presbyterian,” Leo said. “Is there any particular name you’re looking for?”

  Nick said nothing.

  “Nick, if this black market theory of yours is correct—if Riley’s name is on that waiting list—then which side do you think she’s on in all this?”

  “I don’t know,” Nick said. “But I’d better figure it out. I need to know which side I’m on.”

  Julian Zohar ran his hand across the thick hardwood mantel, admiring the hand-carved woodland scene on the frieze that supported it. The fireplace beneath it was at least fifteen feet wide; the chocolate gray flagstone that covered it was hand-picked from the fields of Pennsylvania. Above the mantel, a formidable-looking man stared out from a full-length portrait framed in burnished gold. Twenty feet higher, the ceiling sprawled like the roof of a cathedral, a soft white canopy ribbed with thick veins of inlaid wood. The room below was awe inspiring. One corner was dominated by a Steinway concert grand, another by a life-size bronze; in between, rich upholstery and elegant furniture settings dotted the floor like luxuriant oases.

  There was a sound at the doorway. Zohar turned to see a latemiddle-aged woman in a motorized wheelchair approaching, escorted by a private nurse.

  “Mrs. Heybroek,” he smiled, “how nice to see you.”

  She extended her hand to him. He cupped it in his own right hand and patted it gently with his left.

  “Have we met?” she said, cocking her head slightly.

  “We have not; my misfortune. I’m Dr. Julian Zohar, executive director of the Center for Organ Procurement and Education here in Pittsburgh.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Have you found a match? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Perhaps we could speak about that—in private.”

  The woman dismissed the nurse with a quick wave of her hand and watched until she disappeared through the archway into the darkness of the adjoining room. Then she turned to Zohar again—but Zohar was now occupied admiring an ornate mahogany breakfront.

  “What a lovely home,” he said. “What a stately home—a fitting tribute to all that you and the late Mr. Heybroek have accomplished in your lives: your charitable work, your sizable donations to the arts—and let’s not forget your educational contributions. Wasn’t Mr. Heybroek a member of the board of Sewickley Academy?”

  “Mr. Zohar, have you found a match?”

  Zohar turned to her and smiled sympathetically. “There’s no match,” he said. “I think you and I both know that there never will be.”

  He turned away again and continued his tour of the room, running his hand over the surface of a plush sofa, sampling the scent of a lavish flower arrangement, or stepping back to admire a particularly fine oil painting.

  “This rural scene—it’s an original, isn’t it? A Pissarro, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Mr. Zohar, what is the purpose
of your visit? If this is not about my kidneys—”

  “Oh, this is definitely about your kidneys,” Zohar said. “It’s an amazing thing, isn’t it, the way our current transplant system works? Or perhaps I should say, doesn’t work. Did you know that there are more than eighty thousand people just like you, hoping and praying for a kidney or a liver or a heart? Sixteen of them die each day without receiving it. It’s tragic; but I don’t have to tell you, now, do I?”

  Zohar walked slowly back across the room now, taking a seat on a settee beside the woman’s wheelchair. He leaned back, folded his hands neatly in his lap, and gazed intently into the woman’s eyes.

  “Do you know why this problem persists, Mrs. Heybroek? Do you know why you’ll never get your kidneys? Because, despite all of the advances in medical technology, the current transplant system still requires us to ask permission to obtain an organ. Here you sit, waiting for a statistically improbable event—waiting for someone with your rare blood type to fall off a motorcycle or suffer a stroke—and even then, we have to ask. The fact is, Mrs. Heybroek, half the time the family will say no.

  “And did you know that, even if a matching kidney is discovered, the law requires it to be offered regionally first? That means if someone in, say, Philadelphia falls off that motorcycle, his kidneys must be offered to someone in that region first, even if that person’s need is less critical than your own—even if that person is less deserving. So many inconsistencies,” he said sadly. “So much injustice.”

  Zohar stood up, put both hands in his pockets, and began to slowly wander around the room again, this time shaking his head sadly over each piece of furniture or work of art. “It’s ironic,” he said. “Despite all your power and influence, despite all your contributions to society, you will have to die along with the rest of them. Your money is of no help to you now. You’re the victim of an arbitrary, outmoded set of bureaucratic regulations.”

  “Stop this!” the woman shouted. “Don’t you think I know these things? Did you come here just to gloat?”

  A look of profound compassion came over Zohar’s face. “Is that what you think? No, Mrs. Heybroek, I didn’t come here to gloat. I came here tonight to offer you your kidneys.”

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  “I’m an ethicist,” he said. “In my ethical system, organs would be allocated on the basis of utility—who would benefit from them most? Who could use them for the greatest good? In my ethical system there is a concept known as social worth. Look around you, Mrs. Heybroek. Who could seriously argue that your life is worth no more than that of, say, an indigent? Or a criminal? Someone who has spent his life taking from others, instead of making a contribution? You’ve contributed so much to this world, Mrs. Heybroek, and you have a lot more still to give. I want to help you make that contribution.”

  “How?” she said in almost a whisper.

  “I believe you have the right to obtain a new pair of kidneys. And since you’ve worked so hard to amass a personal fortune, I believe you should be able to use that fortune to obtain them. Why not? You’ve earned the right.”

  “Stop these riddles,” the woman said. “If you really have something to offer me, let me hear it.”

  Zohar smiled. “You are currently on the waiting list for a kidney transplant; you’ve been on that list for almost three years now. Next week you will announce to your physician that you have lost hope, and that you wish to be removed from the waiting list and simply go home to die in peace. And you will go home, Mrs. Heybroek, but you will not die. I will provide you with your pair of kidneys. Your transplant surgery will take place in a state-of-the-art surgical center. You will then return home to convalesce in seclusion for the next twelve months, during which time you will experience a miraculous ‘recovery’ from your end-stage renal disease.”

  “You will provide my kidneys? How? Where will they come from?”

  “As an ethicist, I insist on a policy of strict confidentiality. I will not reveal the source of your organs, nor will the donor’s family ever know who has received them.”

  “But you must be going outside the legal system.”

  “The legal system? I’m going outside the unethical and unjust system, Mrs. Heybroek; a system that’s more than happy to let you die to protect the rights of someone with virtually no social value.”

  “I can’t be a party to something like this.”

  “Can’t you?” Zohar turned to the painting suspended over the fireplace. It was the focal point of the entire room. Two recessed halogen lights illuminated the painting, creating a fiery glare in the center of the glossy canvas. “James Ludlum Heybroek,” he said. “Quite a man. He foresaw the decline of Pittsburgh’s steel industry in the sixties, and he helped pioneer the transition from an industrial to a technological economy. He was a leading figure in Pittsburgh’s second Renaissance, wasn’t he? Three Rivers Stadium, the USX Tower, PPG Place, the Mellon Bank Tower … so many men were indebted to him—and he called in a few of those debts, didn’t he? Debts that ruined other businesses, debts that even resulted in a couple of notable suicides.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Don’t misunderstand, Mrs. Heybroek. I have the greatest respect for your late husband. I’m simply pointing out that people of power and influence are accustomed to making hard decisions. I didn’t just show up on your doorstep tonight. I’ve spent a good deal of time researching you and your family’s history. You’re an impressive person, Mrs. Heybroek, no less so than your husband. You didn’t get where you are today through timidity and caution, now, did you?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin. “How much?” she asked.

  “Three million dollars. By electronic transfer to a series of offshore accounts.”

  “Three million—”

  “A small price, considering. Look at it this way, Mrs. Heybroek: I’m not really charging you, I’m empowering you. Money is power, that’s what they always say, but right now your money has no power. You’re about to die with three million dollars in your pocket, and it will be of no value to you then. I’m giving you back the chance to get something for your money.”

  “I could have you arrested for this.”

  “You could—but you’d be signing your own death warrant, wouldn’t you? I’m not offering you an option, Mrs. Heybroek, I’m offering you your only option. Where else will you get your kidneys?”

  “I … I need to know where the kidneys will come from.”

  Zohar sat down beside her again, picked up her left hand, and cradled it gently. “Where did that lovely dress come from? Paris? New York? Where did your wheelchair come from? Mexico? China? Do you know? Do you really care? When you purchase a product, Mrs. Heybroek, you don’t concern yourself with the process of production and distribution. That’s what you pay other people for.”

  She said nothing but stared straight ahead.

  Zohar reached into his coat pocket, took out a business card, and placed it in her hand. He rose and stepped to the doorway, where he stopped and turned back.

  “You are a woman of great power,” he said. “Please—exercise that power. I want you to live.”

  Smoke poured from the toaster oven. Nathan Lassiter pawed the piece of blackened toast onto the counter, spit out an expletive, and shoved all four fingers into his mouth like his infant son used to do. He stood at the sink, scraping off the layer of crumbling carbon with a knife, when his cell phone rang. He dropped the toast into the sink and picked up the phone.

  “Lassiter, what is it? Oh … it’s you.” He jabbed at the remains of the toast with the point of his knife until it folded like a little umbrella and disappeared into the garbage disposal.

  “I’m fine, Margaret. No, I’m fine—I’m just a little busy, that’s all.” He felt the glass decanter in the coffee maker; it was cold. He pulled it out and stared at the thin layer of dark liquid in the bottom. He swirled it around twice, then sniffed it.

  “Look, you didn’t c
all just to see how I’m doing. What’s on your mind? You got the check, didn’t you? I know I wrote it.” He pulled a cup from the stack of dirty dishes and examined the inside. He set it down and picked up another, then a third. He pinned the phone against his shoulder and wiped the rim of the cup with the tail of his shirt. He emptied the decanter into it, set it in the microwave, and punched a button. Nothing happened.

  “I’m not starting something. I just asked about the check, that’s all. I’m not arguing. Who’s arguing?” He opened the fridge and scanned the barren shelves. There was a bulging, half-empty milk bottle with a thick yellow layer on top, and a series of opaque plastic containers all jammed to the back to the shelves. He slid one forward and began to pry off the lid, then thought better of it.

  “What? No, I don’t know why we always fight. I guess that’s why people get divorced, isn’t it?” He opened the pantry door and removed a promising-looking box from the shelf. He shook it and heard nothing; he dropped it on the floor and tried another. Behind one box he spotted a single granola bar wrapped in green and silver mylar. He took it.

  “Look, can we get to the point? I’ve got a lot going on here. What is it you want? What?” Lassiter pulled the phone away from his ear and let out a laugh.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You got the bedroom suite, you got the oils and the Wedgwood—now you want the plants? Why don’t you take the carpet too?” He flipped through the Pittsburgh PostGazette on the island, pulled out the sports and financial sections, and headed for the family room and his favorite recliner—his only recliner.

  “No, I don’t need the plants—I just don’t think you’ll want them anymore. Because they’re dead, that’s why. No, I watered them all right—you killed them. That exterminator you hired. That’s right, he tented the house and fumigated. The gas killed every living thing in the house, including your plants. What? Yes, you did—you bought a service contract. I saw the paperwork. Well, maybe that’s the problem, Margaret. You don’t remember where the money goes. Anyway, the plants are yours if you want them—help yourself. Uh-huh. Well, I’ve got to go. Talk to you later. Yeah. Bye.”