by Tim Downs
Sarah looked at him. “What happens now?”
“Now? That’s easy—I turn you over to the police, along with the DNA evidence that puts you in Leo’s room the night he was murdered. Then you start squealing like a pig—you start naming names, you try to cut the best deal you can for yourself. Santangelo’s already dead—you can blame most of it on him: a deranged federal agent, an ex–Hostage Rescue Team member who went over the edge—he blackmailed you, he threatened to kill you if you didn’t help. That’s good, Sarah. That just might play—except for one little problem: me. I’ll be right there, telling them the rest of the story, making sure you get everything you deserve.”
“I don’t blame you for hating me,” Sarah said.
Nick glared at her; his eyes were more than intense; they were like two great coal drills, piercing her black walls. “Last night—while you were sitting there—I thought about walking across the room and killing you myself. I thought about it, Sarah. I don’t mean the idea just passed through my head—I mean I actually considered it.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“It’s too quick,” he said. “Eight hundred degrees—that’s the temperature inside that mountain, did you know that? And it isn’t fire exactly—it’s more like a barbecue pit, that’s what it is. I wonder: Is your body consumed immediately, or do you sort of cook first? How long can someone survive in that kind of heat—five seconds? Ten? Santangelo seemed to scream for an awfully long time—but pain is like that, isn’t it? It seems to last—”
“Stop it!” Sarah buried her face in her hands and began to weep again.
“Might as well,” Nick said. “You’ll be thinking about it for the rest of your life anyway—and I hope it’s a long life, Sarah, I really do. When the DA pushes for the death penalty, I plan to be there, pleading for leniency. Have pity on the poor girl, make it a life sentence instead—make it two—one for Riley and one for Leo. And I plan to visit you in prison, Sarah. I want to see you as the years go by. I want to watch you age way before your time; I want to see the way regret eats away at you—I guess that’s what they mean when they give you two life sentences.”
Sarah shuddered. “I can’t do that, Nick. I can’t.”
“You’d be surprised what people can do—when they have to.”
Sarah looked at him. “What about all the others—what about all the innocent people? Are you willing to destroy all of them too?”
“What innocent people?”
“Come on, Nick, think about it. Zohar is the chief executive officer of COPE—a legitimate organ procurement organization. They’re the people who find organs for everybody else—the honest way. They’re the ones who might have found Riley’s kidneys for her, if only the odds had been better. COPE didn’t go bad, Zohar did—he’s like one of the execs at Enron. Are you planning to punish the whole organization because of what one man decided to do?”
“I guess it can’t be helped.”
“Can’t it? COPE depends on public confidence, Nick. They need people to donate organs, they need people to trust them. They have to fight for every donation, because they’re dealing with people’s fears. If this whole thing comes out in the open, the loss of confidence will set their work back ten years—not just here, but everywhere. And you know who will be hurt the most? People like Riley; people on waiting lists, praying that other people won’t lose faith.”
“You picked a fine time to start thinking about all this,” Nick said.
“I’ve been thinking about it all night. What about PharmaGen, Nick? It’s a good company—if it survives. Personalized medicines, wonder drugs, new vaccines—I like that vision. But Truett took a shortcut; he needed cash. Truett made a mistake, not the whole company—but when this leaks out, the company is finished. What does that do to the future of personalized medicine? What does it do to other companies like PharmaGen, companies with their own population studies in other parts of the country?
“And what about the coroner’s office? Lassiter deserves what he gets—but what about the rest of them? These are Riley’s people, Nick—she was one of them. What will happen to their budget, their staffing, their fellowship program?”
“It’s like a bomb,” Nick said. “Innocent bystanders will get hurt.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “But whose fault is that?”
“It’s my fault!” Sarah said. “I’m not blaming you for anything.”
She paused.
“I’m just asking you to let me do something about it. Nick, I have a favor to ask.”
My friends, I’d like to propose a toast.”
Julian Zohar lifted his champagne flute; it sparkled gold and white against the nighttime sky. It was a perfect summer evening at the Point. Every dot of light from the Pittsburgh skyline stood out with crystalline clarity, perfectly reflected in the glassy water of the Allegheny River. The PharmaGen yacht lay floating at anchor directly in front of PNC Park. The Pirates were away on a three-day road trip, and the stadium lay black and cavernous before them. The hour was late, and there were no other boats in sight; they were alone on the river, minus the clinging barnacles that tended to collect around their splendid hull.
“To a new day,” Zohar said, “and to ever more distant horizons.”
They drank together.
“I love this boat,” Kaplan said. “I’ve got to get one of these.”
“Well, park it somewhere else,” Truett said. “It won’t look so good if we all pull up side by side in matching yachts. Besides—these are the hottest wheels in town. Go find your own strip to cruise.” They both laughed.
“Where is Santangelo?” Lassiter asked. “What about the—you know—the problem? I want to hear the full report.”
“Now, Nathan, calm yourself,” Zohar said. “Angel is below deck right now, changing; she assures me that Mr. Santangelo will be joining us shortly. Her preliminary report informs me that everything went according to our expectations. I’m sure she will be more than happy to give us a complete account of her activities presently.”
Just then the hatch swung open, and Sarah stepped up onto the deck. She was dressed in red, dressed as she had often been in Santangelo’s company—except for the auburn wig. Tonight her blond hair drifted out behind her in the evening breeze.
All the men stared, but Kaplan was the only one to whistle. He held up one hand to block his view of her face. “This part I know,” he said, “but I’m having a little trouble with the hair.”
“Give it a chance,” Sarah smiled, walking over to him. “You may learn to like it.” She winked, then gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
“Whoa,” Kaplan said. “Who lit your fire?”
“I do love red,” Truett said, admiring her.
She turned to him and ran a finger down the buttons of his shirt. “I know—I wore it just for you.” Now she slinked across the deck to where Zohar and Lassiter were standing. “Nathan.” She nodded. “You’re looking good tonight—as always.” She turned to Zohar and offered her hand; he took it, kissed it, and smiled. She gave him a wink and reached for the ice chest. She lifted a champagne flute and drained it.
Now she turned, and every eye was on her.
“Do I have everyone’s attention?” she smiled. “I do hope so—I’d hate to think I’m losing my touch. Dr. Zohar has asked me to make a report, and that’s just what I’d like to do—only I’d like to expand it a bit. I get so tired of just business all the time, don’t you? I think a moment like this calls for a few personal comments. I do hope you’ll all listen. I promise not to bore you.”
The men settled back against the railings and grinned.
“I want to thank you,” she began, “each and every one of you. This last year has been—how can I describe it? An education. I have learned something from each of you, something of inestimable worth, and I want each of you to know what it is.
“Nathan, from you I’ve learned that no matter how much you have in life, you can always want more. I’ve learned
that greed is really not about money or things at all—it’s about desire. It’s the wanting, not the having. You long for something, you think you’ll die if you don’t get it—but then when you do, you don’t want it anymore. The desire is gone, and that’s all you really wanted in the first place. The things themselves are insignificant, almost arbitrary—they’re just hooks to hang our passions on, aren’t they?”
Lassiter glanced uncomfortably at the other men.
“Nathan, you’ve taught me that it’s worth sacrificing everything in pursuit of your desires: your friendships, your family, your reputation, your professionalism. I learned all that from you, Nathan, and I’m a different person because of it.”
She held up her glass to him—and then she turned to Kaplan.
“And, Jack—what can I say? From you I’ve learned that it’s possible to treat human beings as if they were inanimate objects—even in a caring profession! Your level of objectivity is astonishing, Jack—you really are above it all, aren’t you? I’ve watched you cut into a man who’s been dead for less than three minutes as though he were a med-school cadaver—that’s really remarkable. That’s what’s allowed you to become what you are; that’s what’s permitted you to reach your incredible level of efficiency. You never let yourself get bogged down in the distractions of compassion or empathy or pity.” She raised her glass again. “Salud, Jack. Because of you I know what I want, and I know how to get there—and nothing is going to stop me.”
Now she looked at Truett.
“Tucker Truett—if ever there was a poster boy for success, it’s you. You have so many remarkable gifts: intelligence, vision, business savvy, and let’s not forget the package—women do love a nicely wrapped package, don’t they? When you take all those gifts and pack them in tight together, it creates a kind of critical mass—an energy source, a heat.” She held out one hand and wiggled her fingers. “I can feel it all the way over here. You don’t lead people, you compel them. You’re like … you’re like this boat.” She stepped into the cockpit, placing her hands on the wheel as if she were steering. “You’re big and you’re fast, and wherever you go you draw people into your wake.”
She turned and looked at him. Truett smiled back and bowed slightly.
“What I’ve learned from you, Tucker, is that with the potential for success comes the need for success. You’re like that big crystal ball in Times Square on New Year’s Eve; everybody knows it will drop, everybody waits for it to drop—if it didn’t, people would be so disappointed. That’s you, Tucker. You’re the crystal ball—so bright and so shiny and so ready to drop. You just have to make good, don’t you? Because if you don’t, there will be shame—and shame just doesn’t fit in that perfect package of yours.”
She raised her glass in tribute.
“To you, Tucker. From you I’ve learned that success is not an option.”
Finally, she turned to Zohar. “And how could I forget you? Julian Zohar, our mentor, our founding father—from you I’ve learned so many things. Where do I even begin? I think most of all, I’ve learned from you that ethics is not about right and wrong or good and evil—it’s just a way of talking. It’s a way of getting around good and evil, really, a way of getting what you want. I’ve learned that almost anything can be justified in the name of some greater good—and the greater good itself never has to be justified at all. You’re a kind of shaman, Julian; you give moral force to people. You give confidence, you give permission—to do right or wrong. But then, there’s no such thing as wrong, is there?
“From you I’ve learned that you should always pursue the greatest good for the greatest number of people. And if someone is not a part of that ‘greatest number,’ well, he’s just out of luck—because good can’t slow down for individual people. You’ve given me the greatest gift of all, Julian: you’ve given me power—moral power—the kind that only comes once you abandon all sense of morality.”
“Now, hold on,” Kaplan said. “What about you, Angel? Let’s not leave you out of this little roast of yours.”
“You’re right, Jack. That would be a terrible oversight—because I’ve learned more from myself than I have from any of you. I’ve learned that when you love something desperately—when you love something more than anything else—you’d better be careful what it is. I’ve learned that there’s a kind of ‘order of events’ in the universe. If you put the right thing first, everything falls in line; if you get it wrong, everything falls apart.”
She looked at each of them; no one was smiling now.
“Oh, please don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not putting myself above any of you. In fact, that’s the lesson I’ve learned most of all—I belong here. We really are a family, aren’t we? We really belong together, and I have never felt more a part of this group than I do tonight.”
The men began to relax.
“And now,” Zohar said, “if we can get on with the—”
“Wait!” Sarah said. “I’ve forgotten someone—my very own partner, Cruz Santangelo. I have so much to thank him for. None of us appreciates him enough, you know—he’s such a multitalented man. From him, I’ve learned how to kill—something every girl needs to know. I’ve learned how to do it quickly and quietly and with complete surprise; it’s amazing what you can learn, spending a year in the company of a trained assassin.
“For example: I’ve learned that boats smaller than forty feet in length usually run on gasoline. Not this one; big yachts like this run on diesel fuel because it’s less dangerous—because diesel fuel doesn’t explode, it just burns. But big yachts like this, ones that carry Jet Skis or smaller boats on board, they often carry gasoline tanks—like this one does.”
The men began to straighten. They looked at one another.
“The tanks are made of aluminum. They’re nice and soft; you can punch right through them with an ice pick, and you can shove a little hose inside and let all the gasoline drain down into the bilge—right down into the engine room. Then all you have to do is remove one of the glow plugs, and leave it hanging in the air …”
Kaplan and Truett started toward her. Zohar stood frozen. Lassiter looked down at the river, contemplating the distance. But Sarah looked into the sky with a look of perfect peace.
“Forgive me, Riley.”
She reached down to the console and turned the ignition key.
A hundred yards upriver, Nick Polchak sat in a small rowboat, watching the meeting on the PharmaGen yacht. He saw four men on the aft deck, leaning against the railings, transfixed. He saw a figure dressed in brilliant red standing in the cockpit, the object of everyone’s attention. He watched her lift her face to the heavens … and then he saw a massive fireball erupt in the water, sending pieces of fiberglass and steel as far as the opposite bank. The blast shattered the stillness of the night, echoing off the buildings and the hills of Mount Washington beyond and sending a rippling shock wave in circles out across the river. A moment later, there was nothing left but a burning pool of diesel oil.
Nick sat motionless in the boat, his mind recording the event but his emotions untouched by it. The lenses of his glasses flashed from black to blinding white to orange and then back to black again.
MEA CULPA
As a writer of fiction, my job is to tell lies—but to use enough truth to make the story sound as though it just might happen. All of the characters in Chop Shop are fictional, though most of the settings are very real. There is a Pittsburgh, a Tarentum, and an Allegheny River. PharmaGen does not exist; the Fox Chapel Yacht Club does. The coal-mining town of Mencken does not exist; the Duquesne Incline does. In this kind of blending of fact and fiction, there’s a chance that some very real person or group might inadvertently fall under the shadow of its fictional counterpart. This is potentially the case with two very fine organizations, and I wish to clarify any misconceptions here.
The Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s Office—The Allegheny County Coroner’s Office appears in my story. In the real world, the Al
legheny County Medical Examiner’s Office is one of the top forensic pathology facilities in the United States. The professionalism and skill of their staff are known and respected nationwide, and I wish to thank them for their forbearance and good humor toward my fictional tale. You can learn more about the real Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s Office by visiting their informative Web site at www.alleghenycounty.us/ me.
The Center for Organ Recovery and Education (CORE)—My story involves a fictional organ procurement organization based in Pittsburgh. In fact, there is an organ procurement organization based in Pittsburgh—the Center for Organ Recovery and Education. Since its inception twenty-five years ago, CORE has helped to provide more than 300,000 organs, tissues, and corneas for transplantation. They have saved innumerable lives and done immeasurable good, and I in no way wish to cast doubt or generate fear about legitimate organ donation. I have requested a little red heart to be placed on my driver’s license, and I encourage my readers to do the same. You can learn more about organ donation and procurement by visiting CORE’s Web site at www.core.org. Be sure to visit the link titled “Donation & Transplantation: Myths About Donation.”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Shoo Fly Pie Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15