She is suffering from unstable angina that will shortly claim her life if nothing is done. She had her first myocardial infarction two years ago. As I am sure you are aware," he said venomously, "heart transplants are refused to anyone over the age of fifty-five. My wife's case is made worse by both a rare blood type-AB-negative-and the fact that she's an extremely small woman.
"I arranged a 'private' transplant surgeon some time ago. A man willing to help. He's out of Vancouver. He attempted to locate an unregistered donor heart but to date has been unsuccessful. He recommended I contact your associate. I understand you have found him a kidney from time to time. I must admit that I am not terribly comfortable turning to a veterinarian for a human heart. That is one of the reasons I wanted this meeting: to meet you." He paused as the crowd below erupted in cheers. "I make no promises," Tegg stated. "I have done my homework," the Asian said. "I would not be here had I not. As a veterinarian you have few equals."
"In a situation such as your wife's-one of life and death-time is the real enemy. Time forces certain decisions. I'm perfectly aware of that. How long does your wife have?" he asked, taking charge. But time wasn't Tegg's real enemy. Internally, a dialogue of a different sort began: Now that the opportunity had presented itself, how far would he go to erase a mistake he had made nearly twenty years earlier? Could he knowingly sacrifice a human being? "She will be strong enough to move in a few days."
"To Vancouver?"
"Yes. "Days?
"If I Put MY wife's life into your hands, I will expect results," he announced sternly. "if you can't help me, you must say so now. If it's a question of money … " Tegg waved his hand to stop the man. He did not want Maybeck to hear the amount being offered. A heart was worth no less than five-hundred thousand. If Wong Kei had indeed done his homework, as he claimed, then he knew that much. "I'm sure you'll be generous," Tegg said. The money accounted for only a part of his stake in this. There was more to be gained here. "Are you interested?"
"Extremely."
"May I count on you?"
Tegg glanced briefly at Maybeck. The man looked frightened. You didn't fail a man of Wong Kei's reputation. The mobster was telling him that much by just the look in his eye. He wanted a commitment.
Tegg answered, "I will have to do my homework, hmm? We'll have to see what's available." He pointed to a file folder on a bale of hay. "Her records?" Seize control: That's how you dealt with people like Wong Kei. The Asian passed him the folder. "We will begin looking for a donor immediately. How do I reach you?"
Wong Kei removed a business card, wrote a phone number on the back of it, and handed it to Tegg.
"you'll be hearing from me," Tegg said confidently.
They didn't shake hands. Wong Kei rose, crossed the darkened loft and disappeared down the stairs.
Maybeck sat in the shadow of a post. "We'll have to zoom the donor to get the heart. Am I right?" Maybeck asked.
Believing Maybeck was nervous about this, Tegg returned to a justification decided upon many months earlier: "If one human life is sacrificed to save many, then what harm is done? If not one, but four, five, six lives are saved, does this not balance the scales?"
Maybeck answered, "I just mean in terms of what we gotta do. We go zooming someone, this had better be big money."
Reading the file in the limited light, Tegg spoke without looking up, "Check the database for an AB-NEGATIVE. She'll have to be small: a hundred pounds tops. All you do is bring me the donor. You'll be rich after this. Fifty thousand for your part. That's what you want, isn't it?"
Through the cavity in the hayloft came the chorus of barking dogs. Among them, Tegg could hear Felix as clearly as if he alone were barking. Felix's superiority in the ring confirmed Tegg's brilliance. There would be more tests, of course; there always were. Life, it seemed, was one long test. Victory came not from a single win but from a series of accomplishments.
He stopped to take one last look at Donnie Maybeck, who still hadn't moved. Mention of that number had numbed him. just right.
As Tegg descended the stairs, he felt exhilarated. This was his chance to erase the slate, to prove something to himself, to give something back, He intended to make the most of it.
juggling his household chores and his role as Mr. Mom, Boldt visited two area blood banks Friday morning with his son Miles in tow. It was not until the second interview that he learned that the donation of whole blood was strictly voluntary. He had neglected to raise this question at the first location. Plasma centers paid, not blood banks.
Bloodlines Incorporated, Seattle's only plasma center, occupied the back half of the ground floor of a former First Avenue warehouse which had, years before, been converted into retail space, then a dry cleaner/laundromat. Boldt remembered them both. A uniform rental shop now occupied the half that fronted First Avenue. Mannequins dressed as nurses and security guards stood at inanimate mock attention in the display windows. The entrance to the plasma center was from the side street, up four cement steps, through a set of glass doors stenciled in blue with the name Bloodlines as well as a parent corporation, Lifeways Inc.-which in finer print turned out to be a subsidiary of The Atlanta Charter and Group Health Foundation. Boxes inside boxes, a reminder of Liz's banking world.
Reception held two orange-vinyl padded benches, each fronted by an oak-veneer coffee table stained with white rings and littered with thumb- worn, outdated copies of People Magazine. A pair of dusty-leafed silk ficus trees stood forlorn in opposing corners. The dirt bucket that held the closest one had been used as an ashtray. A large sign thanked you for not smoking. A Coke machine, its light burned out, hummed from across the expanse of institutional gray carpet. There were several doors leading from this room. The one most often used, Boldt saw-noticing the accumulated dirt around the doorknob-was to the left of reception, a high counter attended by a matronly woman wearing a nurse's uniform that had probably been rented from next door. Behind her were shelves filled with files, marked with colorful alphabetized index tabs. Her name tag read, Mildred Hatch. She looked tired, suspicious and unhappy. A couple of Gary Larson cartoons were taped up for everyone to see. "You been with us before?" she asked. She was apparently used to a regular clientele. Boldt's face didn't jog her memory. "I'd like to speak to someone in administration, if I may." Miles nearly got his hand on one of the cartoons. Boldt arranged himself to prevent another attempt. "Concerning?"
"One of your donors."
"Not possible. That's strictly confidential information. Can't help you.- She pointed out a paragraph on a photocopied flyer, a stack of which waited to the right of a computer terminal.
Boldt explained, "I'm not trying to find out who the person is.
I already know that. I just need a few questions answered.
Someone in administration, if You Please."
"I don't Please.
Not easily," she warned. She found a pen. "Your name?" He told her. "Your company?" Boldt said, "Seattle Police Department." It shocked her. She flushed. "Why didn't you say so?" she asked angrily. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to." "The baby threw me off," she explained. "You always lug her around?"
"Him," Boldt corrected.
She looked closely at Miles for the first time. Briefly, she softened. He knew in an instant that she didn't have any kids; and by her ring finger, no husband either. "Name of the donor?" she asked. "That's strictly confidential," Boldt said.
Her eyes flashed cold like green glass marbles. She had plucked her eyebrows thin and bleached the hair above her lip. A real beauty. She had missed with her eye shadow. "Cynthia Chapman," Boldt told her. "The donor's name is Cynthia Chapman." She consulted her terminal, striking the keyboard with blunt, stubby fingers. When she paused, there was something in her eyes that confirmed she had found the name. "She's in there?" Boldt asked, his heart racing.
The woman didn't answer. She picked up the phone and spoke too softly for Boldt to hear. By the time she started her third call he said, "Today, if possible."
A street person entered, a bum in his mid-fifties, although a quick glance and the clothes might have fooled you. Not quite pressed but not all that wrinkled. Not exactly clean-shaven but not disgusting by any means. It was his worn-heeled, unpolished shoes that gave him away. That and the pungent scent of a cheap after-shave which attempted to cover a week without a shower. Boldt watched as this man located the clipboard and ran the attached pen through the multiple-choice boxes with the practiced efficiency of a regular. The man knew the routine. He signed it, handed it to Miss Mildred Hatch, and headed for the Coke machine. Blood sugar, Boldt thought. They drink the pops to keep from getting light-headed. He seemed a man more accustomed to Muscatel. He headed over to the orange seats and a back issue of People.
Boldt wondered how they guaranteed a clean blood supply. Then he took one of the flyers and read, while Miss Hatch continued her two jobs simultaneously, the phone pasted in the crook of her neck, the bum's application form being studied boxby-box, answer-by-answer. The blood was thoroughly tested for drugs, alcohol and AIDS, the flyer explained, a process that took four to seven days. Donors were personally interviewed each time they gave blood. By signing the form you were verifying your personal activities, sexual preferences and your working knowledge of the condition of your blood. Anyone caught lying would be permanently refused acceptance by any branch of Bloodlines. The plasma was paid for only after it had cleared the testing labs. They paid fifteen dollars a pint. You could donate every forty-eight hours but no more than three times a week. It seemed impossible. "How can a person give blood three times a week?" he blurted out.
Without looking up from her terminal, Mildred Hatch answered automatically, "We don't take your blood, only the plasma. The red blood cells are returned to you during the process. The plasma is removed by a centrifuge. Your body replaces the plasma within twenty-four hours." She glanced at him then, as if to say, "Don't you know anything? Boldt folded up the flyer and slipped it in behind Miles, who chose that moment to become vocal. Boldt found himself bouncing around the room in an effort to settle the boy down, the waiting donor's attention fixed on him in a puzzled expression. Embarrassed, Boldt found the Men's Room and prepared Miles a bottle. Little murmurs of satisfaction, little slurps of joy.
Mildred Hatch signaled the man, who went through the more-often used door A, the source of the medicinal odors that permeated this place. Five minutes later, following two more extended phone calls, Miss Hatch gave Boldt the nod, permitting him to enter the inner sanctum which, as it turned out, was through door B-just to the left of the Coke machine. He helped steady his son's bottle and found his way down a narrow corridor flanked by several workers tending computer work stations. Was the database of their donors available to any one of them? Was one of these persons directly or indirectly involved in the harvests? With this the only plasma bank in the city and a policeman's knowledge that something connected the four runaways, Boldt experienced the electricity of anticipation. He didn't believe much in "sixth-sense" phenomena, but there was no denying the quick beating of his heart and the internal sense that there was evidence to be uncovered here.
He put questions to a Ms. Dundee, a two-seater black woman with no neck and huge breasts. Her hands were swollen like some corpses Boldt had seen, and she wheezed when she spoke. She guarded all her explanations, and smiled in the same contrived manner as a used-car salesman. Her face was so bloated he could barely see any eyes and so round and wide that she seemed more a caricature of herself. Miles didn't like her either. On first sight of her he started crying and became a pest. He pushed his bottle aside demanding Boldt's repeated attention. An ever cautious Ms. Dundee requested Boldt's police identification.
Boldt went through the ruse of pretending to search for it, realizing at that moment that events had led him to the inevitable. Would she call downtown and ask after him? Whether she did or not, Boldt now had no choice but to pay Lieutenant Phil Shoswitz a visit. Technically, he was impersonating a police officer. It seemed ludicrous to him, but he could be arrested for it. "Just answer me this, please," he said to the huge woman. "Is Cynthia Chapman in your database or not?" She nodded reluctantly. Boldt felt a flood of relief. Curiosity surged through him. So many questions to ask. Could the harvester have selected Cindy from this database? Had he kidnapped her, or was a child desperate enough to sell her blood also willing to sell a kidney? Were the names of Dixie's other three "victims" in this database as well? "Does Bloodlines keep an active database of all its previous donors?" he asked.
She viewed him suspiciously. Their eyes met. "This can all be done formally," he informed her. "Warrants, subpoenas. Attorneys. Press. Have you ever been to our city police department, Ms. Dundee?"
"There is a database of all our donors, yes."
Boldt withdrew his notebook from his coat pocket. "I have three other names I'd like to check," he said. He supplied her with the names of the three runaways-Julia Walker, Glenda Sherman and Peter Blumenthal-all of whom had been missing an organ at the time of death. Ms. Dundee entered these names into her computer terminal.
A moment later she said, "Nope. None of them."
"Damn it all!" he protested in disappointment. Then a thought occurred to him: "How far back do your records go?"
"A donor is kept active twelve months. The database is swept monthly."
"Swept?"
"Cleaned up. — "And what happens to those records?" he asked. "Our data processing department in our home office maintains a complete donor list. That's required by the federal government in case health problems arise in the blood supply." She added, as a way of showing off the care they took, "You can't donate without a social security number, a current address and a phone number."
Boldt, having witnessed the street person in the reception area, wondered how careful they were in obtaining accurate identification, but he didn't press the issue. "Can you check these three names with the home office?"
Another expression of disapproval. Boldt's patience was running thin. How much could he tell her? "This isn't about traffic tickets, Ms. Dundee. A little cooperation now could go a long way toward protecting your company's image later. This branch's image."
"Just what kind of trouble are you talking about?"
"Why don't you make that call for me, and let's see where it leads? Then maybe we'll discuss it."
A few minutes and a brief phone conversation later, she informed him, "They'll call back. It won't take long."
Boldt used the down time to press for more information. Miles had dozed off. "How many of your employees would have access to your donor database?" he asked. She hesitated, unsure how much to share with him. "A woman was kidnapped, Ms. Dundee. Kidnapping is a federal offense. The kidnapping may or may not be related to her association with Bloodlines. Am I getting through?"
She answered, "At this branch, about two dozen of us would have access to our client base, maybe more. Hard copies of the files are kept behind registration."
"And is registration manned constantly?"
"Constantly? No, I would doubt it. No."
"You said 'this' branch? How many are there?"
"In Seattle? just this one."
"And the others?"
"We're a regional corporation, Mr. … Boldt. Twenty-four branches in eleven states. I can give you the literature if you want. Or I could put you in touch with our home office in San Francisco."
"The database would contain a donor's blood type, would it not?"
"Blood groups. Of course."
"And personal information?"
"Meaning?"
d'you tell me. You mentioned home address. How about age?
Marital status?"
"All of those, yes."
"Accessible from any terminal?"
"No, the terminals deal with donors only by donor number. The personal information requires an access code. Only I have the access code, and only two terminals share the complete database: reception and mine. But there are the ha
rd copies, as I mentioned, though they are locked up in a vault at night. We don't take our situation lightly, Lieutenant." "Sergeant," he corrected. "No, I'm sure you don't."
"We take client confidentiality quite seriously." Miles stirred. Boldt asked, "What if I entered a particular blood type into the computer. Would it be able to give me back the names of all those donors with that particular blood type? Can it sort that way?"
"You should talk to our data processing about that."
He hated these kinds of answers. "Back to your employees. How many of them do you know well?"
"Depends what you mean. I know them all. I hired them. I don't know about how well I know them."
"How long have you been with Bloodlines?" he asked.
"Me? Going' on nine years now."
"And your employees? Have any of them been with you, say, two or three years?"
She considered this. "Three or four, maybe. I could check for you if I had the home office's permission."
"And that would be up to me to obtain," he reasoned. "Yes, it would."
Miles was awake and quickly losing control. Boldt resigned himself to leaving. He tried a long shot. "Of those three or four long-time employees, one of them has shown a particular interest in your computer system. Which one would that be? Maybe he or she helps you out with the system now and then."
She appeared both surprised and impressed by what he'd said.
"You never did show me any identification," she reminded. "No, I didn't." He paused. "Which employee?" he repeated, sensing she had the name on the tip of her tongue. "I need that name."
Her phone rang, sparing her from answering. When she hung up, she faced him with a dazed expression. "That was your call.
The three names you gave me? They're all on our list. They were all clients of this office. Seattle. Were they kidnapped, too?"
Boldt repeated softly but severely, "I need the name of that employee. The one who helps you with the computer."
Ms. Dundee nodded ever so slightly, muttered, "I hate computers." She picked up her pen and wrote out the name: Connie Chi.
The Angel Maker lbadm-2 Page 5