by CJ Lyons
"Well," Krakov cleared his throat. "All right."
"So what are these?" Drake raised the top sheet of the printout and dangled the list of mysterious drug names in front of the pharmacist. He motioned to the kid to join them.
"Those are the top twenty drugs rated for expense. Most of them are chemo and immune therapy agents, a few antimicrobials," the kid put in before Krakov could reply.
"So this top one, somaquin, how much does that cost?"
Krakov pursed his lips. "For a seventy kilo man, about twenty five hundred a dose. It's given four times a day."
Kwon and Drake exchanged glances. "That's more expensive than gold," she said.
The pharmacist nodded. "Yes, ounce for ounce, it is."
Drake thought about it. "If there was a way for someone to steal these drugs, the profit would be much greater than dealing in FX. And the safety margin much larger."
"I don't know," Kwon argued. "There's no black market for drugs like this."
"And the people who died?" Drake called Krakov's attention to the rest of the printout. "How many were there?"
"Last month we had thirty-one deaths here in the hospital."
Not bad for a place with ninety thousand ER visits a year and over five hundred patients at any one time. "So that's about usual?"
"Actually not," the kid said, almost bouncing in his eagerness. "I think that's what Dr. Hart was looking for. I compared it to the same month last year and there were only twenty-two deaths. Then I compared the numbers for the past four years. For some reason we've had a marked increase in our mortality rates since March of last year."
"Why is that?" Kwon asked, her eyes racing down the statistics. "Sicker patients, higher acuity?"
The kid shrugged. Krakov adjusted his tie and answered, "Who's to know for sure? Certainly foul play wasn't involved. These patients were for the most part regarded as terminal prior to their admissions. None of these deaths would have been unexpected."
Drake leaned over Kwon's shoulder and perused the list. "But almost all of these patients were on the most expensive drugs."
"End of life care is the greatest health care expense. More money is spent in the last few months of a patient's life than at any other time."
"And what does this code, MM, indicate?" Drake pointed to the notation at the side of a patient's number.
"That means they were on the MedMark plan. Their drugs were supplied by their HMO, not our hospital. It's a great cost savings. MedMark contracts with most of the major HMO's in the area. They buy in bulk and supply the drugs for patients all over the county."
Drake sat back while Kwon continued leafing through the data. "These drugs come prepackaged, ready to dispense?"
"Of course. Neil Sinderson owns the company. He personally delivers everything we need, twenty-four hours a day."
"So he had access to the pharmacy. Would anyone know if an IV bag marked somaquin actually contained the full concentration?"
Krakov sat up at that. "Neil Sinderson is a qualified pharmacist, he would never put a patient's life in jeopardy by diluting or substituting a medication."
Kwon looked up. "Did Sinderson know Fran Weaver? Know she was getting information for Dr. Hart?"
"Maybe, they were all together in the pharmacy the other morning. I don't know."
"He was here when Dr. Hart came in yesterday," the kid said. His eyes were wide with the possibility that he had been in the same room as a killer. "Do you think he might have killed Fran?"
"Sinderson buys one bag of somaquin," Drake mused, drumming his fingers against his thigh, liking how everything was finally fitting together. "Dilutes it and sells it to patients at different hospitals. Some of them get better, some don't. They're all end stage, so no one's surprised either way. But the HMO's pay him for four doses when he's really only bought one."
"Why dilute the drug at all?" Kwon asked. "He could be giving these patients water, and no one would be the wiser."
He grabbed the phone and dialed Miller's direct line. "It's Drake," he said. "We've got a lead. I need someone to pick up Neil Sinderson, he owns a company called MedMark."
"How'd you come up with this?" Miller asked.
"It was Hart's idea."
"Kwon said Hart thought there was more going on."
"Thanks to her, we may have just broke the case." Drake owed the good doctor. Big time. And wouldn't it be fun paying her back for her help? "I'm sending Kwon in with enough information to get us a warrant on Sinderson. Will you have Dimeo waiting? I'll be there in a little while, just have a few things to wrap up first."
He hung up. Kwon was already on her feet, the stack of papers in her arms. Drake grabbed his coat.
"Thank you for your help, Dr. Krakov," he told the pharmacist. "And you," he held his hand out to the over eager kid.
"Mike. You're welcome."
"Guess I owe Hart an apology," Kwon said as they walked through the lobby. "You know, I was kind of hoping she did do King--from everything I heard on the floor, he's a real piece of work. Would've been totally justifiable."
Drake looked down at her. Sometimes it was hard to know when Kwon was joking. He decided that she was now.
"I'll take care of the apology," he said with a smile. He spotted the hospital gift shop and stopped. "With any luck, they'll have Sinderson in custody when I get to the House."
"Don't be too long, or Miller will have everything wrapped up and the press conference done before you know it."
Drake couldn't care less about taking any credit for this collar. He just wanted to know Hart was safe and this nightmare was behind them. He entered the large, well-stocked gift store. What had his mother always told him? You could never go wrong with roses and chocolate.
Hopefully the two would work on Hart.
CHAPTER 61
Cassie surveyed her debris-strewn bedroom and began to reassemble her life. She was glad she'd told Kwon about Fran's theory that there was more going on at Three Rivers than the FX thefts. She still had a difficult time imagining Krakov stealing from the pharmacy, much less killing Fran.
Now that the police knew her theory, at least she didn't have to worry about Mike's safety. Or Drake's.
Surely they had arrested Krakov by now.
The snow was really coming down, she saw from her bedroom window. Almost a foot already lay on the ground. She looked around, the hamper was filled to capacity, best get some wash started.
Cassie went back downstairs in her bare feet, carrying the hamper.
He waited behind the kitchen door, listening to her moving out in the living room. Hurry up, he urged her. He was on a schedule here. She was the last loose end to take care of.
Why did everything have to be so complicated? Life had been so simple before Cassandra Hart had blundered her way into his perfect setup.
He reviewed his plan. The van was parked in the alley behind the house. With the snow covering his movements he should be able to get Hart out of here without being seen. He had his gun, duct tape, knife and, his ace in the hole, a syringe of ketamine, ready to go. The house in Uniontown was prepared. It was a perfect plan. The only drawback was that he couldn't shoot her, he had to remember that, only use the gun to threaten her.
All he needed now was Hart. He heard the padding of her barefeet on the hardwood floor. Come on, come get the treat I have waiting for you.
He smiled and tightened his grip on the gun as she began to move toward the kitchen.
Cassie pushed the door to the kitchen open, and a man's arm reached around her throat. Richard, was her first thought, as she flung the hamper at his face and aimed an elbow to his gut. Impossible, Richard was in a coma in the ICU.
She spun out of his grasp, pivoting into a fighting stance. Laundry was strewn everywhere, the hamper had bounced off him and landed in the dining room. It was Neil Sinderson, she saw with surprise. He was cradling his belly with one hand, the other pointed a gun at her.
A very large gun.
"On
your knees," he ordered her, his face contorted in pain and fury. She hesitated for a brief moment. "Unless you'd rather see if you can outrun a bullet," he continued. "Fran couldn't."
The hand with the gun raised, aimed directly at her face.
Nowhere to run, no way to disarm him without getting shot. She knelt on the cold tile of her kitchen floor.
She tensed herself to fight back when he approached her. Before she could do anything, he swung his gun high, bringing it down onto her head, and everything went black.
CHAPTER 62
The Mustang skidded part of the way down Gettysburg Street before finally coming to a stop in front of Hart's house. Drake struggled out of the car, arms laden with roses of every color and a large box of chocolates wrapped in gold foil. He climbed the steps to the porch, the snow spilling over the rims of his hightops. There, under shelter, he brushed snow from the bouquet and reached out to ring the doorbell.
He heard the bell echo through the house, but there were no answering footsteps. Damn it, he knew she was in there. He rang the bell again, toe tapping as he waited. He was nervous as a schoolboy on the way to the prom. And for some reason he couldn't stop grinning like an idiot.
Still no answer. He peered in through the large bay window. The fire was going in the living room. The place looked like a warzone. He wouldn't blame Hart for being furious with anyone carrying a badge after the wreck they'd made of her home. The lights were on, her coat was there. He moved back in front of the solid oak door and shuffled his packages in order to pound on it.
"Come on, Hart," he shouted. "I know you're probably mad at me for the mess the guys made, but I'm sorry. It's freezing out here. Willya let me in?"
The click of the lock sounded, and the door swung open. Drake rushed inside. "I've got good news--"
The muzzle of a gun touched the sensitive spot behind his ear. He saw Hart sprawled in the kitchen doorway, blood on her face. Felt his own face go cold as the blood rushed to his gut.
"Come right in, Detective," a man's voice prodded him forward. "Keep your arms where I can see them, please."
The door shut behind Drake. Idiot--hands full of junk while Hart lay there, maybe dying. Letting Sinderson get the drop on him. That's what he got for getting emotionally involved in a case. For forgetting all the rules.
"You might as well leave now, Sinderson." Drake's eyes never left Hart's still form. It was hard to believe his voice somehow escaped past the knot tightening his throat. "Get a head start."
"Ahh. So you did figure it out." Sinderson took Drake's Glock from its holster, then emptied his pockets, taking his cell phone, car keys, and wallet. He stepped forward to face Drake, a Smith and Wesson Chief's Special raised in one hand and a strip of duct tape in the other. "Or maybe you're bluffing. Either way, I don't see how it should alter my plans. Hold your arms still."
Drake complied, his hands still filled with the gifts. What was he going to do, whack the guy with the roses, hope he had an allergic reaction? Sinderson quickly wrapped the duct tape around his wrists.
"What did you do to her?" He finally found the courage to ask.
"Don't worry. She's not dead." Sinderson added a second layer of the silver tape and moved back out of striking range. "She gave me a bit of a fight, so I had to knock her out. Then I gave her a shot of ketamine to keep her quiet. Now that you're here I may have to improvise. I think it would be better for you to drive."
"Drive where?" Drake asked, his mind exploring the possibilities. He'd heard of ketamine, Special K it was called on the street. An anesthetic similar to LSD, mainly used by veterinarians. He had no idea how long it would take for the effects to wear off, but if they were in a car, maybe there would be a chance to take control from Sinderson.
It was worth a chance. Better than being executed here and now.
"Out to the country for a little," Sinderson smiled, "dinner theater. You and Hart are about to confront a very nasty drug dealer. Unfortunately, the methamphetamine lab in his basement will explode, and," he shook his head sadly, "I'm afraid neither of you will make it out alive."
CHAPTER 63
"Why'd you do it, Neil?" Drake navigated the Mustang through the slippery streets. "Why kill all those people?"
Sinderson had forced him to place Cassie's unconscious body on the floor of the front passenger seat, and then had climbed in, his legs straddling her, the gun never wavering from her head. Now they were on Route 51, heading south.
"I didn't mean to kill anyone," the pharmacist replied. "It's those damned HMO's."
"HMO's?"
"They wouldn't pay their bills. One of them owed me forty-one thousand dollars. How're you supposed to keep your business going if people don't pay their debts? But these HMO's--they're all about playing games with people's lives. They expect me to provide the drugs their patients need, dirt cheap and no waiting, but will they pay me what they owe? No way. I even complained to the State Insurance Board and guess what? They make the HMO pay a fine, comes out to less than one day's worth of interest the HMO earns off of my money that they're holding. But do I even get that? No. The fine goes to the State, not me. So I'm screwed anyway you look at it.
"Then came the shortage of amphotericin. Suddenly, I'm everybody's best friend. Nobody can get the drug, its price quadrupled, but if I can get it for their patients, the HMO's will pay cash up front. So I figured, what the hell? I gave them their precious amphotericin. And some of the patients die and some get better, but I'm finally getting paid."
"But it wasn't really amphotericin that you gave them, was it Neil?"
"No, it was an electrolyte solution. Amphotericin is used for severe fungal infections, usually in AIDS or cancer patients who are gonna die anyway. I figure these people are at a crossroads. Either God's gonna save them or not, it's in His hands, not mine. So you see, I didn't kill anyone."
"What about Fran Weaver?"
Silence. Drake cut his eyes over at Sinderson and saw the pharmacist frowning.
"I never wanted to hurt Fran," Sinderson said after a moment. "I liked her. She was the only one halfway decent to me. But I heard her and Cassie talking about a problem with drugs and going to the police. Then the next day Fran calls, asks me about some patients who died. So I told her I'd bring my records over, and we'd try to figure it out.
"I get there, and she's on the phone telling Cassie to come see her, there's more going on. I knew then I was gonna have to do something. I took Fran's computer disks and tried to torch her hard drive, but the damned thing wouldn't burn.
"Cassie was coming, and Fran wouldn't tell me how much she already knew. So I took Fran out the back way, loaded her in my van and drove to where I could watch for Cassie's car. But I was too late. Cassie was already there. I panicked. I couldn't let Fran go, and I didn't know how much Cassie knew. So I called Cassie and made her come back to her car. I figured if I got them both in her car, then there wouldn't be any evidence in my van--just in case something happened."
Drake's hands clenched on the steering wheel as he thought about what that "something" was.
"Cassie had to go get that stupid guard," Sinderson continued, now sounding angry at his intended victim. "What could I do? I couldn't drag Fran back to my van with them watching, and she'd seen me, so I had to take care of her. I didn't have any choice."
Drake forced himself to remain silent. Keep him talking, be sympathetic, get on his wavelength. He tried to remember all the interrogation techniques he'd seen Jimmy Dolan use so successfully. Establish a bond so that it will be harder for him to kill you.
Of course, that hadn't saved Fran Weaver.
"You put the drugs in Cassie's coffee."
"Yes. Fran had told me how dangerous that new combo was. You know, if Cassie'd just minded her own business, we wouldn't be in this mess," he told Drake. "In fact, we were supposed to be going out tomorrow night. We had a date, me and Cassie."
Guess that's not gonna happen. Drake clamped his lips together before he could sa
y something stupid. "So what's at this house?"
"I thought you guys, the police, I mean, will think Cassie and you tracked down the lab where the Double Cross was being made. You know how volatile those chemicals are, so I figure if there's an explosion, then the fire will take care of all the evidence. It'll give me time to get away."
Sinderson said this last with a note of pride as if he expected Drake to praise his ingenuity. Even though Drake was part of the "evidence" to be taken care of in the explosion.
"Yeah, they'd probably buy that," he said, "except for the fact that my team already knows all about you."
Sinderson smiled, his teeth white against the night. "Now you're trying to bluff me, Detective. Please, I'm not that stupid. Just pay attention to the road."
Drake did as he was told, furiously trying to think of a way past the man's wall of denial. Sinderson blamed his deeds on the HMO's, his victims, God's intervention--according to the man's logic, the only innocent party in all this was Sinderson himself. How to argue with that?
"Take Route 201 east," Sinderson ordered. Drake turned onto the narrow two-lane highway. The road was deserted, not even a snowplow or salt truck. The snow was coming down hard, a blanket of swirling white the Mustang's headlights couldn't penetrate. Drake geared down as they navigated several steep curves. He tried to divide his attention between the killer beside him and the treacherous driving conditions.
"You know, I could have been a doctor." Sinderson settled back in his seat, one hand absently stroking Hart's hair. "I was smart enough, had great grades. But I couldn't stand the thought of actually touching people, all their disgusting private places and body fluids. So I got a doctorate in pharmacology instead. I thought, a doctor is a doctor. I'd still be helping people."
"Didn't quite work out that way, did it?" The Mustang fishtailed on a curve and Drake had to fight to control it.
"Careful, Detective. Cassie isn't wearing a seat belt. And neither are you." Sinderson laughed. "Now wouldn't that be ironic if we crashed, and I was the only one to survive?"