Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "Nothing else?"

  The assistant manager thought a moment.

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Okay, thanks."

  "Here's the key, Lieutenant."

  ""I'll return it to you on my way out."

  "Thank you."

  Left alone, Bernstein paced the room in a circular pattern, hoping t o g et a feel for the surroundings. Then he closed his eyes and tried t o s tep into the good doctor's shoes. He tried to picture Dr. Brace Gre y c hecking into this hotel, taking the elevator up to the eleventh floor , unlocking the door, moving into this room.

  Max imagined Grey trying to force open the window and finding that i t w as nailed shut. So what did Grey do next? He must have decided to tak e a running start and leap through the glass. Max pictured him backing up , sprinting forward, hurling his body against the glass, shattering i t i nto small shards, slicing himself in the process. Not exactly a nea t s uicide. Very messy, in fact.

  And painful jumping through glass could not have been a lot of laughs.

  Something's wrong here, Twitch.

  He nodded to himself. Why here? Why a leap? Why jump through glass?

  It did not add up. The man was on the verge of a major medica l b reakthrough. He had been divorced for seven years already, had a kid h e d idn't see enough, loved to read, loved to work, was more or less a h omebody. According to Harvey Riker and several of Bruce's friends, Gre y r arely traveled and had only been out of the country three times hi s r ecent trip to Cancun, Mexico (taking a vacation before suicide?) an d t wice to Bangkok a few years back, where the clinic kept al l c onfidential blood and lab samples and test results. Max had learne d t hat Harvey and Bruce were paranoid about leaks, sabotage, governmen t i nterference, that kind of thing hence the decision to have a safehous e w ay out in Bangkok. Might have seemed like unsubstantiated paranoia a t t he time but now ... Bernstein stopped in mid-thought when he saw it.

  His gaze fastened on the left side of the wall by the door, his eye s w idening. He slowly crossed the room and examined the chain-lock, whic h h ung from the wall and door in two separate pieces. The steel chain wa s s napped in two. Max bent forward to get a closer look when a knock o n t he door made him jump.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  "Hector Rodriguez," a voice with a Hispanic accent called out.

  "Mr. Adams told me you wanted to see me."

  Bernstein opened the door.

  "Come in."

  The slight, dark-skinned man moved into the room. He wore a hote l u niform and a goatee that looked like it had been penciled onto hi s f ace.

  "Mr. Adams said you have some questions about the suicide?"

  "Hector, did anyone notice this before?"

  Hector squinted at the chain-lock.

  "I don't think so. No one's used this room since the suicide."

  "Are broken chain-locks a common occurrence in this place?"

  "No, sir, they're not. I'll have it replaced right away."

  Bernstein wondered if the lock had been broken when Grey first came int o t he room. Somehow he doubted it.

  "Do you remember Dr. Grey checking in?"

  "A little," Hector replied.

  "I mean, he jumped out the window a few minutes after he checked in. He c ouldn't have been in the room for more than five minutes."

  "What do you remember about him?"

  "He had very blond hair "

  "I don't mean looks-wise. I mean, how did he act? How was he behaving?"

  "Behaving?"

  "Yes. Did he seem depressed, for example?" "No, not de. I'd say nervou s w as more like it. He was sweating like a pig."

  "I see ..." Bernstein's hands flew forward.

  "Hold it a second.

  Did you just say Dr. Grey had blond hair?"

  "Very blond."

  Max's eyes squinted in bafflement. He opened his file and looked at a r ecent photograph of Bruce Grey. The man in the photograph had blac k h air.

  "Is this the man who checked in that night?"

  Hector stared at the picture for a good ten seconds.

  "I can't say for sure. He looked much different. He didn't have a bear d a nd like I said before, his hair was blond."

  Bernstein opened the file. He had tried to avoid the police photo s b ecause he was not fond of looking at splattered remains, but now h e k new that he would have to look. He thumbed through the papers until h e a rrived at the first glossy photograph.

  There was not enough face left to tell if there had ever been a beard , but even through the thick patches of blood, Max could see that the dea d m an definitely had blond hair. Like Hector said, very blond.

  Max closed both the file and his eyes. Why the sudden appearance change?

  A new hair-do and quick shave for a leap through a window seemed a ta d b izarre, to say the least.

  "Tell me what Dr. Grey said to you when he checked in."

  Hector looked up, trying to remember.

  "Nothing special. He just said he wanted a room. I asked, "How man y n ights, sir?" and he said, "One."

  "

  "That's it?" "I said, Will that be cash or charge? and he said, "Cash."

  Then I gave him the key and he took off."

  "Nothing else?"

  "Nothing."

  "You're sure." He thought a moment.

  "That was it."

  "He didn't have any special requests for his room?"

  "No."

  "He didn't ask for the room to be on a certain floor?"

  Hector shook his head.

  "I don't even think he looked at the number on the key until he steppe d i nto the elevator."

  Cold fear slid down Bernstein's chest. His finger went back into hi s m outh, but there was nothing left to chew except skin.

  This whole thing was getting messy and complicated, too messy and to o c omplicated. Bruce Grey had not asked for a special room.

  He had not asked for a room with a view or a room near an elevator o r o ne of those new no-smoking rooms. He had not asked for a room with a k ing-sized bed or a queen-sized bed or two separate beds. And most o f a ll Bruce Grey had not asked for a room on a high floor. For all h e k new, he could have gotten a room on the ground level.

  "Is there anything else, Lieutenant?"

  "No, that's it for now."

  Hector Rodriguez turned to leave and then stopped.

  "I saw your name in the Herald, Lieutenant. I hope you catch that whack o b efore he slices off somebody else's nuts."

  Max's head shot up.

  "What did you say?"

  "Cutting off a man's balls. Pure loco, huh, Lieutenant?"

  "Where did you hear that?"

  "The evening edition. Front cover. What kind of a man does somethin g l ike that? City's full of sickos."

  Once again, Max rubbed his face and eyes with his right hand.

  The press. The mayor. The gay activists.

  Help.

  Chapter 8.

  The ringing of the telephone jerked George out of his sleep. He a woke, as he always did, quickly, alert. He picked up the receive r b efore the second ring.

  "Hello."

  "Did you read this morning's paper?"

  George sat up and checked his watch. The voice on the other end sounde d d ifferent this time still agitated and strained, but now there wa s s omething else. More fear. Maybe even anger.

  "No," George replied.

  "Should I have?"

  "According to the Herald, the Gay Slasher tortured and castrated Scot t t rian before killing him."

  "You sound upset."

  "They were supposed to die quickly, damn it! I never said anything abou t t orture or mutilation."

  "If you're unhappy with my work " "Unhappy? You're a lunatic. I though t i was dealing with a professional, but you're a goddamn psychopath."

  "I was following your orders," George said.

  "The mutilation just speeds up the end result. It makes sens e f inancially."

&nb
sp; There was stunned silence on the other end.

  George continued, "I assume you also read that everything went smoothl y w ith Jenkins' murder. I dumped the body just where you wanted it."

  "Did ... did you disfigure him?"

  "He died from the first stab wound. The same with Whitherson."

  "You're sure?"

  "Don't make me repeat myself."

  "Then just promise me you won't hurt any of the others." George almos t s miled.

  "I am merely the executioner, the one who pulls the switch or drops th e g as pellet. But you ... you are the judge and jury. You are the one wh o o rdered their deaths." "No," the voice said slowly, "I am not."

  Again there was silence. Then the voice said, "Promise me, George.

  Promise me that no others will be needlessly tortured."

  George paused.

  "Okay. But I assure you it was for the best."

  There was a long release of breath and then the voice said, "Th e s ituation is different now. You'll have to be more careful.

  The police are going to start watching."

  "Watching what?" George asked.

  "The police force can't guard every faggot in Manhattan ... unles s t here's something else."

  "Something else? I don't understand." "I think you do," George said.

  "Listen, I don't care who you are. I don't care why you want thes e p eople killed. It's not my concern. But I need to know what the polic e a re thinking. I need to know what the real connection is between th e v ictims so that I can prepare properly. Otherwise, mistakes can b e m ade."

  Silence.

  "Can I assume," George continued, "that these men have more in commo n t han being gay?"

  "They're all patients at an AIDS clinic," the voice said.

  "So that explains why you told me to wear the mask and gloves."

  "Yes."

  "And Dr. Grey worked at this clinic?"

  "Yes."

  "So let me get this straight: Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were al l a IDS patients at a clinic operated by Bruce Grey?"

  "Yes."

  "And the police know this?"

  "They know most of it. The rest they'll figure out."

  "So they may look into Grey's suicide again."

  "They might." George thought for a moment.

  "I have an idea, but it'll cost you."

  "I'm listening."

  "I'll kill a couple of random faggots "

  "No!"

  "Hear me out. I kill a couple of faggots who don't have AIDS or aren't b eing treated at this clinic. It'll throw the cops off the track. Mak e i t look even more like the work of a psychotic gay hate ?"

  "No!"

  "Then I'll change the way I kill the next few.

  "I'll make it look like an accident or better yet, a suicide. If thes e g uys have AIDS and are on death row anyway, a suicide might not b e l ooked into too closely."

  "The police will be looking for something like that. You'll never ge t a way with it."

  "Worth a try."

  "No. I want you to use the same methods unless I say otherwise."

  George shrugged.

  "Your money."

  "And remember the only people who are to be put to death are the ones I s ay." "Not put to death," George said.

  "Excuse me?"

  "They're not being 'put to death," George continued.

  "They're being murdered." "Do you eat here every day?" Sara asked.

  "No," Eric Blake replied. They both slid their trays along the hospita l c afeteria girders. The room was packed with doctors, nurses, la b t echnicians everyone dressed in white coats or blue hospital scrubs wit h t he words "Property of Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center Removal From Premise s p rohibited" emblazoned across the chest. Everyone looked exhausted, th e m en unshaven, the women baggy-eyed. Working 40-hour shifts can do tha t t o a person.

  Sara looked down at the hospital pizza and frowned.

  "Eric?"

  "Yes?"

  "Is mozzarella cheese supposed to be green?"

  "It's one of the better items on the menu."

  "I think I'll pass."

  "I can order in Chinese, if you'd like."

  She shook her head.

  "Michael would kill me. He hasn't eaten Chinese in two days and he's a lready suffering withdrawal pains."

  "He always did love Chinese food."

  They found a table toward the back where the room was relatively quiet.

  "How's Michael feeling?" Eric asked.

  "I haven't had a chance to check in on him today."

  "About the same," Sara replied.

  "He's taking a nap right now.

  I don't know, Eric ... he just doesn't look right to me."

  "He'll be fine." Eric carefully opened his container of milk.

  While everyone around them drank directly from the carton, Eric poure d t he milk into a glass and then lifted it to his lips.

  "It's kind of spooky seeing Michael here though. Like a bad deja vu."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It reminds me of when we were kids," he said.

  "Of when Michael's stepfather beat him."

  Sara winced.

  "He doesn't talk about it much."

  "I know. I don't blame him. It was a bad time, Sara, best forgotten."

  She nodded slowly, picturing Michael as a helpless child in a hospita l b ed. A flush of anguish and anger rose in her. Her mind traveled bac k f ive years to the first time she had learned about Michael's past, a fe w h ours before she met him for the first time.

  "I want you to interview Michael Silverman," Larry Simmons, managin g e ditor of the New York Herald, told her.

  "The basketball player?" she asked.

  "Yup."

  "Why? Basketball is hardly my area of expertise."

  "I don't want a story about basketball. I want a story about Michae l s ilverman, the man. Look, the NBA finals are on now and everyone i s a pplauding Silverman's skill on the court. But where did he come from?

  What made this Jewish kid from New Jersey become such a fantasti c a thlete?"

  "Hasn't this story been done before?"

  "Others have tried. Others have even dug up some of Silverman's tragi c p ast."

  "Tragic past?"

  "It's all in the fik. But I don't want you to look at it right away.

  I want you to start by going directly to Silverman."

  "So why hasn't the story been done before?"

  "Because Silverman won't talk to the press about his personal life.

  Ask him about a jump shot or a quick move to the basket and he'll be a s p oetic as Proust. But ask him about his pre-college years and forge t i t."

  "So what do you want me to do?"

  "Get him to talk. Find out what he's all about. Be honest and open wit h h im. If that doesn't work, be sneaky."

  She laughed.

  "And if all else fails, I'll hit him over the head with my cane."

  "Now you're talking."

  A half hour later she called Michael's apartment in the city.

  "Mr. Silverman?"

  "Yes."

  "My name is Sara Lowell. I'm a reporter for the New York Herald." "Oh y es," Michael said, "I've read some of your work, Miss. Lowell.

  I liked the expose you did on the housing commissioner last month.

  Powerful stuff."

  "Thank you."

  "Now what can I do for you?"

  Sara was somewhat taken aback. She had been prepared for an ogre, a ma n m ore than a little wary and suspicious of the press. But this man wa s v ery polite. Gracious even.

  "I'd like very much to do an interview with you at your convenience."

  "I see. Have you become a sportswriter, Miss. Lowell?"

  "Not really."

  "Then what sort of story do you plan on doing?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Just a general piece on Michael Silverman off th e c ourt. Your interests, your hobbies. Let the fans get to know
you a l ittle better."

  "Sounds like pretty dull stuff." "I don't think so," Sara said.

  "From what I hear, you're a fairly interesting person."

  "So," Michael continued, "all you want to do is a light piece on how I l ike to go to the theater, collect rabbits, garden in my underwear , stuff like that?"

  "Sort of."

  "I assume, Miss. Lowell, that you already know that I do not gran t i nterviews on my personal life."

  "I've heard something to that effect, yes."

  "And you won't ask any personal questions? Nothing about my love life o r m y childhood?"

  "You can always say, "No comment."

  " Michael chuckled.

  "You forget, Miss. Lowell, I read your column.

  You don't do fluff. You probe and penetrate and usually go for th e k ill."

  "Mr. Silverman, this article is nothing like " "Explain something t o m e," he .

  "Why can't you reporters understand that my personal life is none o f a nyone's business?

  Why can't you just report what happens on the basketball court and leav e m e alone?"

  "The public wants to know more."

  "Frankly speaking, I don't really give a shit what the public wants.

  How come I never see a reporter's life story smeared across th e h eadlines?

  How come I never see a story on how you lost your virginity, Miss.

  Lowell, or about that wild college weekend where you had too much t o d rink?"

  "No one wants to read about me, Mr. Silverman."

  "Bullshit. No one wants to read about me either unless I'm scorin g b askets."

  "Not true."

  "Listen, I'm not in the mood to be this week's tabloid story, okay?

  Just leave me alone. And why do you have to play all the devious hea d g ames with me? Why couldn't have you been honest enough to admit wha t y ou were really after?"

  She hesitated before answering.

  "Because you would have probably hung up on me."

  "Very prophetic of you. Good-bye, Miss. Lowell."

  She heard him slam down the receiver.

  "Eat shit, Mr. Silverman."

  So much for his being a nice, easy-going fellow. She stood and heade d f or the door.

  "Where you going?" Larry Simmons called to her.

  "To Silverman's apartment."

  "He agreed to the interview?"

  "No. He hung up on me."

  "So?"

  "So sneaky didn't work. Maybe bouncing my cane off his skull will prov e m ore persuasive." "Before you go," Larry said, "I think you should rea d h is file after all." He handed her a manila envelope.