Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "Then what went wrong?" Sara asked.

  "Since Sanders got his way, why did he have Michael kidnapped?"

  "That's just it, honey, we don't know. Markey and Sanders both swea r t hey have nothing to do with the Gay Slasher or Michael's kidnapping.

  Sanders says he's as unhappy with the development as we are."

  "And you believe him?"

  "I don't know what to believe. I was just in Washington, screaming a t h im like crazy. He continues to swear he had nothing to do with it. I n f act he says that the Gay Slasher and all the publicity has actuall y s trengthened the clinic, not hurt it."

  Sara shook her head.

  "But don't you see? Without the cured patients, there is no proof tha t s RI works. By killing the cured patients, the Gay Slasher is doing you r w ork for you."

  Neither man responded.

  "Are you going to expose the conspiracy?" Sara asked.

  "If only it were that simple," John replied.

  "It is that simple," Sara said coldly.

  "All you have to do is stop worrying about yourselves." "Sara," Joh n c ontinued, "I know you are angry with me. I know that a part of you eve n h ates me right now. I would feel the same way if the situation wa s r eversed. Believe me, I have learned my lesson. I don't care any mor e a bout my personal reputation, you have to believe that.

  But if I go out now and tell the world what I have done, it coul d d estroy the Cancer Center.

  Charities cannot survive scandals nowadays, you know that. You did a s tory on that house for teenage runaways a fine institution destroyed b y o ne man's indiscretions. I'm sorry, Sara. I cannot risk the Cance r c enter. It's too important."

  Sara just stared.

  "Then you are not going to do anything, are you, Father?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "You didn't have to." Sara grabbed her cane and stood. The silen t c assandra stood with her.

  "I'm going to do whatever it takes to find the truth behind this whol e m ess. And I don't give a shit if I have to drag down my own father, hal f o f Washington, and the damn Cancer Center to do it."

  She stormed out of the room.

  Jennifer picked up the phone on the third ring.

  "Hello?"

  "Hello, Jen."

  She recognized Harvey's voice instantly.

  "Hello, Harvey. How are you?"

  "Been better."

  "I can imagine. How is Sara holding up?"

  "As well as can be expected, I guess."

  "Give her my love, will you?"

  "Sure. How is everything out in Los Angeles?"

  "Good."

  "You're doing okay?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  Pause.

  Harvey cleared his throat.

  "Listen, Jen, I hate to rush you off the line "

  "I have a package from Bruce," she interrupted.

  "What?"

  "On the day he died," she continued slowly, "Bruce sent himself a p ackage to his post office box at the main branch of Los Angeles' pos t o ffice."

  "Did you open it?"

  "Yes. There were medical files in it."

  "How many?"

  "Six."

  "Do you have them right there?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you read me the names?"

  She picked up the files.

  "Krutzer, Leander, Martino, Singer, Trian, and Whitherson."

  Another pause. Then a whisper: "Jesus."

  "Harvey, are you all right?" "I'm fine," he said, but his voice stil l s ounded dazed.

  "Was there anything else in the package?"

  "Blood samples. Two vials for each patient, labeled A and B."

  Harvey thought for a moment.

  "Listen to me very carefully, Jen, okay? I need you to send me th e e ntire package here by overnight mail."

  "Does this have something to do with Michael's kidnapping?"

  "I can't say for sure until I see the entire package. Jen, you have t o s end me that package right away, okay?"

  "It's after six. The post office is closed."

  Harvey looked at the clock, realized the hour, and cursed himself ou t l oud.

  "I tried to reach you earlier," Jennifer added.

  "I know, it's my fault."

  "I can send it to you special delivery first thing tomorrow morning."

  "Thanks, Jen."

  "Will you let me know what happens?" "Sure." He paused.

  "I hope you're happy, Jen. I still care about you, you know."

  "I care about you too."

  Jennifer hung up the phone, afraid of what more might be said. Then sh e p icked up the white envelope marked "Susan" and stared at it for a very long time.

  Chapter 20.

  Sara's mind churned in confusion and anger as her fingers dialed the 83rd Street Precinct.

  "Police department."

  "Lieutenant Max Bernstein, please?"

  "Yeah, hold on a sec."

  Her father. Stephen Jenkins. Raymond Markey. And Ernest Sanders. A n u nholy alliance who had done what exactly?

  She could not say for sure. And what should she do now?

  How should she follow it up? She was not sure. She knew that she neede d t o do something, anything, before she lost her mind completely.

  Max would know. He would have a good idea what their next step shoul d b e.

  Sara had considered confronting Sanders and Markey head on, but in th e e nd she had decided against it. If the sons of bitches had denied an y w rongdoing to their own co-conspirators, they were certainly not goin g t o tell her anything new more likely, she would either warn them o f i mpending danger, or worse, scare them into doing somethin g c atastrophic.

  The sergeant manning the desk came back on the line.

  "Sorry, lady," he said.

  "Lieutenant Bernstein is not around." "Can you page him for me?" Sar a a sked.

  "It's important."

  "No can do. He is on official police business and cannot be reached."

  Cannot be reached?

  "Do you know where he is?"

  "Can't say, ma'am. I'm not at liberty to discuss his whereabouts."

  "But I need to reach him."

  "That's just not possible right now. If you would like to leave a m essage, I am sure Lieutenant Bernstein will be calling in."

  Sara scratched her head. Where could Max be that he could not be page d o n his beeper?

  "Please ask him to call Sara Lowell immediately. Tell him it's i mportant. If I am not at home he can reach me at the clinic."

  "At the clinic. Okay, Ms. Lowell, will do."

  "Thank you." She replaced the receiver and considered her next move.

  Narita Airport.

  Max gladly disembarked the Japan Airlines' Boeing 747-300 that ha d c arried him nonstop from New York to Tokyo for the past fourteen hours , checked the departure screens, discovered that his connecting flight wa s l eaving from a nearby gate, and walked toward it. To be fair, the fligh t h ad been comfortable; in fact, the on-board service had been second t o n one. It was just that being trapped in any metallic tube 30,000 fee t a bove the earth for fourteen hours had a way of wearing on a person eve n i f they did show two movies and serve three meals.

  As Max walked through the terminal, he glanced out the floor to-ceilin g w indows and saw a dozen or so JAL Boeing 747-300s lined up by thei r r espective gates. Each plane had a boarding tunnel running from airpor t t o aircraft like some gigantic umbilical chord that would have to be cu t b efore the plane could be set free.

  Max was not as tired as most of his fellow passengers. Though his min d h ad whirled with thoughts of how to free Michael, he had managed t o s leep a good six hours. He checked his watch and realized that he stil l h ad about an hour before his connecting flight took off for Bangkok, th e e xotic capital of Thailand. Just as well. He had some important thing s t o do in the meantime.

  He followed the yellow sign that read "Overseas Telephone," conversed with the opera
tor for a moment, the n w ent into a small booth and lifted the receiver. Within seconds the cal l w as connected. One ring later the phone was picked up.

  "Hello?"

  Sara's voice came in a nervous half-shout. It was late in New York , almost two in the morning, but Sara Lowell sounded very much awake.

  That did not surprise him. He debated what he was going to say an d d ecided to be as vague as humanly possible.

  "Sara?"

  "Max? Where the hell are you? I've been trying to reach you all day."

  "I'm sorry. I've been indisposed."

  "Where are you?"

  "In Tokyo."

  "What?"

  "Well, technically speaking, I'm not in Tokyo. I'm at Narita Airport.

  That's about an hour and a half from downtown Tokyo."

  "I don't need a geography lesson," she interrupted.

  "What are you doing in Tokyo?"

  Max began to wrap the phone cord around his arm.

  "I'm on my way to Bangkok."

  A small pause.

  "Why?"

  "Something has come up."

  "Involving Michael?"

  Vague, Max. Don't want to get her hopes up.

  "Maybe. Look, I don't know what it means. I'm just tracking down a l ead."

  "What kind of lead?"

  "Stop playing reporter, I don't have the time. I'll call you if anythin g h appens."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  A good question.

  "I hope to be coming home right away.

  Anything new?"

  "A lot."

  "I'm listening."

  Sara recounted her conversation with her father and Senator Jenkins.

  Max listened in silence. He wrapped the telephone cord around his mout h n ow and gnawed. Tasted rubbery. The Japanese woman in the next boot h f rowned at him. Max smiled apologetically and let the wire fall loose.

  When Sara finished, Max told her about his conversation with Winsto n o 'Connor.

  "Now we know how they were getting all that inside information," Sar a s aid.

  "I guess so," he said.

  "But there is still a lot that doesn't make sense."

  "Like what?"

  "Like why would Sanders do it? What does Sanders gain from the murders?"

  "He wipes out the evidence," Sara replied.

  "No cured patients, no cure."

  Max shook his head.

  "There have to be easier ways than going through all this Gay Slashe r s tuff. Like your father says, the press from the Gay Slasher ha s s trengthened the clinic. More donations, more media support even Marke y c ouldn't close them down anymore."

  "So what do you make of it?" she asked.

  He thought. He thought about the murder victims. He thought about th e a IDS clinic. He thought about the Washington conspiracy and Winsto n o 'Connor's connection to it. He thought about the Gay Slasher. He t hought about George Camron holding Michael in some whorehouse.

  "I don't know," he said, "but I better go now. I'll call you if anythin g c omes up."

  He replaced the receiver before Sara could protest, walked into th e a irport pharmacy, and purchased a can of shaving cream and a disposabl e r azor. He headed into the bathroom and wetted his face. Ten minute s l ater his mustache was gone.

  Bangkok's Don Muang Airport.

  As Max headed down the steps and into the Thai night, the humidity hi t h im first sticky, like small droplets of syrup hanging in the air. I t w as late now, almost eleven p. m." and Max felt revved up. He wanted t o a ct fast.

  The plane from Tokyo to Bangkok had been a carbon copy of the one he ha d t aken from New York to Tokyo. Same size, same seating configuration , same interior design, same distortion over the loudspeaker so that h e c ould not tell when the captain was speaking Japanese and when he wa s s peaking English. He had been a bit surprised to see how few passenger s w ere seated in economy class. In fact, he had counted the seats: 100 i n e conomy class, 128 in business class, 32 in first class. The first clas s a rea was incredible. The spacious recliners reminded Max of his father's f avorite TV chair in the family den, complete with leg rests. Do n p erignon and beluga caviar were being served. Each passenger wore a j apanese hoppy coat. Very nice.

  Of course, when you are paying approximately $5000 for a round-tri p f light from New York to Bangkok you better be getting very nice.

  Max was traveling economy class, which cost nearly $1500, a sum tota l g reater than Max's entire financial portfolio. Since there had been n o t ime to appropriate the funds from the police department, Max had gon e t o Lenny. Lenny made pretty good money very good, in fact. He was, afte r a ll, one of New York's top criminal lawyers. Ironic really.

  Max's mother had always wanted him to become a handsome lawyer; instead , he was living with one.

  Not exactly what his mom had in mind.

  Though seated in the back of the plane, Max had wandered around durin g t he billion hours he was in the air. He always got a kick out of th e c urtains pulled between the classes, turning an airplane into a m icrocosm of modern society. I paid less than you, ergo I am pond scum , not fit to look at you or breathe your air.

  And just for laughs, try to use the bathroom in the first-class sectio n w hen you are traveling economy class. The stewardesses attack lik e m oslem extremists. The reading lights were another problem. How com e t hey were never aimed right? The beam was always too far to the left o r t o the right or too far in front of you or too far back so that i t w orked like a spotlight aimed at the top of your head. And who invente d t hat medieval torture device known as the movie headset? They felt lik e s omeone was jamming pointed ice-tongs through your eardrums.

  Once inside the terminal Max spotted a sign with his name on it. He a pproached the man holding it. The man was tall for an Asian, over si x f eet, and very thin. He stood perfectly still, only his eyes moving, a s i f he wanted to conserve his strength.

  "Colonel?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm Max Bernstein."

  The Thai colonel looked at him.

  "You are a police lieutenant?"

  Max nodded.

  "Pardon my surprise, but I was expecting someone older."

  Max started to pull at his mustache. He stopped when he realized that h e h ad shaved it off.

  "That's why I normally have a mustache. Makes me look older."

  "Pardon me?"

  "Never mind. Where can we talk?"

  "Come. I have a car waiting outside."

  "Where is Frank Reed?"

  "Mr. Reed is waiting for us in the car. We can talk on the ride."

  The colonel led the way, walking effortlessly and without any waste d m otion. He opened the car door and they both got in the back seat.

  Like the police vehicles in New York, the air-conditioning was no t w orking. Max wasted no time.

  "You're Frank Reed?"

  "Yep." The man stuck out his hand.

  "Call me Frankie."

  Max shook the hand as briefly as possible and continued.

  "Mr. Reed, I need you to give me an exact layout of the area wher e m ichael Silverman is being held."

  "Nothing to it. You really a New York cop?"

  "Yes."

  "You look like a school kid."

  "I joined the force when I was four. Tell me about the upstairs area."

  "Well, Silverman is being kept on the second floor," Frankie began.

  "There must be about a dozen rooms up there. Looks like a sleazy mote l o r something. He was in a room in the left hand corner at the end of th e h all. There was a Do Not Enter sign on the door. I couldn't believe m y f uckin' eyes. I opened the door and wham! there he was.

  Super strange, you know? I saw Silverman play at the Garden last yea r a gainst the Bulls.

  Fantastic "

  "Can you draw it for me?"

  "A Do Not Enter sign? Sure thing."

  "No, a map of the floor."

  "Oh, yeah, sure." "And you said
he was chained to the floor?"

  "Looked that way," he replied.

  "I only got a brief look."

  "Lieutenant," Colonel Thaakavechikan interrupted, "do you have somethin g i n mind?"

  Max nodded, his fingers twisting braids in his hair.

  "George Camron is familiar with most of your good people, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't think he is familiar with me. Just in case, I shaved off m y m ustache on the plane."

  "I see."

  "I want to go in myself."

  "When?"

  "As soon as Camron leaves the bar. Michael is very ill. We have to ge t h im out right away."

  The colonel nodded.

  "Tell me what you have in mind."

  Dr. Eric Blake checked his appearance in the mirror. As always , everything was in place. When people were asked to describe him, the y r arely used terms like handsome or ugly or even nondescript. The y u sually said neat. Tidy. Immaculate. Every hair in place, shoelace s t ied, every button buttoned. Eric's shirttail never hung out, his sock s a lways matched, his face was always clean shaven. Even now Eric looke d c ool, unemotional, detached.

  But inside, under the fastidious grooming well, that was another matter.

  His head ached horribly. The pressure mounted until he was sur e s omething was going to burst through his forehead.

  Suddenly, everything was falling apart and Eric was not sure what to do.

  Do whatever is necessary ... He walked purposefully toward the lab room.

  Harvey, he knew, was downstairs, injecting Kiel Davis with SRI. The n h arv had rounds. He would not be on the third floor for some time now.

  It was safe.

  Eric crossed the room and unlocked his private file. Once again h e s lipped open the bottom drawer and withdrew the blood samples. He c arefully lifted them free and placed them on the table. Then h e e xamined them.

  Nothing yet.

  He sighed. Well, that was to be expected. The results would not be i n f or a little while yet. Thinking he could see something now had bee n l ittle more than wishful thinking on his part. He would just have to b e p atient.

  With not-so-steady hands, Eric returned the samples to the drawer , locked it, and went back to work.

  Max and Colonel T (as he liked to be called) sat in a taxi on Rama I V Street not too far from Patpong. Through the static of the car radio, a v oice blurted out something unintelligible to Max.