by Roy Johansen
“What are you going to do?”
“Take them out, of course.” He held up his hand. “Number twenty scalpel, please.”
Howe's eyes widened.
Eve handed Yashin a thick-handled scalpel. Joe watched carefully as he applied it to Howe's forehead.
“Just relax, young man.” Yashin swiped across the forehead, leaving behind a thin line of blood.
“Bailey …” Howe whispered urgently.
Joe gave his arm a reassuring pat.
Yashin swiped his scalpel again, and this time small pieces of organic matter appeared in the streaks of blood. “Excellent,” he said. “The humors are coming right out.”
Eve picked up the fleshy matter and placed it into a beaker. Yashin put down the scalpel and squeezed Howe's forehead, producing even more bloody, pulpy matter.
“Very toxic,” he said. “You should feel better soon.”
Howe appeared to be dazed.
“Will there be scarring?” Joe asked.
“No scarring. His body will heal itself completely by the time he gets up from the table. You'd never know he had surgery.”
Joe whipped out his badge. “Atlanta police. Put down the scalpel.”
Eve quickly lifted the beaker to her lips.
Howe bolted upright and grabbed her wrist. “Those are my humors you're trying to swallow.”
Eve cut loose with a string of obscenities, some in English, some in Russian. She spit in Howe's face.
“That's not the best way to earn goodwill,” Joe said as he snapped a pair of handcuffs on Yashin.
“What is this? What's going on here?” Yashin's accent was suddenly thicker.
“You're under arrest for fraud and practicing medicine without a license.”
Yashin motioned toward his diploma and started to object, but Joe cut him off.
“A local license.” Joe used a hand towel to pick up the scalpel. “I haven't seen one of these before. The blood and pulpy matter is stored in the handle. When you run it across your patient's skin, you squeeze the handle and the blood and guts run down the underside of the blade and appear to be coming out of an incision.”
Howe reached for his jacket, pulled out his cuffs from the pocket and fastened them onto Eve's wrists. “How were you so sure this weirdo wasn't going to cut me?”
“I saw a tiny drop of blood forming at the end of the scalpel even before he got near you with it. Plus the blade looked too dull to penetrate the skin. I told you I knew what to look for.” Joe lifted the beaker and held it up at eye level. “This is pig's blood, isn't it?”
“I want a lawyer.”
Joe shook his head. “I wouldn't if I were you.”
“You are not me.”
“No, but if I were, I'd know that there's only one thing I could do to stay out of jail tonight, and it doesn't involve calling a lawyer.”
Joe and Howe ran Yashin and Eve in to the station and put them in two different interview rooms. They left Eve alone while they concentrated on Yashin.
“Tell us about Gaby Rawlings,” Joe said.
“I don't know who you're talking about.” Yashin folded his hands in front of him.
“You operated on her without a license. She died. That opens you up for manslaughter at least. Maybe even murder.”
“Murder?”
Howe sat across from Yashin. “You killed her. Is there another way we should look at this? If so, you'd better start talking.”
Yashin held his head in his hands and muttered something in Russian.
“Come again?” Howe said.
“I didn't kill her!”
“But you did operate on her.”
Yashin paused, then answered carefully. “If I did see this woman, I did not harm her.”
“She was a sixteen-year-old girl,” Joe said, leaning into his face. “What the hell happened?”
“I cannot help you.”
“You'd better start,” Joe said. “And you'd also better tell us how Robert Nelson was involved.”
“Dr. Nelson?”
“Yes. Did you meet him before or after you met the Rawlings family?”
Yashin ran his hand over his jaw. “Before,” he finally answered.
“How did you meet him?”
“First I need some assurances from you.”
Howe slapped the tabletop. “You're not getting any. How did you meet Nelson?”
Yashin sighed. “He came to see me. He wished to see me work. Around the same time, Mrs. Rawlings contacted me. Her daughter was very ill, and she wanted me to help her. Dr. Nelson and I went to their house, and I operated on her.”
“You scammed her.”
“No. What I do is convince the mind that the body has been healed. If the mind believes that, good health will follow.”
“Like it did with Gaby Rawlings?”
“That was unfortunate. I spent the entire night with her. Several times her father wanted to take her to the hospital. Dr. Nelson persuaded him to wait.”
Joe felt ill. “And the whole time you were waving your scalpel over her, doing your stupid sleight-of-hand tricks? Couldn't you see she was in trouble?”
“Of course. But she was so young…. I was sure it would pass. And I suppose I wanted to convince Dr. Nelson of my abilities. He kept saying that he thought she was getting better. We had no idea what was really happening.”
“Until she died?”
“Before that. In the morning I knew there was something terribly wrong. I told them there was no more I could do, and that they should get her to a hospital. Even then Dr. Nelson resisted the idea.”
“Nice guy,” Howe said.
“Her parents took her to the emergency room, but it was too late. A few days later Mr. Rawlings threatened both me and Dr. Nelson. Somehow he knew how I worked. He knew about the scalpels, everything.”
“How did he know?” Howe asked.
“I don't know. He even knew about my past. I worked under another name in Belgium a few years ago, and he knew about that too. He said he'd have me and Dr. Nelson arrested and brought up on charges. It scared us both.”
“So Nelson paid off Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings.”
“Yes. It was the only way. Dr. Nelson was afraid the publicity would destroy his program. He gave them a large grant in exchange for their silence.”
“When the university caught on, how did he repay the money?”
Yashin wrinkled his brow. “I'm sorry?”
“Nelson had to repay the money out of his own pocket. Did you help him with that?”
“No. I don't know anything about this.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. We ceased all communication with each other. He said he was going to destroy all his records having anything to do with me or the Rawlings family. I never heard from him again.”
Joe felt sick. “How can you still do this? After watching that girl's life slip away while you scammed her and her family …”
“I help a lot of people. I unlock the healing powers of the mind. It may look like a trick to you, but to those who believe, it gives them hope. Oftentimes, that hope is the one thing that makes the difference between life and death.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” Howe said.
“I know it to be true.”
“We're going to let you go for now,” Joe said. “But this isn't over. And whatever happens, this part of your life is finished. If I ever hear you're still in business, I guarantee that we're going to revisit these manslaughter charges. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Completely.”
“One last question. Do you really have a doctorate?”
“Yes,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “In art history.”
Joe and Howe tracked down Ted Rawlings at a Cartersville nursery school, where he and his crew were steam-cleaning the carpets.
“We did nothing wrong,” Rawlings insisted, checking to make sure he was out of earshot of his crew. “We trusted those two men.”
; “Dr. Nelson and Dr. Yashin?” Joe asked.
“Yeah. The Russian guy was so sure he could help Gaby. He charged us a lot less than it would've cost to take her to the hospital. I swear to God, I didn't know he was a cheat. I never would've let him near Gaby if I'd known.”
“Do you think Dr. Nelson knew?”
“No. He was egging the Russian guy on. It really seemed important to Nelson that they prove the guy's stuff was real. The Russian wanted to quit, but Nelson told him to keep trying.” Rawlings's lips tightened. “That son of a bitch.”
“How did you find out that Dr. Yashin was using trickery?” Joe said.
“I watched him.”
“There's got to be more to it than that,” Howe said. “You suddenly knew all about his past in Belgium. How did you find out?”
Rawlings took a rag out of his back pocket and nervously wiped his brow. “A fella told me.”
“Who?” Joe asked.
“I don't know. He came to see me a few days after Gaby passed on. He told me what he knew about Dr. Yashin, and I told him what had happened to Gaby. He thought my wife and I should get something for our pain and suffering.”
“It was his idea to take money from Dr. Nelson?”
“Yeah, but I thought it was a good idea too. My wife wasn't so crazy about it though. She thought maybe we were betraying our daughter.” He cleared his throat. “I don't know, maybe we were. I haven't been able to make sense of anything since Gaby left us.”
“So you blackmailed Dr. Nelson?” Howe asked.
“Blackmailed? Hell, no. I told him that we should be entitled to some kind of settlement. He gave us some research money.”
Joe smiled incredulously. “A hundred and sixty thousand dollars in research money?”
“A hundred and sixty thousand dollars for what he did to my family. He made us promise that we'd never talk about it to anyone. He said that people might accuse me and my wife of neglect. I didn't believe that, but it scared Crystal pretty bad. I think she's still feeling guilty.”
“And you aren't?” Joe said.
Rawlings swallowed hard and looked away. “Are we almost through here?”
“What about this man who came and told you about Dr. Yashin?” Howe said. “What did he look like?”
“He was a red-haired fella.”
Joe and Howe shared a quick glance. “What kind of car did he drive?” Joe asked.
“He didn't drive a car. He rode a motorcycle.”
Natalie Simone rolled over in bed and looked at the clock: 3:37 P.M. Shit. She'd meant to get up earlier and go to an ammo bazaar at the Alabama border, but she'd been partying with friends until six that morning. Gotta keep that from happening too often, she told herself. If she couldn't continue to supply the best guns and ammo, a lot of other people in town would.
She shuffled into her living room. All she needed was caffeine and maybe a little—
She screamed.
Garrett Lyles was sprawled across her sofa.
He chuckled. “A lot of women look like hell when they first wake up. Glad to see you're not one of them.”
She could feel her heart pounding in her throat. Keep it together, she told herself. “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Relaxing. I haven't gotten much rest lately.”
“Don't you have someplace else you can do that?”
“Sure. But I wouldn't be able to talk to you afterward. I could have knocked, but you might not have been eager to see me. I could hear you snoring from outside your window, so I decided to come in and kick back for a while.”
She glanced at the door. “How?”
“Don't worry. Your booby trap works fine. I just happen to be extraordinarily good. If I weren't, I'd be lying on the floor with a nine-millimeter shell in my chest.”
“That's what it was designed to do. With the clients I have, I can't take chances.”
“I can relate.”
“I'm sure you didn't come in here just to take a load off.”
“No, I didn't. I need you to put me in touch with Jules Cavasos's organization.”
“Jules Cavasos? Why?”
“It's not necessary for you to know that.”
“He runs the city's biggest drug syndicate. What makes you think I could help you?”
“I'm sure that your business puts you in contact with his people on occasion. That's all I want. Contact. The higher up, the better. I'll handle the rest.”
“Handle what?”
“Again, not necessary for you to know.”
She took a deep breath. Why did this guy unnerve her so much? He was still lying on her couch, his right hand behind his head, tucked underneath the cushion.
She smiled. “Tell me, am I holding artillery now?”
“Doubtful. I don't think you strapped your Berettas under the sleeves of that nightshirt.”
“If I did, and tried to draw on you, I'd be dead in less than a second, wouldn't I?”
He didn't respond.
She nodded. “Because underneath that pillow, I'm sure you're holding that Lanchester I sold you. If you're as good as I hear you are, you could probably shoot me dead right through the pillow.”
“How did we get off on such an unpleasant tangent?”
“Okay, maybe I can get you close to one of Cava-sos's boys. What's in it for me?”
“Two thousand.”
“Five.”
“Time is of the essence. This needs to happen today.”
“Today? Are you crazy?”
He pulled the Lanchester out from under the pillow and put it on the coffee table. “If I had time to waste, I wouldn't need your help, Natalie. Get busy.”
Joe and Howe returned to the station to find Fisher and three of his FBI colleagues heading toward the fourth floor.
“Bailey, it looks like you were right,” Fisher said. “Your fellow officers got an ID off one of the news tapes. They think the guy who shot the sniper was on the press line in front of Jesse Randall's house.”
“They think?” Howe said.
“We're on our way to meet Detectives Powell and Reinertson at your A/V center. There's a witness from the church on her way. Care to join us?”
They went to the fourth floor audiovisual room, a facility that was destined to grow in size and importance as more uniformed officers were miked and patrol cars were outfitted with video cameras. When Joe sprained an ankle the year before, he had spent a tedious two weeks in the center, logging tapes of routine traffic stops. He'd had more fun during his last root canal.
Powell, Reinertson, and a middle-aged woman were already hunched over a monitor. Powell introduced her. “Gentlemen, this is Leonora Madison. She's a member of the church choir.”
“First soprano,” she said proudly.
Powell gestured toward the monitor. “We spotted a man on the press line who matches the description of the guy who stormed through the church. We were just about to show Mrs. Madison the tape and see what she thinks.”
“Anytime you're ready,” Leonora said. “I got grandchildren coming to my house in an hour.”
Powell brought up the footage of the press line.
“My God, that's him,” Leonora gasped.
“Who?” Joe asked.
She pointed to a tall man with long hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a droopy mustache. “He wasn't wearing the glasses, but I'm positive that's him.”
Powell turned to Joe and Fisher. “Exactly who we thought. He matches the description given to us by several witnesses.”
“He was watching Jesse,” Joe said. “You should talk to Alan Whatley. He's the bully who got roughed up last week. He might be able to tell us if this is the same guy.”
“His mother is bringing him after school.”
“Good,” Joe said. “I'll talk to the journalists working the press line and see if anybody knows anything about him. I'm heading over to the Randall home anyway.”
“Why?” Howe asked.
“To find out if
Ms. Randall knows anything about our red-haired friend.”
“Were you giving interviews out there?” Latisha Randall asked after she opened her front door for Joe to enter. Her face was drawn and tired, and she looked as if she'd aged ten years since he last saw her. “Why were you talking to those reporters?”
He stepped inside the house. There were several large flower arrangements around the room, probably from friends and well-wishers. The flowers made him uncomfortable; they seemed too much like funeral bouquets. He hoped they didn't give Latisha the same feeling.
“We think one of the men at the church was posing as a reporter,” Joe said. “I was asking the people on the line if they knew anything about him.”
“He was one of the kidnappers?”
“We don't think so. He may have been trying to protect your son. It's possible he's the same man who roughed up the boy who was picking on Jesse.” Joe showed her a printout from the news videotape. “Look familiar?”
She studied it. “Afraid not.”
He showed her the picture of the red-haired man. “How about this one?”
She squinted at the photo. “I've seen him. He was at some of Jesse's tests.”
“Did you ever talk to him?”
“No. I had no idea who he was. There were a lot of people hovering around those sessions.”
The doorbell rang. Latisha opened the door, and Stewart Dunning walked into the house.
“What's he doing here?” Joe asked.
Dunning smiled. “I could ask the same question about you, Detective.”
“I saw you outside,” Latisha said. “Mr. Dunning told me to call him if the police ever showed up here, so I did.”
The attorney crossed his arms. “I instructed her not to let you in until I got here. She's too accommodating for her own good.”
“Maybe she recognizes that I'm trying to help her son.”
“So am I, Mr. Bailey.”
Joe turned to Latisha. “All the videotaped test sessions I've seen were recorded several weeks after Jesse began to demonstrate his abilities. Do you have any home videos of your own, recorded earlier?”
“No. We don't have a camcorder.”
“Why do you ask?” Dunning spoke sharply.