John nodded his approval. “Good man. Listen to what Sagarel says, Michael, not those two epidemiologist friends of yours.”
Sara said, “You know Harvey Riker is an exceptional physician, one of the top men in his field.”
“I’m sure that is so—”
“And the clinic is on the threshold of a major breakthrough in the war against AIDS.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” John replied without enthusiasm. “The sooner, the better. We need those funds elsewhere.”
“How can you say that?”
“Let’s not start this again, okay?” he said. “It is a simple question of economics.”
“Economics?” Sara repeated. “Economics is more important than saving lives?”
“Please do not use that preachy, simplistic argument on me,” her father replied evenly. “I’ve used it too often myself in front of Senate subcommittees to fall for it now. The truth of the matter is that only X amount of dollars goes into health care and medical research. X amount. Period. Some goes to the Heart Association, some to my own Cancer Center, and then there is muscular dystrophy, rheumatoid arthritis, senior citizens, whatever. We all compete for funds. Now AIDS comes along and gets an astronomical—not to mention disproportional—slice of that pie.”
“You make it sound like some sort of contest,” Sara said. “Doesn’t compassion—”
“This is the real world,” her father interrupted. “In the real world you have to deal with economic realities. Fact is, every dollar spent on AIDS is taken away from those other organizations.”
“Wrong,” a voice pronounced. John Lowell turned. Harvey Riker stood in the doorway. “Donations toward AIDS research are often raised separately,” Harvey continued.
“Some, perhaps,” Lowell replied, “but Liz Taylor and her friends can just as easily hold garage sales for the Heart Association or the Cancer Center. And let me ask you, Dr. Riker, who is the major contributor to your clinic here at the hospital?”
Harvey paused. “The federal government and the hospital board.”
“And where would that money go if not to your clinic? Toward the cure of cancer or arthritis or heart disease, that’s where. Many people will die of AIDS this year, but how many thousands more will die from either cancer or heart disease? Innocent victims who do not indulge in self-destructive and immoral activities—”
“Listen to yourself,” Harvey interrupted. “You sound like Reverend Sanders.”
Lowell stepped toward Harvey, his eyes blazing. “I don’t know Sanders personally, but don’t you ever compare me to that money-hungry pig, do you understand? And stop playing the naive academic. You know that there have to be priorities in medical research—to deny that is to deny reality. Some illnesses have to take precedence over others.”
“And you don’t think AIDS should be a priority case?”
“The disease is almost one hundred percent preventable, Dr. Riker. Can you say the same about cancer? About heart disease? About arthritis? That’s why I voted against funding your clinic at the board meeting. Innocent people—people who weren’t screwing strange men behind sleazy bars or jamming needles filled with poison into their veins—are killed in horrifying ways. People who weren’t engaging in sexual acts that boggle the mind—you’re not stupid, Dr. Riker. You know that the gay community ignored all the warning signs. Epstein-Barr ran rampant through them, but they ignored it. Cytomegalovirus and a host of other viruses infected a frighteningly high percentage of the gay community, but they chose to maintain their wanton lifestyles.”
“So promiscuity should be punished with death?” Harvey shot back. “Is that what you’re saying? Then a lot of heterosexuals better beware too.”
“I’m saying simply this: they were warned. Anyone who spoke out against their wild sexual behavior—anyone who tried to tell them to slow down—was labeled a bigot and homophobic. With viral infections plaguing the entire gay community for years, what did they expect to happen?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Weren’t these men responsible for their narcissistic and dangerous activities? Weren’t they in some way asking for this?”
“Dad!”
Harvey’s voice was cool. “They never asked to die, Dr. Lowell. Try as you might, you cannot get rid of this disease by denying its existence. We’re not talking about something that affects animals or strange creatures or some sort of subhumans. Thousands of living, breathing human beings are dying horrible deaths from AIDS.”
“I know that,” Lowell said, “and Lord knows, I hope those boys are cured. But the money being spent on AIDS is outrageous when self-control will stop its spread.”
Harvey shook his head. “You’re just plain wrong, Dr. Lowell—even economically speaking. Do you know how much AIDS is ultimately going to cost us if we don’t find a cure for it? Do you have any notion of the enormous expense in treating AIDS patients? Every social and medical program will be drained. Whole cities will go bankrupt from the medical bills.”
“The patients should foot the bill themselves,” Lowell replied. “There are other priorities, other ways the board could have spent that money.” His voice began to crack and Sara knew what was coming next. She closed her eyes and waited. “I watched cancer kill my wife,” he continued. “I watched it eat away at my Erin until . . .” He stopped then, his head lowered, his face anguished.
“And your commitment is admirable,” Harvey replied. “I, however, never got the chance to see my brother die. Sidney suffered alone while lesions and infections engulfed and destroyed his body. He was shunned, made an outcast by his own family—including me. Most of these young men—boys in their twenties and thirties, for chrissake—die the death of a leper. If this disease had hit any other segment of the population, the government would have reacted quickly and with lots of money. But everyone thought it was merely a ‘fag’ disease, and who cares about a bunch of fags anyway?”
“They should have shown some self-control.”
Harvey shook his head. “You can’t play God, Dr. Lowell. While part of me agrees with your harsh statements on cigarette smoking, I have to ask you, sir, where do you draw the line? Should thin people get priority over obese? Should people who ignore their doctor’s warning about high cholesterol be told that they ‘asked for’ their heart attack? Where do you draw the line, Dr. Lowell? And who gets to play God?”
John Lowell opened his mouth to continue the argument, then closed it. His face was etched in exhaustion. “The sad fact is that resources are limited. That means that tough choices have to be made.”
“And who is going to make those choices, Dr. Lowell?”
John waved his hand as though dismissing the question. His voice took on a nervous, shaky edge. “Enough of this now,” he said. “I want to hear about Michael’s condition.”
POLICE Lieutenant Max “Twitch” Bernstein hated New York in the summer. Too damn hot for a human to be in the city this time of the year. Not that Max knew anything else. He had been born and raised in Manhattan, went to college at New York University in Manhattan, lived with Lenny in Manhattan, worked as a cop in Manhattan. Homicide. Business was always good when you worked homicides in a place like Manhattan, but in the summer the whackos really came out of the woodwork.
Max parked his unmarked Chevy Caprice squad car (unmarked, his ass—like a criminal wouldn’t know it was a cop’s car at a glance) and moved toward the police barriers. He did not look like a homicide detective. He was too young, his hair too long and curly, his mustache too bushy, his nose and face just a little too long and thin. Actually, he looked more like he should be delivering pizzas than chasing killers.
He walked to the side of the building with a sign above the door that read “Black Magic Bar and Grill.” Max had visited the Black Magic in more liberated, fun-loving days when it was called the Butt Seriously. More than once, actually. Always in disguise. Used an alias too.
He flashed his badge at a couple of uniforms a
nd proceeded down the alleyway. Sergeant Willie Monticelli greeted him.
“How’s it going, Twitch?” Willie asked.
Bernstein did not care much for his nickname. First of all he did not have a twitch. Yes, he fidgeted a lot, gestured wildly, bit his fingernails past the cuticles, played with anything he could get his hands on, blinked too much, never sat or stood still. Sure, everybody was always asking him when he had quit chain-smoking.
But there was definitely no twitch.
“Better before I got this call,” he replied. “Looks like you put on a little weight, Willie.”
Monticelli patted his stomach. “Nice to meet someone who’s not all caught up in the diet craze, huh?”
“Great.” Bernstein took out his pencil, put it in his mouth, and chewed. It already looked like a much-used dog toy. “What’s the story here?”
“A garbageman found him half an hour ago. Wanna take a look?”
Already feeling his stomach churn, Max nodded and bit down harder on the pencil. He hated this part. “Have to. It’s why I’m paid the big bucks.”
“Yeah, I can tell by your fancy set of wheels.”
Willie walked over to the still form sprawled in the garbage. He pulled the sheet back. Max swallowed away his nausea. Then he bent down and examined the mess that was once a living man.
“Jesus.”
“Looks like the Gay Slasher is back,” Willie said. “Same M.O. as the other two.”
“With one noticeable difference,” Max said almost under his breath. “And don’t call him that, Willie. The press will dive all over it.”
“They’re gonna dive anyway.”
“They ignored the first two victims,” Max noted.
“They won’t ignore this one.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Do you know who this is?”
Bernstein looked down at the disfigured face and then up at Willie. “His mother wouldn’t recognize him.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I never do.”
“According to his wallet, his name is Bradley Jenkins. I checked him out. His father is—”
“A U.S. Senator, I know.” Max closed his eyes and turned away. He stroked his mustache.
“Right. Bradley lives on Twelfth Street. His father and mother have a house in the Hamptons. Weird, huh? Senator from Arkansas who vacations on Long Island?”
“Senator Jenkins has been living in the Northeast since he began going to school here as a boy,” Max explained. “I doubt the guy has spent five straight days in Arkansas, except during election campaigns.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
Max’s hand ran through his thick, dark curly hair several times. “First of all, he’s the Senate minority leader. Second, I read a newspaper now and again.”
“And third?”
“Bradley is a good friend of Sara Lowell’s. I met him once.”
“Oh,” Willie said. “That’s too bad. Think Sara will handle the story? It’d be nice to have a member of the press on our side for this one.”
“I doubt it.”
“Yeah, she won’t waste her time with us anymore. She’s big-time now. You see her on TV last night?”
Max nodded, pacing rapidly back and forth but traveling no more than five feet in any direction. “You got today’s Herald in your car?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Get it. I want to show you something.”
Willie fetched the paper and handed it to Bernstein. Bernstein grabbed it and thumbed through the pages quickly, ripping several as he went along.
“Whoa, Twitch, slow down a minute.”
“It’s right here . . .”
“What’s right here?” Willie asked.
Bernstein continued to riffle through the paper, the pencil still in his mouth. “Did you read the society pages today?”
“Shit, no, I don’t read that crap. But I did check out the box scores.”
“That should be a big help,” Max said. He turned a few more pages, his right foot tapping the pavement impatiently. “Bingo,” he said at last. “Take a look at this.”
Willie looked over Max’s shoulder. A page of photographs showed the well-dressed people who had attended Dr. John Lowell’s charity ball the previous evening. Max pointed to the picture in the upper right-hand corner. “There.”
“Shit on a stick,” Willie whispered.
The caption read: The luminous Sara Lowell enjoys the festivities after her triumphant NewsFlash debut with (right) her handsome hubby and Knicks superstar, Michael Silverman, and (left) Senator Stephen Jenkins’ dashing son, Bradley.
“It’s him,” Willie exclaimed, pointing to the photograph. “It’s Bradley Jenkins.”
“Correct.”
“Not much resemblance now. Maybe a little around the ears.”
“Very funny.”
“God, I hate these big cases,” Willie said. “Mayor’ll be calling all the time. Everybody wanting answers.”
“We might as well get started, then. I want you to check the neighborhood. See if anybody saw anything.”
“Sure thing. Someone must have heard something—screams or a struggle or something.”
Bernstein shook his head. “I don’t think the murder took place here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look at the corpse,” he continued. “Bradley Jenkins has been dead since last night, right?”
“Looks like it.”
“But at night this alley is packed with patrons of the Black Magic.”
“Patrons. Is that what they call them now?”
Bernstein greeted the remark with a hint of a smile. Oh, Willie, if you only knew . . . “Someone would have seen the murder if it happened back here last night. And there’s blood only on the body—none in the area. If he had been stabbed a zillion times back here, the alley would have been sprayed with blood. No, I think Jenkins was killed somewhere else and his body was dumped here. That’s where the M.O. is different. The body was moved this time.”
Willie followed his young lieutenant’s pacing, his head shifting back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match. “Makes no sense, Twitch. There’s a lot of places less risky to get rid of a body. Why here?”
“Don’t know.”
“You want me to find out if Bradley was gay?”
Max felt a powerful headache coming on and began to massage his temples with his fingertips. The son of a prominent, conservative senator found with multiple knife wounds behind a gay bar—Tylenol wouldn’t put a dent in this one. “No need,” Bernstein said. “I’ll get the personal info from Sara.”
“Send my condolences.”
“Will do. I want the lab over every inch of this alley and I want this neighborhood canvassed. Ask if they saw anything out of the ordinary last night or this morning.”
“Gotcha. Oh, one more thing.”
“What?”
“Good luck with the press, those bastards. Next thing you know we’ll have every loony tune in the area confessing or copycatting the son of a bitch.”
Max nodded and clenched his teeth. The pencil in his mouth snapped into two jagged pieces, nearly cutting his gums.
It was going to be a bad week.
6
“HOW are you feeling?” Sara asked Michael for the twentieth time.
“Fine,” he replied. “Ask again and I’m going to scream.”
“I’m just concerned.”
“Then do something constructive,” Michael said.
“Like?”
“Like lock the door and get naked.”
“I stepped into that one, didn’t I?”
Michael nodded.
A woman’s voice from behind them said, “Hello, Sara.”
They both looked toward the entranceway where Dr. Carol Simpson now stood. Chopin’s Concerto in D minor played from the small CD player beside Michael’s bed. Reece, of all people, had fetched it from the Knicks’ loc
ker room at Madison Square Garden and brought it to the hospital, claiming, “This shit makes me sick, but it might be just what ol’ Mikey needs.”
“Michael,” Sara said, “this is Dr. Simpson, the obstetrician I was telling you about.”
“Nice to meet you, Michael,” Carol Simpson said.
“Nice meeting you.”
“I heard you’d been rushed in,” she continued. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks,” he said.
“Good,” she replied. “Since I knew you were both here, I thought I’d stop by personally to deliver the news.”
Michael sat up. His lips felt dry. He tried to wet them with his tongue, but there was no moisture there either. “News?” he asked.
“Yes. I have the results of Sara’s test.”
“And?” Sara prompted.
Carol Simpson stuck out her hand. “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”
Sara’s hands fluttered toward her mouth. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. About two months, I’d say.”
Sara turned toward Michael. “Did you hear that, hon?”
Michael nodded, not yet able to speak. “Forgive me, Doctor,” he managed. “It’s just . . .”
“No need to apologize. It’s nice to see.”
Sara wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, smothering him against her chest.
“Well,” Dr. Simpson said, “I have to be going back. Sara, I want you to stop by and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.”
Michael pulled away. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Take care of yourself, Michael. Congratulations again.”
She left them alone.
Michael smiled. “Do I have to start calling you Mommy soon?”
She nodded. “And I get to call you Dad.”
“Even in bed?”
“No. There I can still call you by your name.”
“Hung Stallion?”
“Dream on.”
“God, I can’t believe it. We’re going to be parents, Sara. You, me, and baby makes three.”
They kissed.
“I love you, Michael.”
“I love you too,” he said, rubbing her still-firm stomach. “Both of you.”
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