Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “Others have tried. Others have even dug up some of Silverman’s tragic past.”

  “Tragic past?”

  “It’s all in the file. 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 as poetic as Proust. But ask him about his precollege years and forget it.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Get him to talk. Find out what he’s all about. Be honest and open with him. 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 yes,” Michael said, “I’ve read some of your work, Miss Lowell. I liked the exposé you did on the housing commissioner last month. Powerful stuf.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Sara was somewhat taken aback. She had been prepared for an ogre, a man more than a little wary and suspicious of the press. But this man was very 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 of the court. Your interests, your hobbies. Let the fans get to know you a little better.”

  “Sounds like pretty dull stuf.”

  “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 like to go to the theater, collect rabbits, garden in my under wear, stuff like that?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I assume, Miss Lowell, that you already know that I do not grant interviews 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 or my 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 the kill.”

  “Mr. Silverman, this article is nothing like—”

  “Explain something to me,” he interrupted. “Why can’t you reporters understand that my personal life is none of anyone’s business? Why can’t you just report what happens on the basketball court and leave me 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 the headlines? 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 to drink?”

  “No one wants to read about me, Mr. Silverman.”

  “Bullshit. No one wants to read about me either unless I’m scoring baskets.”

  “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 head games with me? Why couldn’t you have been honest enough to admit what you 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, easygoing fellow. She stood and headed for 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 prove more persuasive.”

  “Before you go,” Larry said, “I think you should read his file after all.” He handed her a manila envelope.

  The file was short but potent. One page to be exact. Sara skimmed the sheet. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered.

  “I thought you might find it intriguing.”

  She read out loud. “ ‘Born Beth Israel Hospital, Newark, New Jersey. His father, Samuel Silverman, died in a car crash when he was five. Mother, Estelle Silverman, remarried a year later to a Martin Johnson. Between the ages of six and nine Michael had eight overnight hospital stays. His injuries were rumored to have been the result of physical abuse at the hands of his stepfather and included several broken bones and three concussions. When Michael was ten, his mother committed suicide by shooting herself in the forehead. Michael found her body. He has no brothers, no sisters. Stepfather abandoned him after the suicide. Only living relative was paternal grandmother, Sadie Silverman, who raised Michael until her death when he turned nineteen.’ ” She looked up. “Jesus, Larry, you want me to go after this guy?”

  “None of it has really been printed before because the details are too sketchy. Keep reading.”

  Her eyes found the spot where she had stopped reading. “ ‘Michael got full scholarship to Stanford for basketball as well as piano.’” She paused. “The guy’s a pianist?”

  Larry nodded. “That part is fairly well-known.”

  “ ‘Academic All-American at Stanford four years in a row . . . reputation of being a bit of a ladies’ man—’ ”

  “That’s the understatement of the millennium,” Larry interjected. “The man changes women like some men change socks.” He smiled. “Hope you don’t get sucked in.”

  “Changes women like socks? Very tempting but doesn’t sound like my type.”

  “No one is your type,” Larry replied.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” he said, “that you never date.”

  “I’ve got too much work to do.”

  “Excuses.”

  “And no one interests me right now, okay.”

  “Listen, Sara, I’m sixty-seven years old, have seven grandchildren, and have been happily married for forty-four years.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re going to have to find someone else. I’m taken.”

  She smiled. “Damn. You found me out.”

  “And don’t be so quick to judge Silverman,” he added. “Look at his past. Would you want to get close to too many people if you had his childhood?”

  She put the file on her desk. “This story is beginning to sound like a piece of cheap sensationalism,” Sara said.

  He shrugged. “Depends on how you handle it. Fact is, Michael Silverman is a sports idol. We Jews love him because so few of us can play sports. I mean, the last time there was a Jewish athlete this famous . . . Well, you’d have to go back to Sandy Koufax.”

  “What’s your point, Larry?”

  “It’s a great human interest story. A man who overcame incredible adversity to become one of the world’s top basketball players. And he’d be a perfect role model for abused kids.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t want to be a role model.”

  “Tough. He’s news, Sara, big news. So the story is a bit sensational—so what? You’re a reporter and this is a damn good story.”

  “All right, all right. I get the picture. I’m on my way over there now.”

  “Sara?”

  She looked up, startled. “I’m sorry, Eric.”

  “Don’t apologize. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind right now, but remember this—all Michael’s problems are in the pas
t. You two are going to have a baby together, and Michael has never been happier in his life.”

  Sara tried to smile, but it never reached more than the corners of her mouth. She sensed that Michael’s past woes were not finished with him yet, that they were still potent enough to reach into the present and hurt him . . .

  “Mind if I join you two?”

  “Hello, Max,” Sara said. “Max, you know Eric Blake, don’t you?”

  “I believe we’ve met,” Bernstein said. “How are you, Doctor?”

  “Very well, thank you,” Eric replied as the beeper on his belt went off. “If you two will excuse me, I have to go.”

  “Emergency?” Max asked.

  “No. Just time for rounds.”

  Max scratched his face hard, like he had fleas. “Can I ask you a quick question before you go?”

  Eric stopped. “Of course.”

  “When was the last time you saw Dr. Grey alive?”

  Eric thought a moment. “The day he left for Cancún.”

  “Did he look the same to you?”

  “The same? I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, was his hair still dark and did he still have a beard?”

  “Yes,” Eric said without hesitation. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Thanks, Eric.”

  “Anytime, Lieutenant. I’ll see you later, Sara.”

  “Bye, Eric.”

  Eric Blake neatly piled the garbage on his tray before leaving. When he brought his tray to the window, he was the only one who took the time to sort his silverware.

  Sara turned to Max. “I called you three times today.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a busy day.”

  “Are you getting much flak about the castration story in the news?”

  Max’s whole body seemed to shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle with a grenade launcher and tear gas.”

  “I can imagine. Okay, so what have you learned?”

  He leaned forward, his right elbow on the table, his left arm thrown behind the back of the chair. “First of all, Bruce Grey had blond hair and no beard when he allegedly jumped out the window. He also was wearing cosmetic contact lenses to change the color of his eyes. I checked with several of his friends, even the limousine driver who dropped him off at the airport. Bruce definitely had dark hair and the beard when he left New York.”

  Sara nodded. “As you would say, ‘Interesting.’ ”

  “To say the least. But there’s more.” He quickly told her about the rest of his conversation with Hector Rodriquez at the Days Inn. Sara sat stunned, quietly listening.

  “Then Grey didn’t commit suicide,” she said when Max finished.

  “He was murdered, Sara. I’m sure of it.”

  “And someone wanted to make it look like a suicide,” she said.

  “Seems so,” Max replied.

  “Hmmm. Bruce’s murder has to be connected to the stabbings, agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “So why did the killer want to make Bruce’s death look like a suicide while doing nothing to hide the fact that the other three were murdered?”

  “I don’t know,” Max said. He stood up, circled the table for no apparent reason, and sat back down.

  “Max.”

  “What?”

  “You’re playing with your hair again.”

  Bernstein looked up at his right hand. Strands of hair were wrapped around his middle finger as though it were a curler. He untangled his finger and put his hands on the table. “Saves on a perm,” he explained with a smile.

  “So what else did you learn?”

  He leaned forward. “This morning I went through the personal possessions found in Grey’s hotel room. Everything was there—wallet, ID, cash, credit cards, briefcase, change of clothes—even passport.”

  “So?”

  “There was no stamp for Mexico on the passport.”

  “No mystery there. You don’t need to use your passport to go into Mexico. Just proof of citizenship.”

  “Then why did he bring it with him?”

  She shrugged. “What else did you find in the passport?”

  “It’s what I didn’t find,” he said. “You know those pages where the customs officials stamp the country you’re visiting?”

  “Yes.”

  “One of those pages had been neatly clipped out of Grey’s passport. You would never notice unless you looked at it closely.”

  Sara looked up at the ceiling. “So the killer doesn’t want anyone to see what was on that page. Maybe Bruce never went to Mexico. Maybe he went someplace else and the killer doesn’t want us to know where.”

  “My thinking exactly. So I called the Oasis Hotel down in Cancún.”

  “Did he check in?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited for him to continue but he just sat there, smiling. “Max, stop playing games with me. What happened?”

  “I called your old contact at customs and immigration.”

  “Don Scharf?”

  “Right. I know I should have asked you first, but time was of the essence. Anyway, he remembered me from that case we did a few years back where that rapist fled to Puerto Rico.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Well, it took a while but we finally traced down where Bruce went.”

  “And?”

  “And Bruce did go down to Cancún first. But he flew out of Mexico the very next day.”

  “So where did he go?”

  Max smiled. “Bangkok.”

  “THERE’S no question about it, Eric,” Winston O’Connor, chief lab technician at the Sidney Pavilion, said with his Alabama twang. O’Connor had been working for the clinic since its inception and, in fact, had not lived in the South since entering Columbia University eighteen years ago. Still, the years had not subdued Winston’s deep Southern accent. “Take another look at the Western blot. The band pattern is unmistakable.”

  Eric swallowed and reached out his hand. The wall clock, one of those noisy kinds that schools used, read five ten a.m. When was the last time he had left the clinic? Eric did a little quick math. Forty hours ago. He needed sleep something terrible, but all of a sudden he felt wide-awake.

  He glanced down at the photograph and remained silent for a moment. Eric knew what the readings meant, but he kept staring at them anyway, as though he could make the bands on the photograph slide lower or higher by just concentrating on them. “Let me take a look at the ELISA test.”

  Winston sighed. “We’ve already looked at it twice.”

  “I want to look at it again. You sure you used the right sample?”

  Winston looked at him strangely. “Are you kidding?”

  “I want to make sure.”

  “You were standing here when I did it,” Winston said. “I don’t make mistakes on these kinds of things. Neither do you.”

  Eric lowered his head. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Winston crossed the room and opened a door that looked like it belonged on a refrigerator. His hand reached in and extracted a plate. “Here. And here’s the digital readout of the optical density.”

  “Get me the T cell study too.”

  “Again?”

  Eric nodded.

  “Here,” Winston said a moment later. “What the hell you looking for, Eric?”

  Eric did not respond. He examined all the tests and studies at least a dozen more times. Somewhere in the background he could hear Winston sigh and curse under his breath every time Eric asked to look at the same thing again.

  “For crying out loud,” Winston half snapped, “how many times are you going to view this stuff? There’s no mistake here. Shoot, we’ve never made a mistake on this test—ever.”

  “It can’t be,” Eric muttered. “It just can’t be.”

  “We’ve had hundreds of positive HIV tests come through here,” Winston continued. “Why all the double checking on this one? I’ve run the ELISA and the Western on this guy twice now. There’s no question about the
results.”

  Eric moved to a chair as though stunned by a blow to the head. He slowly picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Who you calling?” Winston asked.

  His voice came from far away. “Harvey.”

  “I’ll put this stuff away, then.”

  “No,” Eric said. “Harvey will want to look at it too.”

  “But both of us have already—”

  “He won’t believe us,” Eric said. “He’ll have to see this one for himself.”

  9

  HARVEY buttoned his shirt and smiled toward the rumpled bed. If Jennifer could see him now . . .

  “I still can’t believe you’re here,” he said.

  Cassandra leaned back on the bed and stretched. A thin, white sheet was all that covered her body. “Why not? This is Day Number Four already, Harv.”

  “Happy?”

  “Blissful,” she replied. And it was true. From their first kiss she had felt intoxicated. It was strange, but even now she could feel her heart swell in her chest just thinking about him.

  “No complaints?” he asked.

  “Just one,” she said. “I don’t care much for your hours.”

  “I warned you.”

  “Yeah, but two hours a night?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Not your fault, I guess,” she said. “Anyway, it makes me appreciate my nine to seven at the agency more.”

  Harvey searched the clothes-cluttered floor, found a pair of pants crumpled in a corner, and put them on. “When are you making your presentation to the airline?”

  “This afternoon. Northeastern Air. I have a meeting with their handsome marketing director. Jealous?”

  “Should I be?”

  She looked at him. “No.”

  “Good,” Harvey said with a goofy grin. “Because I really like you.”

  She laughed. “God, you’re corny.”

  He shrugged. “Just out of practice,” he said. “So what ad slogan did you come up with?”

  She thought a moment. “Fly the friendly skies of Northeastern?”

  “It’s been used.”

  “How about ‘We’re Northeastern Airlines, doing what we do best’?”

  “Sorry.”

  “ ‘I’m Candy, fly me’?”

  “Might work if you show some cleavage.”

  “No problem,” Cassandra said. “I majored in cleavage in college.”