Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  Harvey’s words rushed out. “You have to speak with him. He can’t mention Bradley Jenkins’ connection to the clinic.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it could jeopardize everything.” Harvey quickly recounted his conversation with Assistant Secretary Markey, his sentences stumbling against one another. “If Markey finds out I left Bradley’s name off the progress reports, I could lose the clinic. All our findings would be labeled invalid.”

  “Could they do that?” Michael asked.

  “Markey will certainly give it his best shot. He’s itching for an excuse to reallocate our funds. This would be just what he needs. We can’t let him find out Bradley was treated here.”

  Sara nodded. “I’ll speak to Donald as soon as he gets here.”

  CASSANDRA woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. The disorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a massive hangover. The disorientation usually lasted only a few moments, just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli to reconstruct the previous evening. The pain customarily clung to her a little longer.

  “Harvey?” she called out.

  No answer.

  She groaned. She clasped her head between both hands, but the internal jackhammer continued to rip through her temples. By exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. She squinted in the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the lights were out. In fact, the room was fairly dark.

  She groaned again.

  It was a hotel room, not Harvey’s apartment. A fancy hotel room. A travel brochure would call it “lush” and “well-appointed.” In the distance a car honked its horn, but to Cassandra it might as well have been a blown amplifier from a rock concert taking place somewhere in her cerebrum.

  “Shhh,” she said out loud.

  Her hands held her head in place, waiting until time glued her skull back together. She tried to remember what had happened. The meeting with Northeastern Air. Had they gotten the account? Not yet. Northeastern’s marketing director, a runaway egomaniac, had held off making a decision. Then they had gone drinking at the . . . at the Plaza—that was where she was. What had they talked about? She couldn’t remember. The marketing director, while good-looking, was obnoxious, overbearing, and conceited. A big-time phony. When he opened his mouth, shit came out. She tried to recall what he had said, but the only thing she could remember him saying was “me, I, me, I, me, I.”

  Then what?

  Pretty simple. The marketing director had taken her upstairs, fucked her, and left. It started coming back to her now. The sex was bad. He was a “poser,” someone more interested in his appearance than in what he was doing, the kind of guy who would rather look in a mirror than at his partner. Might as well have been making love to himself.

  Cassandra sat up and glanced about the room. Yep, he was gone, thank God. He had left a note on the night table. She reached for it and read:Congratulations. You got the account.

  He had not signed the note, just left his business card.

  Christ.

  She swung her legs off the bed and managed to stand. The room was like so many others she had been in—spacious, beautiful, immaculate, expensive furnishings, clean sheets, thick towels. Only the best for Cassandra Lowell. Never a sleazy motel. If you wanted to fuck Cassandra Lowell, you had to surround her with beautiful things. You had to take her to a classy place. She was, after all, no cheap whore.

  She was a classy whore.

  She headed toward the bathroom. Standing outside the shower, she turned on the hot water and waited till the water steamed before stepping under the spray. She stood there for a very long time, letting the near-scorching water pound down on her. She lathered her body and rinsed off repeatedly. Forty-five minutes later, she dried herself off. Then she sat on the king-sized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, and went home.

  When she arrived at the Lowell mansion a few hours later, she poured a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Good morning, honey,” John Lowell said.

  Cassandra looked up. Her father was wearing a charcoal turtleneck, his hair neatly groomed, his cheeks flushed. Her father was still a good-looking man, she thought, but he had not had a serious relationship with a woman since her mother’s death almost ten years ago. A shame and yet Cassandra wondered how she would feel if another woman were to light up her father’s eyes the way her mother had.

  Spiteful, probably. That would be typical of her.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “Have you heard from Sara?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  Her father shrugged. “I called the hospital. They told me Michael checked out this morning. I called their house, but all I got was the answering machine.”

  “Did you try Dr. Riker?” she asked.

  Dr. Lowell nodded. “He hasn’t returned my call. I don’t think he will.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s just say that Harvey Riker and I are not exactly buddies.”

  Cassandra lowered her eyes. She felt something peculiar, something, she guessed, akin to shame.

  “Still,” Dr. Lowell continued, “it’s quite strange.”

  “What is?”

  “Michael has hepatitis B, which means he’ll have to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. Why would he check out?”

  “Maybe they moved him to another hospital.”

  “Maybe,” Dr. Lowell said doubtfully.

  Cassandra remembered how quickly Harvey had hustled out of the apartment after Eric’s call yesterday morning. She had not picked up much of the conversation, but Harvey’s tone had been grave, nervous. She had also heard him mention Michael’s name before hanging up and rushing out the door without so much as a good-bye.

  Is something seriously wrong with Michael?

  “I have to go,” her father said. “If your sister calls, tell her she can reach me on the car phone.” He kissed Cassandra on the cheek and walked toward the door. He had not asked where she had been the past five nights or with whom. When it came to sexual matters, her father liked to pretend nothing was amiss—easier on the ol’ morals than the truth.

  Cassandra thought about Harvey. She wondered why she had ended up in bed with that Neanderthal marketing director (what the hell was his name?) when things had been going so well . . .

  . . . too well? . . .

  . . . with Harvey.

  Well, c’est la vie. It could be that she and Harvey were never meant to last. Or it could be that she had too much to drink. Or it could be . . .

  . . . or it could be that you’re a worthless whore, Cassandra.

  She closed her eyes. When she heard her father drive away, Cassandra stood and crept down the corridor toward his study. It was time to put last night behind her. There were other matters, more important matters, to consider.

  She knew that what she was about to do was wrong. She knew that her father’s study was off-limits, that she had no right to pry into his private affairs. But Harvey’s words—and maybe the need to make up for last night—propelled her forward: “It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?”

  Indeed, she thought. What was—or is—he trying to hide? Could he really be connected with Reverend Sanders? Could her father really have something to do with the trouble at the clinic?

  She reached the door to his study, turned the knob, and entered. Her father’s office was her favorite room in the house. So spacious, with a high ceiling, dark oak everywhere, thousands of books—like Henry Higgins’ study in My Fair Lady. She crept behind the large antique desk and pulled the side drawer. It would not open. She tried it again. Locked. She sat back in the plush leather swivel chair. Now, where did he hide that damn key? Her hand felt around the underside of the middle drawer. A few moments later she felt something cool, metallic.


  Bingo.

  Her fingers closed around the small key and ripped away the tape. She unlocked the desk and began to rifle through its contents. In the bottom right-hand drawer, she found his file of personal letters. She skimmed through them until she found one that piqued her interest. It was from Dr. Leonard Bronkowitz, the chief trustee at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital:Dear John,

  I know this is going to upset you immensely, but the board has decided to go ahead with Sidney Pavilion. Despite your rather persuasive arguments, a slim majority of the board members seems to feel that AIDS is an illness which has been ignored for far too long. While many members agreed with your point that the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction now that the world has recognized the severity of the illness, the board also believes that Dr. Riker and Dr. Grey could make some serious headway into developing a vaccine for the virus. Aside from the benefits for mankind, such a vaccine could bring the hospital additional prestige and, in turn, finances.

  I realize that this will hinder your own programs at the Cancer Center, but I hope you will support us in this new and exciting endeavor.

  Sincerely,

  Leonard Bronkowitz, M.D.

  And there was a letter from Washington dealing with the same subject:Dear Dr. Lowell,

  The medical disbursements for this fiscal year have been allocated and I regret to say that there will be no funds for the new wing at the Cancer Center. We realize and respect the importance of your work, but the fact remains that New York City and, more specifically, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center have already received more than a lion’s share of funds, most of which have gone to the center’s new AIDS clinic, operated by Dr. Harvey Riker and Dr. Bruce Grey.

  Personally, I believe your work is crucial and am disappointed in this decision, but since you are a former surgeon general, I am sure you can appreciate how these things sometimes work. The AIDS virus seems to me to be the public’s “Disease of the Week” or “Flavor of the Month.” It’s the new “in” cause for everyone to rally around. I am confident that the public’s interest will wane and tire soon and then they will have the ability to view this disease more rationally.

  Take heart and know that there are others who feel as we do. I would be honored if during your next visit to Washington you would call me so that we can discuss the world of medicine. I very much value your opinion on a broad range of subjects.

  Yours,

  Raymond Markey, M.D.

  Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services

  Cassandra felt ill. There was really nothing shocking in the letters. She knew her father had been against the clinic from its inception, that he had complained bitterly about the “waste” of funds. What she had not known was the direct effect the Sidney Pavilion had had on his own cancer research. It was an either/or situation—either the AIDS clinic or the new wing at the Cancer Center. Cassandra knew how much the Center meant to her father, but how far would he go to get funding? Surely, he would never . . .

  The sound of a car pulling up the driveway made her jump. A loud diesel engine. Her father’s Mercedes. He was back already.

  Shit! I thought he was going to be out all day!

  Cassandra put the two letters back into the folder, put the folder back into the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. In the background she heard the purr of the electric garage door opener.

  What did I do with that damn key?

  Her eyes scanned the desktop for the key. Nothing. She looked on the floor. Still nothing. The Mercedes was pulling into the six-car garage now. She had to get out of the office before he saw her. Damn it, where was that key? When she saw it a second later in the desk’s keyhole, she wanted to slap herself for not looking there earlier. She wrenched it out as she heard her father turn off the engine and slam the car door shut.

  She ripped a piece of Scotch tape out of the dispenser on the desk and taped the key back under the middle drawer. She moved quickly now, getting up from behind the desk, slipping quickly to the door, opening it, turning right, and heading down the hall.

  If she had turned left instead, she would have seen her father standing at the end of the hallway, watching her with a stunned look on his face.

  DONALD Parker stood with a stiff back, perfect posture, and a dark blue suit at the end of the hall. Forty years in the news business had taken him across all seven continents. Parker had covered the inauguration of every president from Harry Truman to George Bush. He had witnessed the first moon launch, the Tet Offensive, the Beijing massacre, the opening of the Berlin Wall, Operation Desert Storm. He had interviewed Gandhi, Malcolm X, Pol Pot, Khomeini, Amin, Gorbachev, Hussein. There was little he had not accomplished.

  As Sara limped toward him, Donald Parker caught her eye and smiled gently. His eyes were bright blue, piercing and probing. The eyes of the perfect interviewer. “Hello, Sara.”

  “Hello, Donald. Did you get my notes?”

  He nodded. “This is quite a story, Sara. The story of the year maybe. Why are you giving it up?”

  “I’m too close to it,” she said.

  “Personal involvement?”

  She nodded.

  “Does this have something to do with the statement your husband is making before the show?”

  “I’d rather not say just yet.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Any new developments?”

  “Another patient, a Riccardo Martino, was murdered last night on the hospital grounds.”

  “What?”

  “I have all the details here.”

  He took the piece of paper and read it. “Good work, Sara.”

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “You can’t mention Senator Jenkins’ son on the air.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She explained. He listened intently, nodding. “Okay,” he said when she finished, “I’ll leave that part out.”

  “Thanks, Donald. I really appreciate it.”

  “And let me get something else straight. This Dr. Riker does not want to be on television?”

  “Right. Dr. Riker wants to keep his anonymity. His assistant, Dr. Eric Blake, will handle the interviews.”

  “Okay, then, I better get this thing wrapped up. Thanks for laying all the groundwork, Sara. You’ve left me with the easy parts.”

  “No problem,” she said, walking away. “And thanks for understanding about Bradley Jenkins.”

  Donald Parker watched her hobble away, leaning heavily on her cane. Sara was a mesmerizing girl, an awesome beauty masking an awesome intellect. She was good at her job and Donald found his respect for her growing every day.

  Unfortunately, he knew, her respect for him was about to be tested. After tonight’s show she would be more than disappointed with him. She would be furious. But Donald Parker had been in this business a long time, and he had developed a certain code of ethics over the years. He did not believe in ignoring important aspects of a story for the convenience of others—no matter what the possible consequences.

  And he was not going to leave Bradley Jenkins out of his report.

  13

  CASSANDRA was about to say something she would later regret.

  She had come to Harvey’s office to tell him about the letters she found in her father’s drawer. Instead, unplanned words poured out of her mouth.

  “I have something to tell you,” Cassandra began.

  “Oh?”

  She kept her head low, her eyes afraid to meet his. “I spent last night with another man.”

  A brief flash of grief rushed through him, widening his eyes. “The, uh, marketing director?”

  She nodded.

  “I see,” Harvey said, his face calm now, showing nothing. He circled back to his desk, sat down, and began to jot notes in a file.

  “Is that all you’re going to say?” she asked.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  �
�Do you want it to bother me?”

  “Stop answering my questions with a question.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me, Cassandra. You come in here and tell me you slept with another man. How do you want me to react?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “What do you mean, why?”

  “I would never have found out,” he said. “Why did you say anything?”

  She opened her mouth, stopped, began to shrug, stopped, then said in a hesitant voice, “I wanted to be up-front with you.”

  “Fine. You were up-front. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Wait a second—”

  “I’m sorry, Cassandra. I really am. I thought we were happy together. I thought—I don’t know—I thought we had something special.”

  “We do.”

  “Then we have different ideas about special. I can’t afford to get my heart squashed again. It hurts too much. It affects my concentration, my work—”

  “It won’t happen again. I swear. I never meant to hurt—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I should have never let it come this far anyway. It was a mistake from the beginning. I was a goddamn fool to think you could ever . . .” He shook his head. “Good-bye, Cassandra.” He lowered his eyes and began writing.

  “Harv?”

  He did not look up. His voice was more firm now. “Good-bye, Cassandra.”

  She felt something odd, something hard and painful, form inside her own chest. She wanted to say something more, but his cold expression stopped her.

  She turned and left.

  “MICHAEL’S giving a press conference in five minutes.”

  Reece Porter stopped lacing his high-top Nikes and looked up at his coach. “What are you talking about?”