Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  “That’s right.”

  Sara shook her head. “Then tell me, Senator, what did you make of Bradley’s murder?”

  “The same as everyone else,” Jenkins said slowly. “I thought Bradley was the random victim of some homophobic psychopath. I had no idea that his murder was connected to the Sidney Pavilion until the newscast.”

  John nodded his agreement. “All we did was try to pressure the people in Washington to take back the grant. We went so far as to falsify reports to make it look like the Sidney Pavilion was illegally usurping funds.”

  Sara almost smiled. “So while Raymond Markey accused Harvey of falsifying reports, you four were the ones who were really tampering with the evidence.”

  “Yes,” her father said. “In many ways the NewsFlash report almost buried the clinic. By revealing that Bradley was a patient at the clinic, you left Harvey wide-open to charges of purposely misrepresenting the facts. Theoretically, Markey could have taken away the clinic’s grant.”

  “So why didn’t he?”

  “Because we live in the real world, not a theoretical one. Can you imagine the outcry if Markey had tried to close the clinic after the show? The media would have had him for lunch. A full investigation would have ensued, and none of us wanted that—”

  “So,” Sara interrupted, “all of you decided to stall the clinic for a couple of years by using Michael as a guinea pig.”

  “It was Sanders’ plan,” John corrected, “and frankly speaking, it was a damn good one. Michael would be able to receive treatment, and the cure would be delayed until Sanders could think of another way of destroying them.”

  “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 swear they 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 at him like crazy. He continues to swear he had nothing to do with it. In fact he says that the Gay Slasher and all the publicity has actually strengthened the clinic, not hurt it.”

  Sara shook her head. “But don’t you see? Without the cured patients, there is no proof that SR1 works. By killing the cured patients, the Gay Slasher is doing your work 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,” John continued, “I know you are angry with me. I know that a part of you even hates me right now. I would feel the same way if the situation was reversed. Believe me, I have learned my lesson. I don’t care anymore about my personal reputation—you have to believe that. But if I go out now and tell the world what I have done, it could destroy the Cancer Center. Charities cannot survive scandals nowadays—you know that. You did a story on that house for teenage runaways—a fine institution destroyed by one man’s indiscretions. I’m sorry, Sara. I cannot risk the Cancer Center. 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 silent Cassandra stood with her. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to find the truth behind this whole mess. And I don’t give a shit if I have to drag down my own father, half of 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 package to his post office box at the main branch of Los Angeles’ post office.”

  “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 still sounded 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 the entire 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 to send 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 out loud.

  “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 she picked up the white envelope marked “Susan” and stared at it for a very long time.

  20

  SARA’S mind churned in confusion and anger as her fingers dialed the Eighty-third Street Precinct.

  “Police department.”

  “Lieutenant Max Bernstein, please?”

  “Yeah, hold on a sec.”

  Her father. Stephen Jenkins. Raymond Markey. And Ernest Sanders. An unholy 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 needed to do something, anything, before she lost her mind completely. Max would know. He would have a good idea what their next step should be.

  Sara had considered confronting Sanders and Markey head-on, but in the end she had decided against it. If the sons of bitches had denied any wrongdoing to their own coconspirators, they were certainly not going to tell her anything new—more likely, she would either warn them of impending danger or, worse, scare them into doing something catastrophic.

  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?” Sara asked. “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 message, I am sure Lieutenant Bernstein will be calling in.”

  Sara scratched her h
ead. Where could Max be that he could not be paged on his beeper? “Please ask him to call Sara Lowell immediately. Tell him it’s important. 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 had carried him nonstop from New York to Tokyo for the past fourteen hours, checked the departure screens, discovered that his connecting flight was leaving from a nearby gate, and walked toward it. To be fair, the flight had been comfortable; in fact, the on-board service had been second to none. It was just that being trapped in any metallic tube 30,000 feet above the earth for fourteen hours had a way of wearing on a person—even if they did show two movies and serve three meals.

  As Max walked through the terminal, he glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows and saw a dozen or so JAL Boeing 747-300s lined up by their respective gates. Each plane had a boarding tunnel running from airport to aircraft like some gigantic umbilical cord that would have to be cut before the plane could be set free.

  Max was not as tired as most of his fellow passengers. Though his mind had whirled with thoughts of how to free Michael, he had managed to sleep a good six hours. He checked his watch and realized that he still had about an hour before his connecting flight took off for Bangkok, the exotic capital of Thailand. Just as well. He had some important things to do in the meantime.

  He followed the yellow sign that read “Overseas Telephone,” conversed with the operator for a moment, then went into a small booth and lifted the receiver. Within seconds the call was 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 and decided 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 lead.”

  “What kind of lead?”

  “Stop playing reporter. I don’t have the time. I’ll call you if anything happens.”

  “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 mouth now and gnawed. Tasted rubbery. The Japanese woman in the next booth frowned at him. Max smiled apologetically and let the wire fall loose.

  When Sara finished, Max told her about his conversation with Winston O’Connor.

  “Now we know how they were getting all that inside information,” Sara said.

  “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 Slasher stuff. Like your father says, the press from the Gay Slasher has strengthened the clinic. More donations, more media support—even Markey couldn’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 the AIDS clinic. He thought about the Washington conspiracy and Winston O’Connor’s connection to it. He thought about the Gay Slasher. He thought about George Camron holding Michael in some whorehouse. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I better go now. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

  He replaced the receiver before Sara could protest, walked into the airport pharmacy, and purchased a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor. He headed into the bathroom and wet his face. Ten minutes later his mustache was gone.

  BANGKOK’S Don Muang Airport.

  As Max headed down the steps and into the Thai night, the humidity hit him first—sticky, like small droplets of syrup hanging in the air. It was late now, almost eleven p.m., and Max felt revved up. He wanted to act fast.

  The plane from Tokyo to Bangkok had been a carbon copy of the one he had taken from New York to Tokyo. Same size, same seating configuration, same interior design, same distortion over the loudspeaker so that he could not tell when the captain was speaking Japanese and when he was speaking English. He had been a bit surprised to see how few passengers were seated in economy class. In fact, he had counted the seats: 100 in economy class, 128 in business class, 32 in first class. The first-class area was incredible. The spacious recliners reminded Max of his father’s favorite TV chair in the family den, complete with leg rests. Dom Pérignon and beluga caviar were being served. Each passenger wore a Japanese happi coat. Very nice. Of course, when you are paying approximately $5,000 for a round-trip flight from New York to Bangkok you’d better be getting very nice.

  Max was traveling economy class, which cost nearly $1,500, a sum total greater than Max’s entire financial portfolio. Since there had been no time to appropriate the funds from the police department, Max had gone to Lenny. Lenny made pretty good money—very good, in fact. He was, after all, 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 had in mind.

  Though seated in the back of the plane, Max had wandered around during the billion hours he was in the air. He always got a kick out of the curtains pulled between the classes, turning an airplane into a microcosm 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 section when you are traveling economy class. The stewardesses attack like Muslim extremists. The reading lights were another problem. How come they were never aimed right? The beam was always too far to the left or to the right or too far in front of you or too far back so that it worked like a spotlight aimed at the top of your head. And who invented that medieval torture device known as the movie headset? They felt like someone was jamming pointed ice tongs through your eardrums.

  Once inside the terminal Max spotted a sign with his name on it. He approached the man holding it. The man was tall for an Asian, over six feet, and very thin. He stood perfectly still, only his eyes moving, as if 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 he had 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 wasted motion. He opened the car door and they both got in the backseat. Like the police vehicles in New York, the air-conditioning was not working. 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 where Michael 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 motel or something. He was in a room in the left-hand corner at the end of the hall. There was a ‘Do Not Enter’ sign on the door. I couldn’t believe my fuckin’ eyes. I opened the door and wham! There he was. Super-strange, you know? I saw Silverman play at the Garden last year against 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 something in 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 my mustache 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 get him 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, they rarely used terms like handsome or ugly or even nondescript. They usually said neat. Tidy. Immaculate. Every hair in place, shoelaces tied, every button buttoned. Eric’s shirttail never hung out, his socks always matched, his face was always clean-shaven. Even now Eric looked cool, unemotional, detached. But inside, under the fastidious grooming—well, that was another matter.