“Purpose?”
“Why did you target people at an AIDS clinic?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Come on, George, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
“I kill for hire,” George explained. “The less I know, the better.”
“You must have heard something.”
“Nothing.”
“Then why did you make the murders look like the work of a serial killer?”
“Those were my instructions,” George said. “I was told to slash them all up in an unmistakably similar fashion—make it as bloody as possible.”
“Why did you dump Bradley Jenkins behind a gay bar?”
George shrugged. “I just did what I was told.” As George spoke, his plan crystallized. As soon as he hit the street, he would set off the explosives, killing Silverman and the cop while providing him with the ideal diversion for his escape. “That’s what I get paid for, Lieutenant—even if the payments did come a little late. I thought I was being stiffed until yesterday—”
“Did you kill Dr. Bruce Grey and make it look like a suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Orders.”
“Were all the other victims mutilated?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
“Stabbed repeatedly?”
“Yes.”
“None killed any other way?”
George sighed impatiently. “All were stabbed except Dr. Grey.”
“And Riccardo Martino?”
“Never heard of him.”
For the first time since the questioning began, Max paused. Then: “Why was Michael kidnapped?”
George rolled his eyes. “How the hell am I supposed to know? I got a call in the morning telling me to nab Michael Silverman before the day was over. That’s what I did. I paid off a friend in customs, loaded him on a cargo jet, and we flew over here. I do not like to repeat myself, Lieutenant, so I will say this for the last time—I do not know, nor do I care, why my employer ordered any of these jobs.”
“What were your last orders?”
“Blow up a building and let Michael go.”
“What building?”
“A storage house.”
It was Michael who spoke. “The clinic’s storage house,” he said. “All Harv’s lab work would have been destroyed.”
“I am leaving now,” George said, “but before I do, let me remind you that I have my thumb resting on a detonator. If you try any heroics, I’ll push the button. If you plan on having a sniper take me out, he better make sure I die instantly. Otherwise my thumb presses down. Do you understand?”
Max nodded.
“Good. I’m going to let you go now. Don’t move for five minutes.”
George shoved Max across the room. Max stumbled and fell. He turned around, still on his knees.
“One last question,” Max said.
“No more questions, Lieutenant. Good-bye. And remember”—he held up the detonator—“ka-boom.”
“Just one more.”
George stepped toward the door. “Good-bye.”
Max reached into his boot and took out his gun. It was the first time he had ever done that in the line of duty and he was surprised at how smooth his movements had been. “Would you please put your hands up?”
George looked amused. “Are you joking, Lieutenant?”
“Put your hands above your head now.”
George laughed. “Go ahead. Fire. I’ll blow this whole fucking block to kingdom come.”
“No, you won’t.”
“And why not?”
Max smiled. “Because you fucked up, George. Again.”
George’s smile disappeared. “What are you talking about?”
“I disconnected the explosives before you got here.”
George’s mouth dropped open.
“You do terribly crude work, George. No trip wire, no nothing. Any idiot could have disengaged it in two seconds. Very sloppy work.”
George shook his head. “The Thais would have busted in if that were true.”
“The Thais think the explosives are still intact,” Max said. “I wanted them to.”
“Why?”
“If they stormed us,” Max continued, “somebody might have gotten killed. And you were the most likely candidate. I needed your information first.”
“You’re lying.”
“Then go ahead. Push the button. As soon as you do I have my reason to waste you. Either way you are a dead man.” Max steadied his aim. “So go ahead. You already told me everything you know. You’re worthless to me now. Push the button.”
It’s over. I fucked up. I really fucked up . . .
George’s mind flailed wildly, grasping for any rescue float. “If I surrender,” he began tentatively, “will I be extradited to the United States?”
“Yes.”
Maybe I can still swing a deal. The Americans will want someone to testify against my employer. I still have valuable information. Wouldn’t be the first time they let the hit man go to catch the big fish . . .
“Okay, then,” George said, “here.” He held out the detonator.
“That’s worthless now, George. Take out your knife and put it on the ground. Then put your hands above your head.”
Max opened the window shade. Within seconds the cops were in the room. They cuffed George and dragged him downstairs. Max immediately ran for the detonator. He picked it up gently as if it were made of expensive crystal.
“Max?” Michael called.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t know anything about explosives, do you?”
Max did not look up. “Not a damn thing.”
22
HARVEY watched yet another sunrise from the window at the clinic. He had managed to catch a few hours of sleep on the couch last night and had woken up with a major Excedrin headache. Why, he could not say. Anxiety probably. Patience, a requirement in his field, had never been one of his virtues. And now the stakes had been raised astronomically. Something was going to happen today; he was sure of it. Something big.
Something in Bruce’s package.
It would be only a matter of time before it arrived. He tried to temper his excitement and unease. The package, he continuously reminded himself, could be nothing important. Bruce might have mailed himself those files for a variety of reasons. For example, he might have wanted to . . .
Harvey thought hard, but nothing unimportant came to mind.
He massaged his temples and tried to relax, but something else kept nudging at him, something that could be even more critical than the package. He did not want to think about it, did not want even to consider the possibility. And yet the facts were clear. Eric Blake had taken a blood sample from Michael’s arm when he had specifically been told to keep away. Why did he do it? Eric had always been big on protocol and following the rules. Why had he gone against their common practices to take Michael’s blood?
Frightening questions. Might be even more frightening answers.
Harvey looked at his watch. Eric was supposed to arrive soon. He would confront him then.
The intercom sounded. “Package for you, Dr. Riker.”
“Send it in.”
A UPS driver entered the room. With a trembling hand Harvey signed for the package, locked the door behind the driver, and carried it to his desk. He could feel something flutter in his heart. His breath grew shallow.
Harvey opened the package and began to examine its contents.
“TIRED?” Max asked.
Michael looked up from his cot. Only a few hours ago he had been George Camron’s prisoner. Now he, Max, and a Thai doctor shared the closed-off back section of a Thai Airways jet that was somewhere over the Pacific.
“More like anxious.”
“Don’t blame you.” Max put the pencil in his mouth and began to gnaw. “But in a way, it’s better Sara wasn’t home. This isn’t the kind of thing you want to tell someone
over a phone.”
Michael managed to sit up. “That was a hell of a bluff you made back there.”
“What choice did I have?” Max said. “If I let Camron go, he would have blown us up.”
“I know, but still—”
“Besides, I didn’t do that much. I just made the decision to live or die his own.”
“What do you mean?”
“George never thought I’d risk pulling a gun on him,” he explained. “He counted on that fact. Once I did, he had no choice. If he pushed the button, he was dead—either by the explosives or by my gun. George Camron did not want to die. It’s as simple as that.”
Michael nodded. “How’s your neck feel?”
Max touched the bandage on his throat. “Just a flesh wound,” he said. “Kinda gross, though.”
“Can you fill me in on what’s happened?” Michael asked.
“I can try.”
“Why was I kidnapped?”
Max paced the tight aisle. He recounted all he knew about the Gay Slasher case. Michael’s eyes never left him. His face registered no emotion, even when he heard about his father-in-law’s involvement with the Washington conspiracy.
“So who do you think is behind all this?” Michael asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“What about Sanders’ group? They seem the most likely suspects.”
Max tilted his head back and forth like a pendulum swing. “Yes and no,” he said. “I don’t think it’s the conspiracy, per se, or Reverend Sanders. If Sanders was willing to commit murder to destroy the clinic, there would have been no reason for all this fancy footwork—just murder a few doctors or blow up the clinic.”
“What do you mean ‘conspiracy per se’?”
“Well, it could be one of them—Markey, Jenkins, your father-in-law—acting on his own.”
“What motive would they have?”
“Don’t know.”
“You said something before about the order of the murders?”
Max nodded. “It probably means nothing, but I keep focusing on that point. There were six cured patients.” He took out a piece of paper and began to scribble:Trian, S.
Whitherson, W.
Martino, R.
Krutzer, T.
Leander, P.
Singer, A.
“What about Bradley Jenkins?” Michael asked.
“He was never cured, so let’s leave him out of this for a second.” Max pointed to the list of names. “This is the order in which they became patients. Trian, Whitherson, and Martino—the Gay Slasher’s victims—all came in between a year and a year and a half before Krutzer, Leander, and Singer. Whitherson was actually the first patient admitted.”
“Then the order is wrong,” Michael said. “Trian was killed first.”
“True,” Max agreed, “but the real question is this—how come the three patients cured first were killed and not the last three?”
Michael thought for a moment. “Given enough time, they might have been,” he said. “Maybe you put the last three in hiding before George had a chance to strike.”
“Maybe. But George’s boss must have seen that possibility. He told George to make the killings look like the work of a serial killer. He purposely made the killings so obvious that even a moron would know he was targeting the clinic’s cured patients. Why? He had to know that we’d catch on eventually, that he’d never be able to kill all six with the Gay Slasher routine unless . . .”
“Unless he never intended to have George kill all six,” Michael finished.
“Exactly.”
“So what separates the first three cured patients from the last three?”
“Interesting question. Let’s have a look-see.”
For the next hour Max went through Harvey’s files while Michael watched from his cot.
“Interesting,” Max remarked after the hour had passed.
“What?”
“Trian, Whitherson, and Martino were all admitted by Bruce Grey.”
“Is that significant?”
Max shrugged and turned a page. “Something else.”
“What?”
“Your buddy Eric Blake joined the clinic after Trian, Whitherson, and Martino were admitted, but before Krutzer, Leander, and Singer had arrived on the scene.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“Neither do I. Yet.”
“Who admitted the other three—Krutzer, Leander, and Singer?”
Max checked the files. “Harvey.”
“All three?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t Eric admit anybody?”
“Never. He could only assist.”
“Anything else?” Michael asked.
Max continued to glance through the files. “Let’s see how the blood work went with them.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s see . . . Trian’s, Whitherson’s, and Martino’s original blood work was all done by Bruce. Theoretically, this should mean that Harvey did the later blood work to see if they had changed from HIV positive to HIV negative.”
“Did he?”
Max thumbed through the pages for a few minutes. “Yep, it checks out. Harvey handled all the later HIV tests. Now let’s see if Bruce did the HIV testing for the patients Harvey admitted.” He continued to skim through the files. When he finished, he put them down.
“Well?”
Max turned toward him. “Bruce Grey performed the tests, just as he should have. They even let Eric do a couple on Krutzer and Leander to make sure everything was aboveboard.”
“So everything was on the up-and-up.”
Max nodded. “Guess so.” He picked up a chewed-up pencil and drew a quick chart:
“So what’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Nothing. Let’s move on.”
Michael sat up. Dr. Sombat, the Thai doctor, watched him warily. “What about the motivation of Sanders’ coconspirators?”
Still distracted by the blood-work rotation, Max wrote the names on another piece of paper:
Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services
Raymond Markey
Senator Stephen Jenkins
Dr. John Lowell
Dr. Sombat stood and walked toward them. “Excuse me,” he said, “but Mr. Silverman must get some rest. This whole experience has weakened him considerably.”
“I’m fine,” Michael replied.
“No, he’s right, Michael.” Max smiled. “Get some rest. You look awful.”
“I’m too wound up.”
The Thai doctor produced a needle. “This will help. Please lie still.”
As Michael dozed off, Max continued to stare at the three names on the sheet of paper in front of him.
Markey, Jenkins, and Lowell.
Sounded like a New York law firm.
SARA hobbled through the door, leaning heavily against her cane. She pressed the answering machine rewind button, listened to the scratching sound and then waited for the tape to begin. The first two messages were hang ups. The third was from Harvey.
“It’s Harvey, Sara. Give me a call at the clinic when you have a chance. It’s . . . it’s rather important. Bye.”
She was about to reach for the receiver when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sara? It’s Jennifer Riker.”
“Hello, Jennifer. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” Pause. “Sara, have you heard anything . . . ?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I hope the package I sent Harvey will help.”
“What package?”
“Hasn’t Harvey called you?”
“He left a message for me on my machine, but I haven’t had a chance to call him back yet. What package, Jennifer?”
“Bruce mailed a package to his California P.O. box the same day he committed suicide. It probably means nothing—”
“It had all kinds of medical files and blood samples in it. Anyway, Harvey should have received it today.”
“Thanks for calling, Jennifer. I hate to rush you off the line . . .”
“Say no more. Good luck, Sara.”
Sara hung up and quickly dialed the clinic. “Dr. Riker, please. This is Sara Lowell.”
“He is on rounds, Ms. Lowell. Would you like me to page him?”
“Just tell him I’m on my way over there.”
“Of course, Ms. Lowell. Good-bye, now.”
Sara grabbed her cane and headed for the door.
JFK Airport, New York.
Sergeant Willie Monticelli showed his ID, boarded the plane, and headed for the closed-off section in the back.
“Hey, Twitch.”
“Hi, Willie.”
“Got the ambulance for Silverman,” he said.
“The press know anything?” Max asked.
“Not yet. We can sneak him out on the tarmac. It’s dark as hell out there. No one will see him.”
“Have you located Sara yet?”
“She’s at the clinic.”
“Did you speak to her?”
Willie shook his head. “You said not to.”
Max began pacing. “Okay, good. I’ll go with Michael and the doctor.”
“Wouldn’t advise it, Twitch.”
“Why not?”
“I got a call from the county coroner’s office. Ralph Edmund said he had vital information you wanted on Riccardo Martino. He also said that you would definitely want to see it. He’s waiting for you at the morgue.”
Max felt the familiar excitement rush through him. If his suspicions were right about Martino’s tests . . . “The doctor here can escort Michael to the hospital,” Max said hurriedly. “Willie, drive like a maniac to the morgue.”
Willie smiled. “I’m your man.”
“HERE you go, lady.”
“Thank you.”
Susan Grey paid the driver. After a long (too long) hiatus, she and her son, Tommy, were finally home. Home. A city. Lots of people. Real life. Susan had missed them all, and that was why they were home two days early. Vegging out in the woods had been fun at first, beneficial even. But then it began to wear on them both. She and Tommy had reached the stage where they craved some good old-fashioned civilization. Yes, American civilization. Electricity. Hot water. Men without beards. Women who shaved their legs. A television set. An episode of Wheel of Fortune. A Michelob Light commercial. One damn issue of Cosmopolitan. A mall. A conversation that did not employ the word granola.
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