“Just when his daughter’s gonna have an operation?” said Ruddock. “I doubt it.”
Dorsey looked out at rows of trash cans, illuminated by a single security light. Water sluiced down from a strip of broken gutter.
“Listen to that rain,” he said. He turned to face Ruddock, his hands on his hips. “Yeah, well, maybe he’s not such a great family man. If he’s involved in some kind of racket…”
Ruddock considered the toes of his shoes and sipped at his coffee. Dorsey seemed pretty sure Ford was their man. However obliquely, he was linked to both crime scenes—so far the only person that was. Physical evidence may have been lacking at Novak’s house, but forensics had lifted fingerprints and fiber from all over the Griffen property, footprints too. Dorsey was confident a piece of this evidence would eventually put Ford at the scene. When Ruddock had questioned Ford’s ability to drown a grown man unaided—not without there being more signs of a violent struggle, anyway—Dorsey had developed the idea of a partner. Strands of red hair found in the pool were clearly not from Ford. So that meant he’d had help. Forensics had produced some good DNA shots from the roots of the hair. All they needed was for Ford to give up his partner and the case could be closed.
As to motive, Dorsey had gotten all steamed up speculating that Ford, as head of the Willowbrook Trauma Unit—being close to the street, close to the junkies, homeboys, and dealers of South Central—would be a perfect middleman for products coming down from Novak or Griffen. Once you accepted that, all you had to do was assume that something had gone wrong—as things always did in narco-land—and you gave Ford a motive for silencing the suppliers. Dorsey had put all these ideas to the gang and narcotics people, but so far there had been no response.
Ruddock levered a crust of mud off the toe of his right foot. It kind of made sense, but no more than kind of. Sure, he had doubts about Ford. For one thing it was weird that a white doctor with his qualifications should bury himself in a public hospital in South Central LA—you had to wonder about his reasons for that. But Ruddock had trouble casting the man as the ruthless killer. Meanwhile, Dorsey kept cranking on about Raymond Denny’s death, about how Ford had let him die because Ford was pro-black and, therefore, necessarily anti-police. It looked to Ruddock that his partner, as always, was taking things a little too personally.
Dorsey walked over to the door and looked out into the empty corridor. The nurse had brought them down to the first floor, where the hospital was quiet, telling them to stay put until she called. As soon as Ford showed up, she was going to let them know.
“Where’s she stuck us here?” said Dorsey to no one in particular.
Ruddock shrugged.
“‘Triage’ is what she said. Somewhere near Triage—near the Emergency Department. It’s better than being out in the waiting room with all the homeboys.”
Dorsey started to hum as his hand went inside his jacket. Ruddock knew that he was touching his gun. He touched it all the time when they were out on the street, like it was a sore place he just couldn’t leave alone.
“Ain’t that the truth,” he said.
Keeping his eyes on the broken taillight of the Pontiac up ahead, Denman drifted across to the middle lane and leaned on the gas.
“Don’t get too close,” said West. “If he sees us, he might panic. We’d be chasing him all over town.”
Denman’s eyes cut to the rearview mirror, where he could see West’s pale face. He drew in a breath and winced with pain. The son-of-a-bitch doctor had broken one of his ribs; he was sure of it.
“We should have finished him off when we had him up at the clinic,” he growled.
West let out an irritated sigh.
“Christ, is that all you people know? Killing?”
“I’ve got lime in the trunk. We could be driving him out to the Mojave instead of following him down to South Central.”
“We wouldn’t be following him now if you hadn’t spooked him in the first place.”
Denman gripped the wheel until his hands hurt. If there was one thing he could not abide, it was having his competence questioned. Especially by someone who knew nothing about operating in the field. He was good at what he did and only scared people when he wanted them scared—like threatening to cut off Griffen’s hand, making the old fart piss his pants.
“I keep telling you it wasn’t me that spooked him,” he said. “He must have seen something.”
“Yeah, right. Like that cannon you’ve got in your armpit.”
Denman shook his head, his mouth pressed into a hard line. He didn’t even pack a .45. It would be too bulky.
“There’s no need for more violence,” said West in a more conciliatory tone. “Ford’s no threat. He doesn’t know enough to hurt us, not really. He knows nothing of the technology. That’s what counts.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Look, all he wants is to save his daughter. He still needs us to do that.”
Denman laughed a single harsh bark and then clutched at his injured side.
“I still can’t believe he did that,” he said. “He sure is a stupid son of a bitch.”
“He’s intelligent enough to cut a deal,” said West. “That’s all that matters.”
“And if he isn’t? If he doesn’t want to?”
West said nothing for a moment. Denman checked the mirror again. He could see the pale face in profile. The great man was thinking, rummaging around in his soul for the right and wrong of it all. Sad son of a bitch. Then the face turned, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
“Well, in that case you get to use your lime,” West said.
Dorsey looked at his watch.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you think we can trust her?”
Ruddock turned from the window, where he had been looking out at the storm. He checked his own watch. They had been waiting for forty minutes.
“I mean, she might be in on the whole thing. How do we know Ford hasn’t come and gone?” Dorsey said.
Ruddock looked at his partner’s flushed face, then checked his watch again, trying to make up his mind.
“We should have sat out front in the parking lot,” said Dorsey. “We could have collared him as he entered the building.”
“Oh, fuck it,” said Ruddock. “I’m sick of watching you jump up and down, anyway. We may as well get up there.”
They left the room and walked along the corridor to the elevators, one of which was out of order. Dorsey pressed the button and stood back. Ruddock watched his hand disappear under his lapel. He just hoped Dorsey had the safety on.
“You okay, Sam?” Dorsey gave an irritable shrug. “Because you look a little jumpy.”
“I’m fine,” said Dorsey. “Just don’t like hospitals is all.”
Ford entered the hospital through the main public entrance. The usual groups of anxious relatives and friends had been swollen by a cross section of South Central’s street people—the disoriented lame, the addicted, the borderline psychotic—all sheltering from the storm, all clutching their broken umbrellas and bits of plastic, hoping to get some attention or hoping to go unnoticed—standing in pools of water, giving off rancid smells of poverty and neglect.
A few heads turned as Ford hurried past. But it was his appearance of purpose, of knowing where he was going, that singled him out, not his swollen lip and disheveled clothes. In the short run from the car, he had gotten soaked through.
Riding up to the second floor, he examined his damaged thumb. The nail was almost black now and it hurt like hell. He also noticed that the sleeve of his jacket was badly torn. He didn’t like to think what his face looked like.
In pediatric ICU the first familiar face he saw was Gloria’s. She was talking to another nurse who was clutching a bundle of soiled bedding. She didn’t see him until he touched her arm.
“Holy God! What happened to you?”
“Where’s Lee?”
For a moment Gloria was too stunned to speak. She shooed the other
nurse away with her big hands.
“For Christ’s sake, Gloria, where’s Lee?”
She leaned forward, her expression suddenly furtive.
“A couple of homicide detectives came looking for you.”
Ford brought the back of his hand up to his swollen lip. He couldn’t help smiling at Gloria’s face.
“It’s all right, Gloria. I haven’t killed anybody. Not yet.”
“So what’ve you been—”
“Look.”
He opened the bottle of capsules and held it out for her to see.
“Take a good look, Gloria.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to get this to Sunny. This is the end of our problems.”
Gloria’s mouth dropped open. She took a half step back, looking at him as if he were a madman.
“Don’t you understand?” said Ford. “She’s going to be all right.”
Warily, she took the bottle from his hand.
“This is Midrin,” she said flatly.
Ford blinked. Grabbed the bottle. He shook out a couple of the capsules into his trembling hand. For a moment he stared at the distinctive pink-and-yellow painkiller in utter disbelief.
“I don’t…”
Edward Turnbull flashed into his mind. He’d said this was what he was getting three times a day. Had it been a trick? Then Ford realized that Turnbull wouldn’t know the difference between an analgesic and an antibiotic. The boy wouldn’t know any different. Ford’s hand closed in a fist. In his eagerness to get the drug, in the euphoria of believing that he was holding the drug that would save Sunny’s life, he hadn’t seen the capsules for what they were. He had poured them out into his hand, had stared at them, but he had not seen.
“Dr. Ford? Are you okay?”
“Oh, Jesus, Gloria.”
Her beeper sounded. Keeping one eye on Ford, she picked up the nearest phone and punched in the number for the switchboard.
“Pediatrics, Tyrell.”
Ford stared, blank, canceled, his hands relaxing, the useless medicine falling to the floor. It was a moment before he realized that Gloria was beckoning to him, holding out the phone.
He took it, hardly aware of what he was doing.
“Marcus? Marcus, are you there?”
It was West.
“Marcus, I thought we had a deal.”
The anger seemed to bud in his throat. He couldn’t speak. Suddenly all he wanted to do was get his hands on West. He would kill him with his bare hands. He would crush and squeeze his lying, cheating, murderous neck.
“Marcus? Hello?”
“Not for…” Ford tried to draw breath. His throat was so tight it hurt. “Not for painkillers we didn’t.”
West was silent for a moment.
“Marcus, you were the one who stole the bottle. I never said it contained the drug.”
“You let me believe—”
“Yes, I did. I let you believe because it suited me. It gave me an edge. And now I’m going to give you the real thing. Not capsules, a serum. Marcus, you administer it intravenously, or via injection. Whatever you need.”
With a jolt of cognition, Ford remembered the drip in Turnbull’s arm. He leaned forward against the wall, his injured hand pressed to his eyes. It hadn’t been saline solution in that line … It had been Omega. He had been standing a couple of feet away from Sunny’s salvation, clutching a handful of painkillers.
“I was ready to do a deal,” said West. “Denman put the drug in the car. In the trunk. Remember Denman? The guy you assaulted?”
“What?”
“Marcus, it was in the trunk. Still is, no thanks to you. You should be more careful about locking up your car. Especially in neighborhoods like this.”
He had left the key in the ignition.
“Denman’s a killer,” said Ford, but with no great conviction. He was confused, no longer clear about his position.
“Marcus, you have no idea. You have no conception of—”
“He’s a killer. He killed Griffen.”
“Look,” said West leaning closer to the phone, his voice coming through in a conspiratorial whisper, “he’s a lot of things, but he comes highly recommended. And I can’t always … You can’t always choose the people you work with. As I keep trying to impress upon you, I’m not a free agent in this. This thing is so … important—for the country, for the world. But you have to believe me, I never sanctioned any of the violence. It’s just that this whole situation … it’s become very complicated.”
Ford closed his eyes against a sudden rush of nausea.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Marshall. I’m sorry to hear how complicated your life is. My life … Sunny’s life is real simple. In fact she—”
“Marcus, you’re not hearing me. I have the drug. Do you understand? I have the drag here with me. It’s not too late for Sunny. I’m sitting out in the parking lot right now. We can still do the deal.”
Ford looked up at Gloria. She hadn’t moved an inch.
“Oh, really? You’d be going out on a limb there, wouldn’t you, Marshall?”
“Like I said. Like I said, we’re not monsters, Marcus. And giving Sunny the drug doesn’t change the equation. Omega’s efficacy is only compromised if it goes into mass production. Then you know what happens.”
“So what’s the—?”
“We’ll give you the drug in exchange—”
“For my silence.”
“If you agree to let us handle this whole thing in the proper manner.”
Again Ford checked Gloria’s face.
“And how do I know it’s not just a trick? How do I know you won’t kill me?”
Gloria brought her hand to her mouth.
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. It would be tidier that way. Easier. Less complicated.”
“Marcus, it’s a simple deal. I am buying your silence in exchange for the cure. I know you won’t screw around with Sunny’s life, not now … not later.”
Ford felt the hair tingle on the back of his neck.
“What does that mean? Later? Are you threatening me, Marshall? Are you threatening my daughter?”
“All I’m … as a friend, Marcus, all I’m telling you is you should bear in mind the kind of people … the kind of agencies involved here.”
“Agencies?”
“Do I have to spell it out? Wake up to the big picture, Marcus. Wake up to reality. Do you think Denman is on the payroll of the county health department?”
“I see,” said Ford. “I think I see. So the Lord giveth, but he can also take away, is that it?”
“For Christ’s sake, Marcus. We have an opportunity to do some good with this thing. Let’s take it.”
Ford pressed his eyes tight shut. He had no choice.
“Is the Pontiac where I left it?” he said.
He didn’t even hang up the phone. Gloria watched him run down the ward, her hand clamped against her mouth. Then she picked up the swinging handset and punched in the number for Triage. She waited a moment, listening to the ring, her heart thumping hard. She had shown the older policeman the extension she’d be coming through on. They were supposed to be waiting in a room nearby. Now they were gone. She hung up the phone and started in the direction of the elevators.
Ford was surprised to see West standing out in the open, his only protection against the rain, a copy of the Los Angeles Times held over his head. He was standing under a broken streetlight, his face barely visible. When he saw Ford come to a halt twenty feet away, he lowered the paper.
“We chose a great place to meet,” he shouted.
Ford paused, checking out the rows of empty cars. It was difficult to see with the rain drifting against his face.
“It’s okay,” said West. He tossed the paper away from him and showed his empty hands.
“So where is it?” said Ford.
“Well, do we have a deal, Marcus?”
Ford pushed the hair out of his eyes and came on
another couple of steps. The wind was gusting and swirling over the asphalt, making it difficult to hear anyone that might try to sneak up on him. Instinctively he checked over his shoulder.
“You’re holding all the cards here, Marshall,” he said.
Still West didn’t move from where he stood.
“It’s right here,” he said, pointing at the Pontiac. “Still in the trunk.”
Ford looked hard at the car.
“Why don’t you bring it out into the light,” he said.
The smile went from West’s face.
“Don’t play games with me, Marcus. I’m risking enough just coming down here.”
Ford advanced until he could see inside the car. It looked empty.
“So where’s your muscle?” he said.
West took a step sideways, broken glass crunching underfoot.
“Where do you think? He’s up at the clinic getting his ribs bandaged.”
Ford looked up at the light. It wasn’t just burned out. It had been shattered. West followed his gaze. Then he was shaking his head.
“These neighborhoods,” he said. “Remember when we were kids? Remember how it was back then?”
“Sure,” said Ford. “I remember. Manson. The Kennedy assassination. Napalm. They built this hospital after the Watts riots. Things weren’t so much better.”
West smiled.
“Yeah, but we still had Doris Day,” he said.
Holding up his hands as if he were under arrest, he went over to the car and popped the trunk. Ford braced himself. If it was going to happen, it would be now. He watched, his heart thumping in his throat, as West reached into the trunk. He rummaged around for a moment and then came back upright, the rain dripping from his nose and chin, a pencil flashlight in his right hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Come and take a look.”
Ford walked towards the car. A gust of wind buffeted him from behind. There was broken glass everywhere. He couldn’t remember it being there when he had parked, but he had been in such a hurry he might not have noticed.
Then he was looking at it.
Illuminated by West’s pencil flashlight were three round glass bottles packed in black foam inside a bulky attaché case. The serum had a faint gold color.
“Just forty thousand IU per day,” said West in a quiet voice. “That’s all it takes. No venous irritation, no lasting side effects, and as far as we know one hundred percent effective. The pathogens we’ve tested it on—and we’ve tested it on some very clever organisms—show zero sensitivity. One minute they’re … they’re seething, the next minute—total stasis. It’s like pulling a plug. Like…” He turned and looked at Ford for a moment. “It’s like casting a spell. They just don’t know what it is.”
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