On Borrowed Time

by David Rosenfelt

  But the pictures came out crisp and clear, and I e-mailed them to Kentris, in addition to overnighting him two sets. I called him to explain what had happened and what he was receiving, but I had to leave a message when I couldn’t reach him.

  I also called Mark Cook, and asked him to examine the picture of the device that always seemed to be pointed toward wherever I was. I e-mailed it to him, and he called back within two minutes of receiving it.

  “It’s a laser,” he said. “State-of-the-art. Probably cost two hundred grand.”

  “What’s it used for?”

  “To overhear conversations,” he said. “You said you were in a restaurant at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “This device blanketed the window and absorbed every single conversation, every single sound, in that restaurant. You didn’t say a word that they didn’t hear.”

  “How can they distinguish one conversation from another?” I asked. “There must have been at least twenty-five people talking in there.”

  “Richard, I can give you an hour-long technical explanation, or you can just accept what I tell you. Whoever is reading the data from this machine knows every word you said.”

  “And let me guess … we can’t trace it back to anyone.”

  “Right.”

  “Where do they get it?” I asked.

  “Where do they get what? The device?”

  “Yes. I assume you don’t walk into Walmart and pick one of these things up,” I said. “Maybe we can find them that way; trace it back from where they purchased it.”

  “You’re not understanding me, Richard. You’re trying to find out who you’re dealing with, when the problem is you have no idea what you’re dealing with. This is how countries spy on each other; you piss off any countries lately?”

  “Can you do anything about this? I need to be able to conduct private conversations. At least in my apartment.”

  “The only way is white noise.”

  “What about it?”

  “If we attach white-noise devices to the panes themselves, then when they are forced to strip it out, they’ll lose your voices in the process. I can take care of it right away; it’ll be in by tomorrow.”

  “Is it expensive?”

  “Depending on how many windows you have facing the street, maybe a couple of hundred bucks. That’s the thing with these scientific advances; once you know how to defeat them, it’s easy and usually cheap to do so.”

  Cook hung up to get the white-noise machines, and I called Craig Langel to see if he’d come up with anything. “I was just going to call you,” he said.

  “What about?”

  “It isn’t easy to penetrate what’s going on at Ardmore Hospital; it’s a small place and Gates has it locked down pretty well.”

  “That’s what you were going to call me about?” I asked.

  “No, that’s my way of setting you up to be impressed with the information I have gotten.”

  “Let’s hear it, and please make it be good news.”

  “Well, it’s certainly interesting news. Gates is definitely conducting a drug study for Lassiter’s company. It’s an Alzheimer’s drug.”

  The news was somewhere between intriguing and stunning. Lassiter was involved with a memory drug, and everybody around me had forgotten Jen. It could be a coincidence, but that didn’t help me to think about it that way.

  “Do you know anything else about it?” I asked.

  “I thought that was pretty good, for a start. It’s a stage-two trial, which is a very significant step if they get to move forward to stage three.”

  “Good. Now get me more information.”

  “I will. But Richard, there’s something else I need to say. As a friend.”

  “Okay,” I said, girding myself. I’d found that very often things people say “as a friend” don’t sound too friendly.

  “There’s nothing that I’ve learned so far, absolutely nothing, that has anything to do with your girlfriend. No hint at all that she existed.”

  “I understand.”

  “I didn’t say that to make you feel bad; it’s just that I know that’s your goal here, and you need to know the truth. But that’s not the only reason I’m saying that.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “You’ve been, we’ve been, investigating this stuff as a way to search for her. But there’s something major going on here, and it likely has nothing to do with her.”

  “So what does it have to do with?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I’ll bet it’s about that story you were working on, the one that was going to get you the Pulitzer. All I’m saying is that we might be better off going at this as a news story, rather than a missing persons case.”

  He was probably right, but I didn’t want to admit it. “Fine, so let’s uncover what’s going on and get me the Pulitzer. Then it’ll get a lot of publicity, Jen will read about it, and she’ll come home.” I was joking … sort of.

  “You’re a pain in the ass,” he said.

  “That’s how you talk to a Pulitzer prize winner?”

  “This is Richard Kilmer. I trust that by now you are quite familiar with him.”

  The Stone noticed his audience smile, an easy thing to notice, since the entire audience consisted of one person. This person would not have been there if his lower-level colleagues had not given a glowing and detailed assessment of the Stone’s progress.

  And nothing proved that progress more completely than the case of Richard Kilmer.

  This was the first of three second-tier presentations the Stone would make. The competition was down to three finalists, and this was the next-to-last time that the Stone would have to address them before they made their final bids.

  What followed next was a two-hour video and audio presentation in which Kilmer was the star performer. The Stone limited his comments to the rare times when he felt some explanation was necessary, but otherwise the presentation basically spoke for itself.

  At the one-hour mark, the Stone always offered each audience a break, to have a drink or to go to the bathroom. The offer was always declined, a reflection of how riveting the presentation was.

  When it was over, the Stone said, “As you can see, the stress that Mr. Kilmer has been under has been extraordinarily intense. Much of this has been by design, but much he has brought on himself in the process of conducting his amateur investigation.”

  The question the man asked of the Stone was the expected one. “He seems to be making progress in that investigation. How are you planning to deal with that?”

  The Stone smiled knowingly. “Good question. Much of that progress has been, shall we say, allowed to happen. The more stress, the more knowledge, the more conflicting the emotions, and the more the perfection of our system becomes obvious. Our intent is to show that nothing can break through; that the effect of our process is permanent.”

  The Stone hesitated, to let it sink in. Then, “Nothing Kilmer can learn, or fear, or deal with, can change what for him is an immutable truth. He knew this woman, he loved her, he slept with her, he was going to marry her. That is the reality that he has lived.”

  “And the publicity he is generating?”

  The Stone believed in being candid, and this was certainly the time for that. “That is exactly why he was chosen, along with the fact that he was beginning to interfere with the secrecy of our work. His ability to reach the public was a way for us to demonstrate to you … and other potential buyers … the power of what we possess, in a way that is completely credible.”

  “I have no doubt it is credible, and you may be assured that we remain very interested. However, you understand that as important as it is to us to re-create the past, it is at least as important to influence future behavior.”

  The Stone smiled. “That is why the process continues and bids are not yet being solicited. Mr. Kilmer is going to behave exactly as we dictate.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

>   “Certainly. He is a nonviolent man; to the best of our knowledge he has never even been in a fistfight. Additionally, he has often written of his disdain for capital punishment, calling it ‘barbaric and not consistent with enlightened society.’ ”

  “What are you saying?”

  The Stone smiled again. “I am saying that Richard Kilmer is going to commit murder.”

  When I answered the door at nine A.M., Jen was standing there.

  Suddenly there was no air in my lungs and no support for my legs. I let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, not too loud and certainly not voluntary. I caught myself when I realized that it wasn’t Jen at all.

  It was Allie.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, instantly realizing what had happened. “I should have warned you.”

  I was going to try and deny that I had thought she was Jen, but there would have been no way to convince her. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m glad to see you.” And the truth was I was very glad to see her.

  She hugged me, longer than I might have expected, but not as long as I would have liked. “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’m enjoying myself out here.”

  She laughed, and we went inside. “Coffee,” she said. “Urgent. Coffee.”

  I poured cups for both of us. “I didn’t expect to see you,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I should have called, but I was afraid you’d talk me out of it. I flew in last night, but got in late.”

  “How is your mother?”

  “Even after all this time that Julie’s been gone, she’s still in denial. I don’t think a parent can ever be the same, not after something like this.”

  “What made you come?”

  “Besides you?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so I took the easy way out. “Yes.”

  Allie reached into her handbag and took out something I never would have expected, a pair of woman’s shoes. “These.”

  “How did you know my size?”

  I thought it was a pretty funny line, but she didn’t smile. Her answer told me why. “Julie was wearing these when they found her body.”

  “And?”

  “And all of the clothes she was wearing when they found her were not the clothes she was wearing when she left the house that day.”

  I knew what she was saying immediately. Julie had left in the morning, and only driven six hours before her car went off the road. Why would she have stopped to change clothes?

  “There could be a million reasons for that, Allie.”

  “Name one.”

  “She could have stopped for lunch, spilled something on herself, gone into the restroom, and changed.”

  “No. None of that can be the explanation.”

  “Why not?”

  Allie held up the shoes. “Because of these. They’re called flats. When Julie was eighteen, she got in a car accident. She sped up when she should have stopped, and hit a tree. Broke her arm and cut her chin. She said it was because she was wearing flats like this, and the shoe got caught on the gas pedal. She never wore them again when she drove. Never. She would sooner have driven barefoot.”

  “So what’s your theory?” I asked.

  “I don’t have one, except I know it didn’t happen the way they said it did.”

  “But it was definitely her body?’

  She nodded. “The DNA matched.”

  “Are they sure they are matching it to the right sample? Would they have had a sample from Julie?”

  “They used hair from her brush, but to be sure, I made them repeat the process using my DNA. Identical twins have the same DNA. It matched again.”

  “What does this have to do with what I’m doing?” I asked. “Jen couldn’t have been with me if she was in that car. It’s great to see you, Allie, but why are you here?”

  She held up the shoes. “Because these don’t make any sense, Richard. So I brought them to the ‘no sense’ capital of the world.”

  I smiled. “Kilmerville. Population one nut-job.”

  “Two.”

  “I think it might be better for you if it stayed at one.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you’re not going to find Julie here. And on some level you’re still looking for her. It can’t end well.”

  She pretended to be sniffing the air in the room. “Do you smell psychobabble?”

  “I’m serious, Allie. I love having you here, and I’ve missed you terribly, but you need to think about yourself and what’s best for you.”

  “Which is?”

  “Dealing with your loss. Not with mine.”

  “Richard, I want to help you find Jen. Maybe it’s because I see her as a surrogate for Julie, maybe it’s because I care about you, or maybe I just want to see justice done against the assholes that took her. But the point is that I don’t really care why; I know when I want something, and I go after it.”

  “Allie…”

  “If that’s not good enough for you, then throw me out of here. Otherwise, bring me up to date on what’s happened since I left.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” I said. “It’s easily good enough for me.”

  I told Allie about my encounters with Lassiter and the guy following me, and what Mark Cook said about the device he was using.

  “So right now he could be listening to what we’re saying?” she asked, then cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled out, as if into a megaphone, “You’re a piece of garbage!”

  I laughed. “They can’t hear you, at least not according to Mark. He installed white-noise machines, which for some reason defeat lasers. It’s a rock-paper-scissors deal.”

  Allie went into the kitchen and attempted to make us breakfast, although she had hinted that cooking was not her strong suit. But it was great having her back.

  I followed her in. “Craig Langel said that what’s happening to me might have nothing to do with Jen at all; that it might be about the story I was working on.”

  “Meaning Lassiter?” she asked.

  “I guess so. Maybe I was getting too close to derailing whatever he was doing.”

  She shook her head. “Chalk up another one for the doesn’t-make-sense list.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I were Lassiter, and you were getting close to destroying something that was very important to me, I wouldn’t go to the trouble of creating this whole bizarre situation.” She smiled her sweetest innocent smile. “I’d just shoot you in the head.”

  I returned the smile. “That’s because you are a delicate flower.”

  Philip Garber said he had a full schedule, between patients and classes he was teaching.

  But that didn’t stop him from calling me back during a break and agreeing to meet me for a drink at six o’clock.

  The fact that he would see me so quickly, and in a setting like that, away from his office, told me two things. One, that he didn’t consider me a patient, and two, that he thought I was such a world-class nutcase that he wanted to be a key part of future historical descriptions of my lunacy.

  We met at a club on East Seventy-first Street, between Park and Lexington. I was able to identify it only by the address; there was no sign on the building and no hint that it contained a bar inside. The door was locked, as Garber had said it would be, but my knock was answered promptly, and the mention of Garber’s name got me admitted without question.

  The bar itself was dark, both in the amount of light and the wood the entire room seemed to be carved of. Everything about it said “rich,” and there was no doubt that the trees used came from the right side of the tree tracks.

  Dr. Garber himself seemed a little embarrassed by the surroundings. “Not exactly the singles scene,” he said, smiling after we shook hands. “But it’s quiet, a good place to talk.”

  We ordered drinks, and he suggested I try a ‘dark and stormy,’ a New England–based combination of Gosling’s rum and ginger beer. It was terri
fic.

  “Is this a private club?” I asked. “Because if not, a sign on the door might be called for. Neon or otherwise.”

  He nodded. “It was originally started seventy years ago by wealthy members of a college fraternity. Since then, membership has been limited to descendants of those founders.”

  “You’re one of the descendants?”

  “My grandfather was president of the fraternity. Every year I say I’m going to stop being a member, but then I feel disloyal to my heritage.”

  “Maybe you can deal with that in therapy.”

  He smiled again. “Perhaps so.”

  “Will you show me the secret handshake?”

  He smiled. “Don’t get your hopes up. But what else can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been checking into Sean Lassiter.” He knew who I was talking about, since he had said I had spoken about Lassiter during our sessions, none of which I remembered. “I found out something interesting, something I need your point of view on.”

  He didn’t say anything, instead just waited for me to continue. Once a shrink, always a shrink, even when sucking down a dark and stormy in a dark bar with no sign on the door.

  “I have information that he, or his company, is conducting some kind of a drug study, a trial. On an Alzheimer’s drug.”

  “Where?”

  “At a hospital in Ardmore, New York.”

  “Where you lost your Jennifer,” he said. He spoke about Jen as if she were real, and I was grateful for that.

  “Exactly. I assume you’re not aware of the study?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “I know you’re an expert on memory.”

  He shook his head. “No one is an expert on memory; it’s a process we are just beginning to understand. But my specialty is repressed memory, which clearly has nothing to do with Alzheimer’s. Further, even if this drug were directly related to something I was doing, I might not be aware of it. Such studies are rarely publicized in their early stages, which I assume is where this one is. I’m sorry.”