Fatal Care

by Leonard Goldberg

  Lucy pressed her knee up against his inner thigh. “I wish we were aboard the Argonaut.”

  “Me, too.”

  The waiter came over, refilled their wineglasses, and then placed the 1992 Mondavi chardonnay back in the ice bucket. “Would you like to see a menu, sir?”

  “Later,” Brennerman said, and waved him away.

  Lucy watched the waiter leave. She leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “Is everything going all right out at Bio-Med?”

  “All of our experiments are on track.”

  “What about the side effects?”

  “They can be dealt with,” Brennerman assured her.

  “Cancer can be dealt with?” Lucy asked too loudly. Heads turned, and she lowered her voice once more. “How the hell are you going to deal with that?”

  “I know what the problem is,” Brennerman said quietly. “And it can be readily fixed.”

  Which was a half truth. He knew the mechanism that induced the organs to become malignant, but fixing it was another matter. That could take a lot of time to sort out and eventually remedy. But it was doable. A purified preparation that could transform old organs into new ones was entirely doable.

  “How long will it take?” Lucy asked.

  “A few months,” Brennerman lied easily. “And from then on, it’s smooth sailing.”

  “And it’s going to be worth billions,” Lucy said dreamily.

  “And billions,” Brennerman added. “It’ll produce an ocean of money.”

  Lucy made a wry face. “But so far I haven’t seen a penny.”

  “Bio-Med is making plenty of money from our genetically modified plants, but we’re putting all the profits back into research and development,” Brennerman said. “That way we’ll become incredibly profitable in the future.”

  “But I still haven’t gotten any money out of it,” Lucy complained.

  Brennerman nodded, knowing exactly how to play Lucy Rabb. “If you wished, you could declare a dividend on all Bio-Med shares.”

  Lucy brightened up. “I could?”

  “Sure. You’re the majority stockholder. All you’ve got to say is, ‘I want to declare a dividend of a quarter a share,’ and we’d have to do it.”

  Lucy licked her lips. “Have we got enough money to do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “And how much money would I end up getting?”

  Brennerman tilted his head back, as if he were calculating in his mind. He made up a number. “Probably a couple of hundred thousand a year.”

  “That’s not bad,” Lucy said, wondering if she should declare an even bigger dividend. Say a dollar a share.

  “But if you plowed the money back into research and development, your annual draw would eventually be a lot more.”

  “How much more?” Lucy asked hastily.

  “As much as two million dollars a year.”

  “Jesus,” Lucy breathed. “That’s a ton of money.”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  Brennerman watched the greed on Lucy’s face grow. He knew her answer before she gave it.

  “I think I’ll wait,” she said.

  “That’s the smart move.”

  “Yeah. I’ll wait,” Lucy said again, trusting Brennerman more than any man she’d ever known, which wasn’t very much. But he owned 20 percent of Bio-Med, and he loved money every bit as much as she did. Like everybody else in the world, he’d act in his own best interest. And his best interest just happened to be her best interest. “You’ll tell me when it’s the right time to declare a dividend?”

  “I sure will.”

  The waiter returned with menus and handed them out. “Would you like to hear our specials for today?”

  “Yes,” Lucy answered before Brennerman could say no.

  “We have a delicious lobster salad,” the waiter began. “It’s made with chunks of fresh Maine lobster onabedof. . .”

  Brennerman tuned out the waiter’s voice and watched Lucy Rabb over the top of his menu. She was stunning and sexy and brighter than most people gave her credit for. A lot brighter. She was smart enough to know the value of Bio-Med stock and smart enough to know what to do when her husband had decided to turn over all his Bio-Med holdings to a charitable foundation for ovarian cancer, the disease that had killed his first wife.

  That would have been a disaster, Brennerman thought, shuddering at just the idea. They would have controlled everything and had an oversight committee looking over his shoulder twenty-four hours a day. But Lucy knew exactly how to handle that. She ensnared Mervin Tuch with her beauty and body, and made him do everything she wanted him to do. Tuch was able to delay the transfer of Bio-Med stock to charity and also made sure Edmond Rabb’s will remained unchanged until the old man could be dropped off the end of his yacht. And then Lucy made her smartest move. She picked Eric Brennerman to be her partner. Oh, yeah. She could be plenty smart enough when she wanted to be, Brennerman told himself. And cold-blooded as well.

  Brennerman felt Lucy’s big toe running up his shinbone under the table.

  “The mussels sound delicious, don’t they?” Lucy asked.

  “Absolutely,” Brennerman said absently.

  “They’re brought in fresh from Australia,” the waiter went on, “and cooked in a . . .”

  Brennerman tuned out the voice again and watched the waiter, who was now peeking down at Lucy’s cleavage. She could do that to men. She could make them look even when they tried not to.

  That was how it had started between himself and Lucy. A look. Instant attraction. They were good together and better yet in bed. But their relationship hadn’t turned into love and never would. But that was all right with Brennerman. He knew they would stay together because they needed each other. And need was much more dependable than love.

  “What do you think, Eric?” Lucy asked.

  “I’ll have the lobster salad.”

  “Me, too.”

  As the waiter retrieved the menus, he stole one more peek at Lucy’s breasts.

  “It’s terrible what happened to Mervin Tuch,” Lucy said, making conversation.

  “Terrible,” Brennerman agreed.

  “The streets aren’t safe anymore.”

  “And getting worse.”

  The waiter nodded his agreement and checked the wineglasses. Then he withdrew.

  Lucy leaned forward, keeping her voice down. “The pro did a good job this time, didn’t she?”

  Brennerman quickly brought a finger to his lips and hushed her. “Shhh!”

  Lucy glanced around, making certain no one was within earshot. “But it was a good job.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  She glanced around again and leaned in even closer. “What do you mean?”

  “On the local TV news last night, a reporter said the police were looking into the possibility that Tuch was killed by a professional.”

  “Shit,” Lucy spat disgustedly. “This hitter keeps screwing up.”

  “We’re still okay,” Brennerman whispered reassuringly. “Nothing points to us. And remember, all lawyers have enemies. It comes with the territory.”

  “The police aren’t stupid,” Lucy whispered back. “They know Edmond and Mirren were murdered. And now Tuch gets it. Somebody is going to put everything together.”

  “Nobody is going to put anything together unless they first find out what’s going on out at Bio-Med,” Brennerman said quietly. “We’re the only two left who know. And neither of us will talk, will we?”

  “God, if they find out,” Lucy said worriedly. “I guess we should be thankful the cops aren’t scientists.”

  “The cops could never figure this out,” Brennerman told her. “Our only concern is Joanna Blalock. If she digs long enough and deep enough, she could come up with the answer.”

  “But you said she wasn’t making any more visits to the Bio-Med plant.”

  “She’s not,” Brennerman said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But she’s been meeting secr
etly with one of our senior technicians.”

  “Oh, shit,” Lucy moaned softly.

  “And it’s the same technician who was sleeping with Mirren.”

  “Oh, shit,” Lucy said again. “And Blalock is smart enough to put everything together, too.”

  “Not if she’s dead.”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “Not another one!”

  “It can’t be helped.”

  “But if she’s murdered, the police will never let go of the investigation.”

  “What if she just disappears?”

  “How can you do that?”

  “There are ways.”

  Lucy gave the matter more thought. “But the police will still come looking for her.”

  “Let them.”

  “Her disappearance will cause big trouble for us,” Lucy said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Is there any other way to deal with her?”

  “We have a backup plan to get rid of her that may be even better.”

  “That’s still murder. Remember, the police aren’t stupid.”

  “In the backup plan we don’t murder her.”

  “Then how are you going to do it?”

  “We’ll let nature do it for us.”

  “Nature? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Brennerman reached for the wine bottle in the ice bucket. “You’ll see.”

  31

  The woman who managed the Mail Boxes Etc. store refused to accept the search warrant from Jake Sinclair.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” the manager said apologetically, “but I can’t let you near any post office box without permission from the postal inspector or the FBI.”

  “Can you at least describe the person who rents out a box?” Jake asked.

  “Not without an okay from the higher-ups.”

  “How about if it’s a murder investigation?”

  “Still can’t do it.”

  “Never even for murder, huh?”

  The manager extended her arms, palms out. “What can I do? The post office sets the rules, and I’ve got to follow them. People pay for their confidentiality, you see.”

  Yeah, Jake was thinking, particularly professional hitters.

  “Sorry.”

  Jake nodded and turned to Farelli. “Put a uniformed officer behind the postal boxes and tell him to ID anybody who opens one.”

  “Wait a minute!” the manager said hastily. “I’ve got a business to run here.”

  Jake extended his arms, palms out. “What can I do? The police authorities set the rules. I just follow them.”

  “Christ,” the manager grumbled, and went back behind the counter.

  Jake and Farelli walked out of the store and into the bright sunshine. The traffic on Wilshire Boulevard was heavy, the smog in the air dense and irritating. Jake glanced around at the stores adjacent to Mail Boxes Etc. There were no parking lots.

  “When the hitter comes, she’ll have to park on the street,” Jake told Farelli. “Keep your eyes peeled for a black Camry. You’ve got the license number?”

  “Right here,” Farelli said, patting his coat pocket. “Thanks to the DMV computer.”

  Jake lit a cigarette, thinking about how many man-hours they had saved by using the computer at the Department of Motor Vehicles. They told the computer technician they were looking for a new, dark Toyota Camry with a license number that started with a 4, followed by the letter W, U, or V. The computer gave them a list of over a thousand names. Then the computer was given the information that the car was owned by a woman under the age of forty who lived in the Los Angeles area. That narrowed the list down to thirty-six names, each of whom had to be carefully checked out. In less than two days, the police had the name and address of the hitter. A cold-blooded bitch, Jake was thinking, who had already killed God knows how many people.

  He turned to Farelli. “Don’t take any chances with her. Slam her ass down hard on the sidewalk, face down, hands out.”

  “Oh, she’ll be spread-eagled,” Farelli said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  Jake nodded. “And kick her purse away. That’s where she’ll be carrying.”

  “Got you.”

  Jake started to walk away. Then he turned back. “And tell the cop inside to stay out of sight. We don’t want to spook the hitter.”

  “How long you figure it’ll take you to get to the postal inspector?” Farelli asked.

  “A couple of hours, if we’re lucky.”

  Farelli watched Jake drive away, and then he walked over to his car, an unmarked two-year-old Chevy that was parked two doors down.

  He waited in the front seat, watching the Mail Boxes Etc. store and thinking how smart the hitter had been. She was a pro who knew how to cover her tracks. Even though they had a street address for her, they still might not get her. Because she might have never used the address—which was really a front for a P.O. box—for any mail other than that which came from the Department of Motor Vehicles. The DMV wouldn’t accept a P.O. box number as an address. They required a street address to register a car. And the hitter wasn’t about to put her real address on any official document that could be traced. So she went to a Mail Boxes Etc. facility that gave a Wilshire Boulevard address and not a P.O. box number to its customers.

  Smart, Farelli thought again, so damn smart. But they’d eventually catch her, and she’d talk her head off to save herself from sucking cyanide in a gas chamber. Oh, yeah, they’d catch her. Because now they had her name. Sara Ann Moore. And if she had a car here, that meant she lived here. And somewhere they’d find a real address. Maybe from records at the phone company or electric company. Somewhere they’d find her.

  Farelli slouched down behind the steering wheel to wait for her.

  Sara Ann Moore couldn’t find a parking space near the Mail Boxes Etc. store, so she went to a car-wash facility two blocks away. They had a $24.95 special on a quick wax job that took an hour to perform. And that was fine with Sara. She had the whole afternoon to kill before her meeting with David Westmoreland.

  Walking away from the car wash, Sara put on oversize sunglasses to protect her eyes from the bright sunlight. It was a very warm day, and she was glad she hadn’t worn her blond wig. It was too hot for that, she thought. And besides, her short brown hair was growing out, the blond streaks not nearly so pronounced. She liked it much better at this length, and men were noticing it more, too.

  Her thoughts returned to David Westmoreland, and she wondered again what the meeting was about. Maybe it was another hit, which would be nice. Particularly if it was going to be a high-priced, high-profile job. Another possibility was that some of her recent customers were demanding refunds because the deaths were found to be premeditated murder and not accidental. Like the Edmond Rabb hit. How in the world did they discover that the old fart hadn’t just dropped overboard and drowned accidentally? Maybe they were only guessing, with the insurance company doing anything and everything to hold up payment. The bastards were good at that.

  She came to a busy intersection and waited for the light to change. She gazed at the row of stores where Mail Boxes Etc. was located. The shop on the end, run by Vietnamese, did manicures and pedicures. Sara decided to treat herself and get her nails done. That would take up at least an hour, and by then her car would be ready. But first she’d check her mail.

  The light changed and Sara crossed the street.

  She stopped in the manicure shop and made an appointment, promising to be right back. She hurried down to Mail Boxes Etc. and entered, paying no attention to the Chevrolet parked two doors down or to the man slouched down behind the wheel.

  Sara had to wait. A heavy-set, middle-aged woman was at the wall lined with postal boxes, struggling with the combination to her box.

  “Damn,” the woman said after another unsuccessful try.

  A uniformed policeman stepped out from behind the postal boxes, saying, “Ma’am, may I see your ID, please?”

  “Wh-what?” the woman stammered.
>
  “May I see your ID?” the policeman repeated.

  Sara turned quickly away and looked at a rack of greeting cards, picking one and studying it intently, all the while watching the cop in her peripheral vision.

  “What’s this all about?” the woman asked, handing over her driver’s license.

  “We’ve had some problems with the mail boxes here,” the policeman lied lamely.

  Bullshit, Sara thought, her face buried in the birthday card. If they had problems with the mail boxes, they’d call a postal inspector, not a cop.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” the cop said, returning the license. He disappeared back behind the wall of postal boxes.

  Sara glanced over at the manager, who was busily talking on the phone at the rear of the store. She carefully placed the birthday card back on the rack. Then she took a deep breath and began to inch her way to the door.

  Sara moved aside as another woman entered the store—a tall young woman with blond hair. The young blonde approached the postal boxes.

  In an instant the cop appeared from behind the wall, gun drawn. “Freeze! And don’t even think about moving!”

  A plainclothes cop rushed through the door, brushing past Sara. He had his gun out and pointed at the blonde. “Get your hands up against the wall and keep them there!”

  “Wh-what have I done?” the blonde shrieked, petrified with fear.

  “Just do as you’re told,” the plainclothes cop ordered, his gun trained at the blonde’s head. “Now, get those goddamn hands up!”

  Sara slipped out of the store. She walked slowly past the manicure shop and turned the corner. Ahead two sightseeing buses had stopped and were offloading passengers. Most of the people were blond and fair-complected with cameras around the necks. Sara hurried toward the buses and disappeared into a crowd of German tourists.

  32

  Lori McKay went to the blackboard and put check marks by the names of the three patients who had received the lipolytic enzyme and had developed cancer.