“Maybe we could come in and sit down?” Afton asked. “Let us fill you in on some . . . recent developments.”
They followed Terrell into a solarium that looked like it had been built as an addition to the house. A long, wooden trestle table held ceramic pots filled with orchids, birds of paradise, and bromeliads. A banana plant in a large blue-green Chinese pot sat in one corner. Wicker chairs were upholstered in butter yellow cushions. A bored-looking matching yellow parakeet sat in a tall gilded cage.
“This is a lovely room,” Afton said. Except, of course, for the parakeet. She didn’t believe in putting birds in cages. Didn’t like the idea of any animal existing within the confines of a cage.
“It’s nice now, but not so great in summer,” Terrell said. “Then this room heats up too much.” She’d taken a seat in a reclining chair, but wasn’t particularly relaxed. She crossed her legs and jiggled a foot. “So. What’s going on?”
Max glanced at Afton.
“We’re sorry to have to tell you this,” Afton said in her best sensitive-family-liaison-officer voice, “but Jay Barber disappeared this morning.”
Terrell bounced forward in her chair with a sharp intake of breath. “What do you mean Jay’s missing? What happened to him?”
Afton gave a quick explanation about how Barber had learned of Leland Odin’s death, then gone for a jog around the lake, presumably to clear his head. And then hadn’t returned home.
“Where do you think Barber is?” Terrell asked. “I mean, did he suddenly lose all his marbles and decide to pull some wacky Forrest Gump stunt? Run across the country and back again?”
“We don’t think he’s out running,” Afton said. She said it slowly and with meaning.
“Ah,” Terrell said. “So you’re thinking the worst. That Barber’s been murdered, too?”
“We don’t have any evidence that points to a homicide,” Max said. “So we don’t want to jump to any conclusions just yet.”
“But you’ve got guys out looking for him?”
“There are a number of squads searching the immediate area, yes,” Afton said.
Terrell frowned and then blew out a glut of air. “Well, that’s just plain nuts. Jay disappearing like that.”
“Do you know a woman named Fan Ling?” Afton asked.
“Sure.” Terrell bobbed her head. “She works at DSN.”
“But do you know her personally?”
Terrell gave a delicate snort. “You really think I hang out with those people?”
“What exactly do you mean by those people?” Max asked.
“The on-air people. You know, the worker bees.”
“You don’t spend any time at DSN?” Afton asked.
“Why would I?”
“Maybe because your stepfather was DSN’s founder and CEO?” Afton said.
“Not only do I not spend any time there,” Terrell said, “I don’t spend any money there. Seriously, do I look like the kind of girl who carries a vinyl handbag and wears low-heeled orthopedic shoes?”
Snob, Afton thought. You might shop there if you didn’t have a whole lot of money. And had a couple of mouths to feed.
“Clearly,” Max said, “whatever’s going on is somehow tied to DSN. We don’t know how that shakes out exactly, but with two top executives involved . . .”
“You’re looking at me as if I have an answer,” Terrell said. She looked resentful as she folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t.”
“But you might know something,” Afton said, trying not to hate this woman, trying to stuff down the fact that Terrell was an arrogant, judgmental airhead whose very existence depended on her stepfather’s money. “You might not know exactly what it is, but you might be privy to some information, some sliver of knowledge that can point us in the right direction.”
“Trust me,” Terrell said. “I don’t know anything.”
Afton decided to try another line of questioning, one that wasn’t quite so direct. “Tell us about Leland Odin and Jay Barber’s relationship. As you saw it.”
“That’s pretty simple,” Terrell said. “Leland was always the big-picture guy while Jay Barber was more operations.”
“Big-picture, meaning . . . ?”
“Leland always had the corporate vision. He imagined what DSN could grow to be, what its future would be, so he was the one who developed the five-year and ten-year plans. Plus, he completely oversaw the marketing, merchandising, and hiring of on-air talent.”
“And operations . . . ?” Afton said.
“Jay Barber dealt with the accountants, attorneys, and all the facilities management. You know, the day-to-day running of the company. Warehousing, shipping, delivery, that sort of thing.”
“But both men certainly delegated most of the day-to-day tasks,” Afton said.
“Oh, absolutely,” Terrell said. “They had vice presidents, divisional merchandise managers, marketing execs, and warehouse managers up the wazoo.”
“And Leland Odin and Jay Barber held equal shares in DSN stock?”
Terrell shook her head. “Not quite. Leland held sixty percent, Jay had forty percent.”
“And now Barber . . . gets it all?” Afton asked.
“If you find Barber . . . then maybe he’s in charge of the whole thing,” Terrell said. She waved a hand in the air as if to erase that thought. “But I don’t know the exact answer to that. I have no idea what’s been stipulated in their buy-sell agreement. Which party gets what or who inherits what or if any shares get ceded to some of their top executives. I guess you’d have to talk to Bob Steckel; he’s corporate counsel.”
“Actually,” Max said. “For someone who professes not to be interested, you seem to know an awful lot about DSN.”
“Mostly I know about the import side of the business,” Terrell admitted. “Because I studied it in school.”
“Such as?” Afton said.
“Oh, you know, goods come in through a port of entry, where the cargo is cleared and duties are collected, then they’re entered for warehousing. Of course, some of DSN’s goods go to a designated Foreign-Trade Zone.”
“What’s that?” Afton asked.
“It’s no big deal,” Terrell said. “Just one of many locations in the U.S. where importers can store, assemble, manufacture, or process goods.” She shrugged. “It’s kind of like a tax break. DSN often uses our local Foreign-Trade Zones so they can delay payment of duties.”
“So it’s just a way to help manage cash flow,” said Max.
Terrell nodded. “Something like that.”
They questioned Terrell for another five minutes but didn’t come up with anything significant. Toward the end of the conversation, she started to get a little weepy.
“Leland was a good guy, you know?” Terrell said. “It’s not fair that this happened to him.” And when she walked them to the door and Afton pressed her business card into Terrell’s hand with the admonition to call her anytime, day or night, Terrell said, “Please find Leland’s killer, will you? I don’t think my mom can take much more of this.”
When they were back in Max’s car, Afton said, “Well, that went fairly well after all.”
“Still, Terrell’s a tough cookie,” Max said.
“She’s also a woman with a secret.”
Max swiveled in the front seat to face Afton. “What do you mean? You think she knows why Odin was killed? That she knows where Barber is?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but it felt like something was going on.”
“Yeah . . . ?” Max sounded skeptical.
“For one thing, I don’t think Terrell was giving us the full story. And she acts all tough and snotty, but deep down she’s insecure and lacks self-confidence.”
“With all that money wrapped around her?” Max said. “I’d say she probably feels extremely secure.”
“But it’s not her money,” Afton said. “At least not yet anyway.”
“You have a very suspicious mind, you know that?”
“Isn�
�t that the hallmark of a good investigator?”
“Huh,” Max said. “You never stop, do you? Always with the body punches.”
“You got that right.”
Max pawed through the discarded fast food wrappers in the bin between the two front seats and pulled out his phone. “Gotta check in with downtown.” His thumb worked the keypad. “See what’s . . . Who’s this, Farmer?” he barked into his phone. “Yeah, we talked to Barber’s old lady and then went over to the Odin residence. Naw, not much. Just the daughter was home. What’s going on with you guys?” He listened for a couple more minutes and then hung up. “Not much happening except they got that updated sketch out to all the media, suburban police departments, area hotels, airports, and cab companies.”
“That’s something,” Afton said.
“And Farmer spoke with the heart doctor who was going to do Odin’s transplant surgery. He’s apparently got a small window in his schedule, so he could talk to us if we want.”
“Is that what we want?” Afton asked.
“Couldn’t hurt to meet with him.”
“When?”
Max turned his key in the ignition. “Right now.”
• • •
DR. Malcolm Graham, the cardiothoracic surgeon who would have been the team leader on Odin’s transplant surgery, was young, intense, and restless. He wore green scrubs and booties over his shoes as if he’d just stepped out of a surgical suite, which he probably had. His hair was short and blond, his head slightly egg-shaped, and he had the antsy demeanor of a serious type A. They met him in the visitors’ lounge on the lower-level surgical floor of the Minneapolis Heart Institute–Crosby, one of three hospitals that made up the University of Minnesota Medical Center complex. The room was sterile and cold, with a gray vinyl couch, three molded plastic chairs arranged around a round table, and a stack of dog-eared, year-old Hospital Today magazines.
“Cheery,” Afton said once they’d all introduced themselves. “But without that overdone decorator touch you see on the VIP floor.”
“Afton,” Max said with a warning tone. But he was struggling to keep a straight face.
“I can only give you ten minutes,” Graham said, glancing at a black rubber band that circled his left wrist. Afton figured it was either a cardiac monitor, pulse oximeter, stopwatch, phone, personal CT scanner, or some hybrid of all five. Or, glory be, maybe it even told time.
“We’ll make this quick,” Max said.
Graham nodded but basically ignored him. “I have a PCI at twelve,” he said glancing at the door as if hoping for a quick getaway.
“What exactly does that mean?” Max asked.
“It’s a percutaneous coronary intervention on a patient with severe ischemic heart disease.”
“Sounds serious,” Afton said.
“Believe me, it is.” Dr. Graham placed his hands flat against the table. “Now . . . what? What’s this all about?”
“The Leland Odin case,” Max said. “Remember him?”
Dr. Graham pursed his lips and looked suddenly unhappy. “Oh. Well. Perhaps if you spoke with our corporate counsel . . .”
“We’re not here to grill you about security breaches or medical malfeasance or anything like that,” Afton said. Once again, Max was making like Conan the Interrogator.
“Then what do you want to know?”
“Can you tell us a little bit about the circumstances surrounding the donor-heart process?” Afton asked. “Like how does this whole organ-transplant thing work?”
“It’s fairly straightforward,” Dr. Graham said. “Mr. Odin’s name and specific organ request was listed with the Organ Procurement and Transplantation Network. In other words, he was on the OPTN heart waiting list.”
“And that’s a long list?” Max asked.
“There are eleven regions in the country,” Dr. Graham explained. “And we’re in region seven. That includes Minnesota, the Dakotas, Iowa, and Wisconsin.” He leaned forward now and gestured with his hands. “The thing is, some organs, particularly a heart, can only survive outside the body for four to seven hours. After that, it’s generally not viable.”
“So that’s why there are different regions,” Afton said.
“Exactly,” Dr. Graham said. “When a donor organ becomes available, the regional waiting list always takes precedence. If there’s no good match, they start to look father away. But then it becomes much more of a gamble. Will the organ even be viable?”
“Which is why Odin’s heart was coming from Madison,” Max said. “They’re in the same region, this hospital was fairly close by. Hence, you could rush it here via helicopter.”
“Yes,” Dr. Graham said. “My team was on point and ready to roll. The entire process went like clockwork right up until the end.”
“When it all went boom,” Max said.
“Beyond my control,” Dr. Graham said.
“Would there have been another heart for Mr. Odin?” Afton asked. “If he’d managed to survive last night?”
Dr. Graham shrugged. “Who knows?”
“Would he have gone back to the top of the list?” Afton asked.
This time Dr. Graham didn’t meet her eyes. “Probably not.”
20
I haven’t seen food this crappy since I was in the army,” Max grumbled.
After meeting with Dr. Graham, they’d wandered into a nearby cafeteria and, trays in hand, shuffled their way through the food line.
“It’s hospital food,” Afton said. There was a rainbow assortment of pink, green, and yellow gelatins. Some plain, some spiked with diced fruit that had probably come straight from a twenty-gallon can. “What are you gonna do?”
“Try to find something edible?”
Afton slid her tray down a metal railing past several different food stations. Here there were red neon signs that announced PIZZA, PASTA, and BURGERS. But nothing that said SALAD. Or even EAT ME, I’M SLIGHTLY MORE HEALTHY.
Afton finally settled on a bowl of tomato soup while Max opted for a grilled cheese sandwich. They grabbed a Diet Coke for Afton and a cup of coffee for Max and then sat down at one of the tables.
“Did you ever notice how most hospitals serve really awful food?” Max asked. “I mean unhealthy food.” He picked up his cheese sandwich. “Take this for example—it’s loaded with grease. And did you see they were serving fries up there, too? And gooey pizza?”
“Your point being?”
“You’d think they would at least run their menu past a dietician.”
“This place is staffed by a bunch of eight-dollar-an-hour cafeteria ladies, not Gordon Ramsay.”
But Max couldn’t let it go. “Have you ever been to that hospital over on Chicago Avenue? Do you know what they have right there on the first floor? A Micky D’s. Can you believe it?”
“You love Micky D’s.”
“I know, but that’s beside the point. See, I’m guessing that particular franchise is owned by a bunch of heart surgeons who are hoping to attract a bunch of new clients.”
“I guess that’s the price of having a free market economy,” Afton said.
Max took another bite of sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “So. What do you think? When your mouth is pulled tight like it is right now, you’re usually trying to work out a problem.”
Afton leaned forward across the cafeteria table. “Know what I think? I think someone knew that Odin’s heart was winging its way from Madison. That someone was watching out for it.”
“Yeah?” Despite his health rant, Max had already polished off half his sandwich.
“I think somebody right here at this hospital knew exactly which heart was earmarked for Leland Odin.”
“Huh. You’re saying we should forget about the Madison hospital and focus all our energy here?” Yesterday Max had spoken with two Madison detectives, who’d promised to look into things.
“Yes, I do. Somebody who was working Tuesday night must have known that Odin was being prepped for surgery. Which means they also
knew his heart would be arriving via helicopter. If they were on the lookout for it, they could have . . . alerted the shooter. Or shooters.”
“You mean someone was bribed to keep an eye out?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
Max lifted an eyebrow, giving her a cockeyed look that said she must be plum crazy. “As in a conspiracy?”
“Yes.” Now a finger of doubt had crept in and Afton thought she might have gone too far. Was she completely off base with her conspiracy theory? Was this what cops referred to as the proverbial grassy knoll?
Then Max squinted at her and said, “You know what? That makes sense to me, too.”
Afton sat back and relaxed. She hadn’t expected him to be so quick on the buy-in. “So what do we do next?”
Max popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth and took a slug of coffee. He chewed, swallowed hard, and said, “Let’s find out who was working in the cardiac unit that night.”
• • •
TEN minutes later they were sitting across an enormous oak desk from Anne Manchester, RN. She was the chief administrator tasked with scheduling the surgical teams along with the nurses, orderlies, med techs, and, probably, janitorial staff. Manchester had steel-gray eyes, matching steel-gray hair that was scraped back into a tight bun, and reading glasses that dangled on a chain around her neck. She wore an oatmeal-colored cardigan sweater over a polyester white blouse with a floppy pussycat bow at her neck. And she was frowning. Big-time.
“Your request is highly unusual,” Manchester said. Afton had spent five minutes recapping all that had happened and laying the logical groundwork for their records request.
“Actually this is rather routine,” Max replied. He had slid down in his chair and the toe of his shoe was knocking against the corner leg of her desk—thunk, thunk, thunk—clearly annoying her. Afton wasn’t sure if it was deliberate or if Max was just plain bored. Or maybe he’d developed a gas bubble from wolfing down his sandwich so fast.
“It’s certainly not routine for us,” Manchester shot back. “Those records are private; we rarely allow anyone access to that kind of information.”
“They’re scheduling records,” Afton said. “We’re not asking for anybody’s blood type, pay grade, or if they’ve ever been affiliated with the Communist Party. We just want to know who was working here that night.”
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