Brainy-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  “He probably did the lips first,” Rick said. “When she came around enough to realize something was wrong with her mouth, he glued her nostrils shut as he stared in her eyes while she slowly suffocated.”

  “A terrible way for Diane to die,” I said.

  “If she is dead,” Frankie said.

  “I did not make this up, and before either of you say anything, I did not lose another body,” I said.

  “All I’m saying is that she isn’t here now, so unless she’s walking around with her face all glued together, somebody removed her body,” Frankie said.

  “Other than the woman at the desk and Diane’s guards, there wasn’t anyone else in this building who could remove her body,” Rick said.

  I remembered what was bothering me. “What about the female employee we all saw come into the building?” I asked. “Where did she go?”

  “Luca said she walked out of the north door and went out to the plane,” Frankie said. “They didn’t think nothin’ of it since she works here.”

  “Diane’s body has to be here,” I said. “Help me up so we can hunt for it.”

  No one moved.

  “Okay, I’ll do it myself.”

  I staggered over to the glass window and glanced out. What I saw made it difficult for me to breathe. Diane’s plane was gone.

  128

  That night, Carter and I sat in the family room. The kids were in bed. He sipped a Pride cabernet. I drank a neat single malt scotch. The ice bag I had on my neck helped the pain from where I was hit by the Taser, but the scotch was more effective. I told Carter I’d hurt my neck doing one of Cas’s exercise classes. If I told him the truth, the Warren story was dead.

  “Tell me more about this evidence concerning Diane Warren,” he said.

  I knew the feds and the Russians were listening, but this didn’t have anything to do with them. After what had happened to Diane, I didn’t care about them.

  “Cas took these pictures of the charts at MidAmerica Hospital,” I said.

  He pointed at the papers on the coffee table. “And the way I read this is the patients with autoimmune diseases in the ICU have all been treated for breast cancer.”

  “They have.”

  “But Fertig is not mentioned in any of these charts as the breast cancer surgeon.”

  “He isn’t, but notice that in each patient’s breast cancer history, the wording is exactly the same even though different doctors dictated the history and physical examinations.”

  “You assume that the information has been altered.”

  “I do.”

  “I know how you obtained the pictures of the charts, and it was a creative way to push the story forward, but it was illegal, a fact the hospital’s lawyers will point out.”

  I sipped my scotch. It burned a little as it went down my throat, but the resulting buzz felt good.

  “And then there’s the sample size,” he said. “Were there only five patients?”

  “There might have been more, but we ran into a time issue.”

  Not exactly a lie, but I didn’t want to tell him Diane and her security guards arrived and stopped Alan, Cas, and Lori.

  “That’s my problem with this story. You need to give me more proof before I can publish the story. Can you get it?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “May I help? I think this is potentially a terrific story, and I want you to get the credit.”

  “Thank you for saying that, but I’ve run into a little problem that I’m trying to solve.”

  “Maybe I can help with that too.”

  “I’m not sure if anyone can help me with this one.”

  He finished his wine and put down his glass. “What about Zhukov? Anything happening with that story? You haven’t mentioned it. Maybe I can help with that one.”

  “All I know is that one hundred and fifty million dollars is missing, and I don’t have a clue where it went.”

  Let the Russians and FBI digest that information. Let them figure it out.

  Part 6

  129

  For the next three days, I spent my free time researching where Diane’s plane could have landed. It had taken off during the time I was knocked out from being zapped by the Taser. I discovered the flight plan that had been filed proved to be phony. The real destination of the plane was as yet unknown.

  The lack of success in both stopping Diane and finishing a story I wanted to write was depressing. I had been a successful investigative journalist, and then I wasn’t — because I got blown up and fired. Now I had a chance to do a compelling story again, and then I didn’t.

  On Monday morning, at David’s suggestion, I was having a manicure at their salon. He said having my nails done was a cure for my melancholy. Macy was asleep in her stroller.

  But it wasn’t working.

  I sat in the waiting room waiting for the polish to dry. David and Rick had taken a break to sit with me. They drank Starbucks coffee from the store one block away. Rick bought a Grande hot green tea for me.

  “You poor dear girl,” David said.

  “You appear miserable,” Rick said.

  “I am,” I said. “I had three stories and now I’m down to the one about Zhukov, since Sullivan is missing and Diane’s feature is in the dumper. I know her body is on that stupid plane, but I can’t find it to prove I’m right about her being dead.”

  As far as the world knew, she had left the country. I knew better. She was dead, and someone had put her body on the plane before it flew away.

  “Sweetie, there’s one tiny problem,” David said. “Who killed her?”

  Great question.

  I didn’t have an answer for that. The most logical suspect was the person sitting with David and Rick waiting for her nails dry. If the police knew that I had killed the man I assumed Diane had hired to blow us up, that would put me at the top of the list of those who had it in for Diane.

  “We — Rick and I — think you might need to stop pursuing this,” David said.

  “Indeed we do,” Rick said. “I would hate to have the police begin doing a diggy-dig in our basement, especially if Diane did hire that disgusting man who is buried there.”

  “And we are positive everyone knew she hated you and you felt the same way about her,” David said.

  “I didn’t exactly hate her,” I said. “I just didn’t like her very much.”

  “Let’s find a different project,” Rick suggested. “Do you ever write about social events?”

  “I covered all kinds of stories when I was a cub reporter, but I haven’t done anything like that in years. Why?”

  “We are in charge of a charity fundraising event called the Imperial Windy City Court of the Prairie State,” David said. “It will be held at the O’Hare International Westin Hotel in three weeks, and we would love to have some fabulous publicity.”

  “Guys, I need background first.”

  “Let’s meet at The Max,” Rick said. “We are having a run-through of the show we are producing for that fund-raising evening.”

  “It’ll be fun, and sweetie, you look like you could use a few laughs right now,” David said.

  “And don’t forget to call Marcia about that Russian person,” David said. “You have to finish the story, then you can devote full time to our project.”

  My journalistic juices slowed to a trickle. Their story wouldn’t be boring, but I didn’t see a nomination for a Pulitzer Prize in my future.

  “I need to check with Carter. I’m pretty sure the Tribune will publish it, but you have to realize that it won’t be on the front page.”

  “Oh, poo,” Rick said. “But if they must, we understand.”

  “Before I text Carter about it, let me call Janet first,” I said. “She might have new information for us.”

  I did. “Anything new on the names of the investors?”

  “One thing I haven’t figured out yet,” Janet said. “Dr. Alan Peebler didn’t exist before he entered Harvard Medical School.
”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m hoping you can tell me.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  130

  Alan was my primary lead to the Zhukov story, so I called Lori to make an appointment to see him. She didn’t sound too optimistic but she told me to come over to his office at one p.m.

  I dropped off Macy at Alicia’s and drove to Alan and Marcia’s. I parked the car in front of his side of their home. When Marcia and Alan joined the two houses together, Marcia said their architect suggested the entry door to Alan’s home be removed and replaced with windows.

  His new front door was on the side of the house next to the garage doors. It was the one Molly and I used the night we brought Alan home after hunting for clues at David and Rick’s house.

  Lori answered that door. She led me down a hallway into the waiting room of his office. She offered me coffee or tea, but I declined.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, but I had to drop Macy off at Alicia’s,” I said. “Did you talk to Alan?”

  “I tried to, but things aren’t good. He’s gone downhill since our trip to the hospital.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He isn’t talking.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not one word. Each morning, I put his clothes out and he gets dressed. He then sits in his office all day. He eats breakfast and lunch alone and then has dinner with Marcia if she’s not out at a fundraiser.”

  “What about working out?”

  “He doesn’t do that either.”

  Now what do I do?

  “Is he in there?” I asked, pointing at his examining room.

  “He is. He sits at his desk and looks at medical articles on his computer.”

  “Can he operate his computer?”

  “No. I sign in for him and log on to one of his medical journals.”

  “Which he reads?”

  “I’m not sure he does. When I sign off before I leave, the screen is always at the same place I started.”

  “He stares his computer all day long?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Like I said, it’s been that way since we returned from the confrontation with Diane Warren. It’s almost as if the vile things she said to him put him into a tailspin. She’s an evil woman.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about her anymore.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Finally, some good news.”

  131

  I studied the plaques and diplomas on Alan’s wall again. “Maybe you can answer a question for me since Alan is indisposed.”

  “I’ll try,” Lori said. “What do you need?”

  “Did Alan ever change his name?” I asked.

  Her eyes widened. “I, ah, I don’t know if I should answer that.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I’m supposed to know any of this,” she said, as she began picking at the skin around her nails.

  I need this.

  “Given the deterioration of Alan’s mental health, I don’t think it’ll matter now, do you?” I asked.

  She nodded in agreement. “Okay, so rumor has it that before Alan and Marcia were married, he changed his last name to Peebler.”

  Didn’t expect that.

  “As you know, Marcia has lots of inherited money,” she continued. “She used to drink excessively, and her parents were furious with her for her wild ways. After her last divorce, they sent her to rehab and insisted she marry a man with substance and stability.”

  “Like a doctor.”

  “But not just any doctor. They wanted a physician who was one of the best, if not the best, in his field.”

  “Alan.”

  “Exactly, and as part of the marriage arrangement, they insisted he change his last name.”

  Weird.

  “Why would they do that?”

  She squirmed around in her chair. “Alan is Jewish, and they didn’t want Marcia to have a Jewish last name.”

  “That’s reprehensible.”

  “You might think so, but I met her parents before they died and I can easily understand it. They were huge donors to the Catholic church and extremely conservative.”

  “Hard to reconcile that with Marcia’s two divorces.”

  “Her first two husbands lived off of her money and drank and used drugs. Her parents blamed Marcia’s substance abuse on them.”

  “Which was why they wanted her to marry a man who worked for a living.”

  “Exactly. Her father had a rare disease that no one could figure out. He was dying and finally had an appointment with Alan, who made a the proper diagnosis and saved his life. When he learned that Alan was single, he made a large donation to fund a research project Alan was doing. The Peeblers had dinner with him and were so impressed that they decided he was the perfect choice for Marcia.”

  “As long as he didn’t have a Jewish last name. What was it before he changed?”

  “I don’t know, but Marcia could tell you.” She paused. “But if you want to remain a friend of hers, it might be better if you figure out another way to find it. Since she stopped drinking, she has become a totally private person about family matters.”

  132

  After I picked up Macy from Alicia’s house, I played with her, fed her, and put her down for her afternoon nap. Kerry had a birthday party at preschool until four so I had some free time.

  I logged on to my computer and brought up “Dr. Alan Peebler.”

  From the dates on the screen, that name didn’t exist until thirty-seven years ago, one year before he matriculated at Harvard Medical School. I entered Marcia’s name in my research engine to check her background. Most of her early years were the fluff that sells tabloids at the supermarket.

  She did it all and sometimes more than once. There were two documented divorces and possibly one earlier marriage that was annulled. One society reporter quoted Marcia as calling it a “whoopsie.”

  I finally found a one-line notification of a marriage license issued to Marcia and Alan thirty-seven years ago. A week later, “Alan Peebler” appeared for the first time on a credit card issued in his name. The address listed for him was in Boston. There was no coverage of their wedding in the society pages.

  I went back to Marcia’s story. At the same time Alan entered Harvard, her address was listed as being the one where she and Alan now lived. Her address remained the same, but Alan’s changed several times in the Boston area, and then he lived two years in Baltimore when he was at Hopkins.

  “Wait a minute,” I said to myself.

  The first time I visited Alan’s office, I checked out the diplomas on his wall and wrote down what I felt was the relevant information, including the dates. I saw this again when I was there talking to Lori. According to his Harvard diploma, he graduated from medical school five years after Marcia and he took out their marriage license.

  These dates weren’t adding up.

  They were married thirty-seven years ago. Lori said that Marcia’s parents wanted her to marry a doctor, especially one that was the best in his specialty. How could that be possible when Alan didn’t become a doctor until five years after they were married?

  I opened my Zhukov files to the list of investors. Alan was one of the first, and his address was listed as being in Chicago. The date he sent Zhukov his first investment check was one year after he had finished his fellowship programs and had gone into private practice in Chicago.

  What the heck?

  I made a list:

  Marcia marries Alan and he changes his name.

  One year later, Alan enters Harvard Medical School and graduates in four years.

  Four years after that, he finishes his residency training at Harvard and then completes two more years of a fellowship at Hopkins.

  He moves to Chicago and begins investing his money with Zhukov.

  I sat back
and read my list. Marcia’s parents selected Alan to marry her after he saw Mr. Peebler as a patient. He should have married her after he finished his training and entered private practice, not a year before he entered medical school.