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“Then the order is wrong,” Michael said. “Trian was killed first.”
“True,” Max agreed, “but the real question is this—how come the three patients cured first were killed and not the last three?”
Michael thought for a moment. “Given enough time, they might have been,” he said. “Maybe you put the last three in hiding before George had a chance to strike.”
“Maybe. But George’s boss must have seen that possibility. He told George to make the killings look like the work of a serial killer. He purposely made the killings so obvious that even a moron would know he was targeting the clinic’s cured patients. Why? He had to know that we’d catch on eventually, that he’d never be able to kill all six with the Gay Slasher routine unless . . .”
“Unless he never intended to have George kill all six,” Michael finished.
“Exactly.”
“So what separates the first three cured patients from the last three?”
“Interesting question. Let’s have a look-see.”
For the next hour Max went through Harvey’s files while Michael watched from his cot.
“Interesting,” Max remarked after the hour had passed.
“What?”
“Trian, Whitherson, and Martino were all admitted by Bruce Grey.”
“Is that significant?”
Max shrugged and turned a page. “Something else.”
“What?”
“Your buddy Eric Blake joined the clinic after Trian, Whitherson, and Martino were admitted, but before Krutzer, Leander, and Singer had arrived on the scene.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“Neither do I. Yet.”
“Who admitted the other three—Krutzer, Leander, and Singer?”
Max checked the files. “Harvey.”
“All three?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t Eric admit anybody?”
“Never. He could only assist.”
“Anything else?” Michael asked.
Max continued to glance through the files. “Let’s see how the blood work went with them.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s see . . . Trian’s, Whitherson’s, and Martino’s original blood work was all done by Bruce. Theoretically, this should mean that Harvey did the later blood work to see if they had changed from HIV positive to HIV negative.”
“Did he?”
Max thumbed through the pages for a few minutes. “Yep, it checks out. Harvey handled all the later HIV tests. Now let’s see if Bruce did the HIV testing for the patients Harvey admitted.” He continued to skim through the files. When he finished, he put them down.
“Well?”
Max turned toward him. “Bruce Grey performed the tests, just as he should have. They even let Eric do a couple on Krutzer and Leander to make sure everything was aboveboard.”
“So everything was on the up-and-up.”
Max nodded. “Guess so.” He picked up a chewed-up pencil and drew a quick chart:
“So what’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Nothing. Let’s move on.”
Michael sat up. Dr. Sombat, the Thai doctor, watched him warily. “What about the motivation of Sanders’ coconspirators?”
Still distracted by the blood-work rotation, Max wrote the names on another piece of paper:
Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services
Raymond Markey
Senator Stephen Jenkins
Dr. John Lowell
Dr. Sombat stood and walked toward them. “Excuse me,” he said, “but Mr. Silverman must get some rest. This whole experience has weakened him considerably.”
“I’m fine,” Michael replied.
“No, he’s right, Michael.” Max smiled. “Get some rest. You look awful.”
“I’m too wound up.”
The Thai doctor produced a needle. “This will help. Please lie still.”
As Michael dozed off, Max continued to stare at the three names on the sheet of paper in front of him.
Markey, Jenkins, and Lowell.
Sounded like a New York law firm.
SARA hobbled through the door, leaning heavily against her cane. She pressed the answering machine rewind button, listened to the scratching sound and then waited for the tape to begin. The first two messages were hang ups. The third was from Harvey.
“It’s Harvey, Sara. Give me a call at the clinic when you have a chance. It’s . . . it’s rather important. Bye.”
She was about to reach for the receiver when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Sara? It’s Jennifer Riker.”
“Hello, Jennifer. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” Pause. “Sara, have you heard anything . . . ?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I hope the package I sent Harvey will help.”
“What package?”
“Hasn’t Harvey called you?”
“He left a message for me on my machine, but I haven’t had a chance to call him back yet. What package, Jennifer?”
“Bruce mailed a package to his California P.O. box the same day he committed suicide. It probably means nothing—”
“What kind of package?”
“It had all kinds of medical files and blood samples in it. Anyway, Harvey should have received it today.”
“Thanks for calling, Jennifer. I hate to rush you off the line . . .”
“Say no more. Good luck, Sara.”
Sara hung up and quickly dialed the clinic. “Dr. Riker, please. This is Sara Lowell.”
“He is on rounds, Ms. Lowell. Would you like me to page him?”
“Just tell him I’m on my way over there.”
“Of course, Ms. Lowell. Good-bye, now.”
Sara grabbed her cane and headed for the door.
JFK Airport, New York.
Sergeant Willie Monticelli showed his ID, boarded the plane, and headed for the closed-off section in the back.
“Hey, Twitch.”
“Hi, Willie.”
“Got the ambulance for Silverman,” he said.
“The press know anything?” Max asked.
“Not yet. We can sneak him out on the tarmac. It’s dark as hell out there. No one will see him.”
“Have you located Sara yet?”
“She’s at the clinic.”
“Did you speak to her?”
Willie shook his head. “You said not to.”
