“My husband is a surgeon. What is he supposed to have done that warrants the involvement of the UN?”
“He’s part of a human trafficking network that smuggles people to the U.S.”
She shook her head, breaking into a peal of laughter. “My husband is smuggling people to the U.S.? Have you met my husband?”
Vermeulen nodded.
“Then you should know he’s incapable of anything except surgery. It’s ludicrous.”
“He works with a woman who’s known as ‘The Broker.’ She supplies him with his victims.”
“His victims? Are you crazy? Do you know what my husband does? He’s a transplant surgeon. And a very busy one at that. He’s so busy, he only takes private patients. The demand for kidneys is insatiable, and there are legions of grateful patients who’ve gotten a new lease on life. Those are his,” she made air quotes, “ ‘victims.’ Get off my property now, or the police will be here faster than you can spell your funny name.”
“Where do you think all those kidneys come from?” he said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m sure it’s all proper.”
Vermeulen was about to explain how improper it was, when Rosenbaum appeared behind his wife.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“They said you wouldn’t come here,” Rosenbaum said, his face doing that odd dance again.
“They were wrong, weren’t they?” Vermeulen said.
“You should hear what he says about you,” his wife said.
“Stay out of this, Mitzi,” Rosenbaum said.
“The hell I will. If only a fraction of what he says is true, I’m going to be part of this conversation.”
“I’m here to offer you a deal,” Vermeulen said. “Cooperate with the investigation in exchange for leniency.”
That was the second lie. Vermeulen was in no position to offer anything. But he couldn’t think of any other way to coax Rosenbaum to his side.
“Marvin, tell me. Is it true what he says?” Mitzi said.
“What did he tell you?” Rosenbaum said.
“Something about an international human trafficking ring that brings you your victims.”
“Nonsense. There are no victims.”
“But are you involved with something illegal?” she said.
“Uh …” he hesitated before adding, “no.”
“That does it,” she said. “I want to hear what Mr. Vermoolen has to say.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Rosenbaum said. “He’s blowing things out of proportion.”
“That’s what I want to find out. If you’re right, we’ll call the police.”
Rosenbaum’s face reflected his internal struggle. The tics were painful to watch. How could Mitzi put up with that? Maybe she appreciated that her husband could never lie to her.
She opened the door wider. “Come in, Mr. Vermoolen.”
Mitzi closed the door after her husband.
The foyer was expansive, with a tall ceiling. An armoire and two chairs were the only pieces of furniture. The floor was tiled with marble slabs the size of coffee tables. Scattered rugs indicated paths leading to the interior. Mitzi headed into the left wing.
Rosenbaum’s phone rang. He checked the display. Once glance at his face told Vermeulen it wasn’t a call he wanted to take. “It’s the Broker, isn’t it?” he said.
Rosenbaum looked at him, trying hard to get his face under control. He nodded.
“Take the call. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t tell her I’m here.”
Rosenbaum nodded. He tapped on his phone.
“Yes,” he said.
Vermeulen could hear a voice but not what was said.
“Yes, I’m home. What’s the problem now?”
The voice squawked again.
“Yes, later this evening. What?” He hesitated, then said, “No …” he hesitated again. “No, he isn’t here.”
Rosenbaum looked at Vermeulen as if to say, “See, I didn’t say anything.” But the pause had been the tell. Not that it mattered. The Broker had already figured out what happened. Why else would she have called? There wasn’t going to be a lot of time to persuade Rosenbaum to cooperate.
“Yes, I know,” Rosenbaum said. “No need to come here. I’ll meet with you tomorrow. I’ve got to get ready for surgery tonight.”
He listened some more. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out the gist of the conversation. Vermeulen’s sudden arrival back in the U.S. had stirred up the Broker and her gang. Add Jackson’s kidney, which sounded like a very special case, and the stakes were higher than ever. Like Vermeulen, she knew that Rosenbaum was the weakest link in the operation. His turning Rosenbaum around had to be her nightmare scenario.
“Good, tomorrow at my office, then,” Rosenbaum said. “Ten in the morning. Good, I’ll be there.”
Vermeulen knew he had very little time.
Mitzi Rosenbaum waited for them in a room that had probably been labeled “Library” on the builder’s plan. Except that no one coming into this room would assume anyone actually read here. The yards of books with leather spines were the giveaway. Who actually sold books with leather spines except for fake libraries?
A low table, an assortment of chairs, and a chaise longue were the sole furnishings. On the table stood bottles of Hendricks Gin and Q Tonic, an ice bucket, and a small bowl with lime slices. Apparently, happy hour had started before Vermeulen arrived.
“I want to get one thing straight,” Rosenbaum said. “I’m not going to say anything without talking to my lawyer first.”
“Then I have no reason to stay here,” Vermeulen said. “You’ll be talking to the FBI next.”
“The FBI?” Mitzi said. “You didn’t say they were involved.”
“Human trafficking across state lines is a federal crime. The FBI has a special task force for it. They’ll be eager to hear what you have to say. Your lawyer won’t make a difference.”
“They can’t make me talk,” Rosenbaum said.
“You’re right, probably not, especially with your lawyer by your side.”
“You’d better leave now. There’s no use in you being here.”
“Dr. Rosenbaum, let me tell you something about the Fifth Amendment. Sure, you can’t be forced to say things that incriminate you, but it doesn’t stop the FBI from investigating you. They’ll subpoena your hospital records, they’ll delve into every transplant you ever performed. They’ll talk to every donor. Can your practice withstand that scrutiny?”
Rosenbaum swallowed and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I didn’t think so,” Vermeulen said. “Once they have a case—and trust me, they’ll find enough to make one—you’ll wish you’d have cooperated from the beginning. The feds don’t take kindly to rejection. The way I see it, cooperation with the investigation is your best option.”
“What makes you think you can take down the Broker?” Rosenbaum said. “That woman is ruthless. What if you and the FBI screw up? I’ll be sticking out my neck and she’ll be coming after me. I can’t afford that.”
“You’re in no position to bargain. I’m going to the FBI with this, no matter what you do,” Vermeulen said. “If you’re not with me, I’ll personally make sure that you bear the full responsibility for your starring role in this operation. Remember, you were the one who performed the operations. Did the Broker force you to do those?”
Rosenbaum shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. Without your greed, none of this would’ve happened.”
“Don’t talk to my husband that way,” Mitzi said.
“Why shouldn’t I? Aren’t there guidelines, waiting lists, procedures for kidney transplants? He ignored those because he was paid a lot of money. And what about the poor people who were coerced into donating a kidney?”
“Nobody was coerced,” Rosenbaum said. “They were paid for it. It was a legitimate exchange.”
“There’s nothing legit
imate about this business. Rich people want to jump the queue and you were more than happy to help them in exchange for cash without regard for the consequences. I spoke with one of the potential donors in prison. The gang had threatened to kill his family. He was so scared, he wouldn’t even tell me why he’d come.”
“I don’t know anything about that. I never threatened anyone.”
“No, you let the Broker do the dirty work for you. That’s not much of a defense.”
“Leave Marvin alone,” Mitzi said. “He only wanted to help.”
Vermeulen shook his head.
“You wouldn’t want me to leave him alone. Alone, he’ll be serving the next several years in a federal prison. I’m his only hope right now. Cooperate with the investigation and I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Rosenbaum’s body shrank as if collapsing onto itself. He fell into one of the chairs, breathing heavily.
“Enough,” he said. “I’ll cooperate.”
That’s when the Big Ben doorbell rang. Time was up.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Camille Delano didn’t play games. She didn’t do sneak attacks, scale walls, or cut through windows to gain access to a house. In her experience, just ringing the doorbell got her inside ninety percent of the time. For the remaining ten percent, she had Gergi and Andrej.
Gergi stood behind her. She’d sent Andrej around the back to make sure Vermeulen didn’t skip out that way. He’d better not make a mess of it. She didn’t trust her crew much. They were just muscle. The concept of improvising was foreign to them. Gergi, behind her, was no better. But he had one redeeming quality: he didn’t ogle her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Vermeulen had to be at Rosenbaum’s; there was no place else he could logically be. If she were in his position, she’d have targeted Rosenbaum, too. The one unknown that worried her was how much Rosenbaum had told Vermeulen after he got here. He had a lot to lose if this thing blew up. That ought to put some steel in his spine, but she’d seen plenty of people with stronger dispositions crumple. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
The endless Big Ben sequence of Rosenbaum’s doorbell made her wonder why anyone would put up with that much noise. The door opened. Rosenbaum’s fluid visage appeared. She’d seen it in enough states of flux to no longer be taken aback by its gyrations.
“I thought we’d meet tomorrow,” he said.
“A slight change of plans. Where is he?” she said.
“Where is who?”
“Vermeulen.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
“Because he’s intent on destroying everything we’ve worked to build, and let’s face it, you are the weakest link.”
The door opened wider and a woman who’d been through a serious maintenance regime appeared.
“You must be Mitzi,” Delano said.
Mitzi didn’t say anything.
“Just tell me where Vermeulen is,” she said. “He’s obviously been by. Is he still here or has he left?”
“The whole thing has blown up,” Rosenbaum said. “I can’t afford not to cooperate with him and the FBI.”
“The FBI? Did he tell you the FBI was involved?” the Broker said.
The Rosenbaums nodded.
“That man is too much.” She laughed. “Vermeulen has been telling you tall tales. He is on his own little crusade. He’s just arrived from Vienna. He hasn’t had time to contact the FBI.”
“He could have called from the plane, or the airport,” Mitzi said.
“Yes, in theory, but remember, the man has no standing. Why would the FBI work with some investigator from the UN? Hell, they don’t even work with the local cops. But even if they were involved, do you think you could walk away from this? You’re going to be on the hook. I’m just the broker. I didn’t cut people open and take their kidney. I didn’t put it into another patient who paid big bucks. Guess who’s going to be paraded on TV cameras? Not some unknown woman, but the famous rich surgeon who was so greedy he broke the law to make even more money. The public will just lap it up.”
Rosenbaum looked at Delano. Whatever anchor had kept him moored had just been ripped loose. The tics and twitches of his face kicked into high gear.
“But it’s never going to get that far because Vermeulen is lying,” she went on. “Vermeulen is the only one who knows anything about our arrangements. With him out of the way, there is no reason it cannot continue. Just think about Mr. Woodleigh. We have the perfect donor for him. After the surgery tonight, we’ll get a million dollars, four hundred thousand of which are going into your pocket.”
The Rosenbaums looked at each other.
“I don’t know,” Rosenbaum said. “Are you sure that nobody but Vermeulen knows?”
“One hundred percent. I’m betting my future on it.”
“What do you propose to do with him?”
“That’s none of your concern. So don’t ask.”
Mitzi’s eyes flickered. She probably imagined Vermeulen disappearing in the concrete foundations of some high-rise. Whatever she thought, it didn’t change her mind. She looked at her husband, who nodded. The money had done its trick.
“Okay,” Mitzi said. “We’re listening. But I have to tell you, we’re not going to be involved in murder.”
“That’s why I said you’re better off not knowing. So, where is he?”
“I’ve put him in one of the guest rooms.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The guest room color scheme was a cloying shade of pink. It contained a king size bed, a large bathroom en suite, a flatscreen TV, and an abstract print on the wall. It was the type of room you’d expect to find in a two-star hotel. The interior decorator must have figured that adding a hundred pillows to the bed made up for the lack of ambiance.
Vermeulen had no illusions about the Rosenbaums. They were the kind of people who checked the direction of the wind and adjusted their convictions accordingly. The Broker—he had no doubt she had arrived—would warn them against going to the FBI. She’d tell them that Vermeulen couldn’t offer them any deal. And she’d be right. Rosenbaum would flip-flop in a second.
He sidled next to the sliding glass door and peered into the garden. The sun had already sunk behind the trees. A landscape architect who must have been a big fan of Louis XIV had dragooned nature into a grid. The beds that would eventually be full of blooms were still just brown shapes on the yellow lawn. It’d take a bird’s eye view to discern what form was being represented. The formal garden reached as far as the woods Vermeulen had seen from the street. Somewhere beyond that was the lake and the spot where he’d parked his car.
A man came around the corner of the house and took up position in the garden. He made no attempt to hide the pistol in his hand. It was the guy who’d sat at the bar in the Azure Lounge. The Broker had definitely arrived.
He left the room. In the hallway, he heard distant voices to the right, no doubt the Broker explaining to the Rosenbaums the value of giving up Vermeulen. To his left, near the end of the corridor, were two doors opposite each other. He tried the one to the left and found another guest room. Same décor, but in a more masculine tan. It faced the same direction as the pink room. He could see the man standing outside.
The other door led to yet another guest room—again the same décor, except in light blue. The decorator must have gotten a serious quantity discount on pillows. It faced away from the garden and toward the other wing of the house.
Vermeulen checked the map on his phone. Not a promising direction for an escape. He’d have to walk past the house to get to the car. The best way out was through the garden and toward the lake. Which meant luring the man to this side of the house.
He grabbed the chair. It was oak, just the right heft for what he needed. He threw it as hard as he could against the sliding glass door. It shattered in a loud crash. He ran back to the pink room and saw the man hurrying around the corner of the house. Vermeulen opened the sliding door and slalome
d past the flowerbeds and toward the woods.
Once in the trees, he stopped, panting. The man had come around the corner of the house again. He stared at the woods. The leafless branches didn’t provide any cover, even in the fading light. Vermeulen knew he’d be spotted. Sure enough, the man raced across the garden. Fortunately, his pursuer didn’t know the first thing about gardening; otherwise, he would’ve avoided the raised beds. His feet sunk into the loam, and he stumbled and fell headlong to the ground.
Vermeulen used his head start to push his way deeper into the forest, toward the edge of the lake. The brambles were hard going. Crashing through them also made a lot of noise; his pursuer would have little trouble following. He stopped fighting with the twigs, dropped into a squat, and listened. The noise of breaking branches told him the man had reached the woods, too.
Change of plan. He saw a dip in the terrain that had filled with dead leaves. It was a better option than trying to outrun the man. He pushed the leaves into a small berm, lay in the hollow, and swept the leaves over his body.
The sound of breaking twigs and the snags of thorns tearing on clothing came closer. Shoes dragged through the leaves. The man stopped. Ragged breath. A mumbled curse. Feet shuffling around. Vermeulen held his breath. The man was very close. The urge to raise his head and look was almost overwhelming.
The breathing slowed. Had he seen Vermeulen? Was he taking aim with his pistol? A cold sweat covered Vermeulen’s body and seeped into his shirt. Another step. Probably raising the gun just about now. Ready for the kill shot. Like an executioner stepping behind his kneeling victims, pointing the gun at the neck, firing.
A shot echoed through the woods.
Except, it wasn’t a shot.
It was a branch breaking with a loud crack. The man stumbled. A desperate “Fuck.”
A heavy body fell across Vermeulen.
The chances of that happening had to be right up there with winning the lottery. But Vermeulen didn’t waste any time calculating the odds. He’d been hyper alert, his muscles tensed, ready for action. He levered the body to the side. Jumped up. Grabbed the broken section of the branch that stuck up from the leaves. The man scrambled onto all fours. Vermeulen hit him with his makeshift bat. A groan told him he’d connected. It wasn’t enough, just a glancing blow. The man rolled sideways, ending up on his haunches. Still in a crouch, he raised the pistol with both hands. Vermeulen swung. The branch batted the gun from the man’s hand. It flew into the leaves. His pursuer rose to his full height. He was build like a truck.
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