by Robin Cook
She could hardly wait to see that happen.
23.
ONE CENTRAL PARK WEST
NEW YORK CITY
MARCH 4, 2011, 1:20 P.M.
Jerry Trotter was slumped in his study, his head twisted awkwardly as it rested on his desk next to his slender Mac keyboard. As he snored fitfully, Jerry was having a particularly lurid dream. He is sitting as far back in a chair as he can while a man is yelling right in his face. In the dream, Jerry is late for a vital appointment, but he doesn’t know what it’s for, and he can’t find out until the man stops yelling at him and gets out of the way. Jerry twitched himself half awake but didn’t move. He’d drooled on the desk and his head was pounding. A phone was ringing somewhere nearby.
After an hour that morning, Jerry had turned off the ringers on all the phones in the house and on his regular cell phone. It appeared that there were plenty of people who wanted to talk to him. He hadn’t shown up at work so they figured he was at home or at least somewhere where he could pick up his cell phone. But the only calls Jerry cared about would come in on the device that Max Higgins had given him. So that must be the phone that was ringing.
Jerry sat bolt upright and pulled something in his neck. A quick spasm of pain ran up into his head as he scrambled for the phone. It stopped ringing.
“Shit, shit.”
Although he was one-part asleep and couldn’t orient himself properly, Jerry found the phone and pushed at the unfamiliar buttons. A 917 number came up and he pressed the green button. The phone redialed. It wasn’t Higgins, and he couldn’t remember Hooper’s number or Brubaker’s.
“Let it be Hooper,” he said quietly, with purpose. “Let it be Hooper.”
Someone picked up the call.
“Where’ve you been? I called twice.”
It was Hooper.
“You got something?”
“Bingo.”
“What is it? You gotta tell me. . . .”
“We need to meet. The Starbucks on the corner of Sixtieth. Opposite the Mandarin Oriental.”
“That’s right across the street.”
“See you in ten minutes.”
Jerry Trotter looked at his Rolex again and then around the Starbucks. Harry Hooper had said ten minutes and that was almost a half-hour ago. Jerry had come straight down to the street from his skyscraper aerie and hurried across Columbus Circle, and he’d reached the place in four minutes flat. Max Higgins would be at the apartment at any moment too. Jerry had quickly called him and asked him to come up from the office with the car. Things seemed to be moving.
As usual, the Starbucks was jammed. There was a line of people snaking around the store, all waiting to order, and customers to their left waiting for their beverages to be delivered. Most of the two-tops were occupied by individuals with laptops and a lot of notebooks. Who were these people? Jerry wondered. Didn’t they have homes? Or offices? A homeless guy had wedged his shopping bags and himself into a corner. He had a cup of water and as long as he stayed awake, he could sit there for the rest of the year.
What sort of venue was this for a meeting? Jerry wondered. There was little chance of finding somewhere to sit and less chance of talking discreetly. Jerry took out the phone and was ready to call Hooper again when he felt a hand squeeze his elbow, and not lightly. He twisted around. Hooper.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
Hooper guided Jerry out of the store and across the street so they skirted the front of the Time Warner building. Hordes of people were coming in and out of the doors.
Hooper turned right on Fifty-eighth Street and walked toward Columbus, steering Jerry through traffic to the south side of the street. They entered a pair of light green glass doors and took an escalator up to the lobby of the boutique hotel on the corner. Hooper led Jerry to a quiet section of the expansive lobby and sat at a table where a drinks menu was resting.
“A little quieter in here,” Hooper said.
“What was all that about? We could have just met here.”
“You sounded very tense on the phone,” Hooper said. “I’d say nervous was more like it. And nervous people make me nervous. Just basic precautions.”
Jerry looked at Hooper. How old was the guy, fifty-five? He was smaller than Jerry remembered, no more than five-eight, with dark hair that might be dyed but which was all his. He had a pinched, smoker’s face and friendly eyes. Trotter trusted him not at all.
“Shall we have a drink?”
“Sure,” said Jerry, who was running on fumes. Hooper waved a hand and a waiter came over from a bar.
“Scotch, rocks, a little water,” Hooper said.
“Vodka martini with a twist,” Jerry said. “Thank you.”
“You look a bit rough there, boss.”
“Didn’t sleep well,” Jerry said. “Nothing some good news won’t cure. I’m presuming it’s good news because you couldn’t tell me over the phone.”
“I wanted to have a little word with you, face-to-face.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’m kinda wondering why you’re so interested in this guy.”
“Well, what’s it to you, Harry? I asked you to find out some information and you seem to have found something. Obviously I want to have some leverage over this person, but it’s nothing you need worry about.”
“I’m curious how valuable the information might be.”
Jerry paused while the waiter served their drinks. Was this little asshole trying to shake him down? The waiter left, and Jerry picked up his glass slowly.
“Cheers, Harry.” Jerry knocked back half of his drink and put it down. “I’d say the information is worth the three hundred an hour I’m paying you. That was our agreement, I believe. A very generous one.”
“Agreements are made to be renegotiated,” Hooper said.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Another ten grand.”
“Ten grand? Are you kidding?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Jerry laughed, he couldn’t help himself. Ten thousand was chicken feed. Anticipating that Hooper would try something like this, although not quite so unsubtly, he had brought fifty thousand dollars with him and was willing to spend it.
“Let me think about it,” Jerry said, pretending to look pensive. “You must think I’m an idiot,” he added, taking another gulp of vodka. “You and Brubaker both. Do you call each other and say, ‘What an idiot that Jerry Trotter is, thinking he’s some kind of spy’?”
Hooper looked at Jerry coldly. He didn’t say no.
“I’m an idiot, but I’m not a total idiot.”
Jerry reached into the pocket on the front of his leather jacket and took out a small digital recorder of the type Hooper was familiar with.
“What’s that?” Now Hooper was smiling.
“I taped our calls, Harry. Not on this machine but another one just like it. What did you say—‘basic precautions’? I prefer to think of it as insurance. Ha, me and insurance.” Jerry finished his drink and held up his glass for the hovering waiter. Hooper hadn’t touched his drink.
“There’s nothing on there. I never say anything on the phone.”
“Oh, really? Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Hooper’s eyes darted around the room briefly, and he took a sip of his drink.
Jerry had got him thinking, he could see that.
“We’re in this together, my friend. I have no intention of doing anything with the recordings. As you say, there’s probably nothing there. But we’ve definitely entered a new phase in our relationship. You were very honest with me—you want more money. Okay.”
Jerry reached into his jacket again and took out a thick manila envelope. He threw it down on the table next to Hooper’s drink. Hooper picked up the envelope, held it below the level of the tabletop, and opened it with a finger. He flicked through the bills and looked up at Jerry. Jerry thought that if Hooper had ever seen that much money before, it was evidence he’d seized
in an investigation, and it was going under lock and key.
“I don’t get it,” Hooper said. “That’s a lot more than ten.”
“Yes, it is. That’s fifty.”
“Fifty grand! Holy shit.”
“Ah, Mr. Hooper, your grim exterior is slipping.” Jerry finished off his drink. He was feeling a lot more like his old self.
“What do I gotta do?”
“You tell me two things, and I give you another one of those envelopes in a couple of weeks. That’s all. First, I’m going to tell you what I think. I think you’re a greedy little man. I know you pad your bills for me—that’s fine, everyone does it. But this is real money. And I have more real money that I intend to keep giving you as long as we can help each other out. Because we really are in this together. I also think you don’t know exactly what I have on tape. Hmm?”
Hooper had regained his composure and was looking Jerry right in the eye.
“I notice you already took the money. I also think you’re thinking, Screw it, I want the money. It’s easy money too, Harry, because I know you already know the first thing—that’s why we’re here. And I really think you’ll find out the second one very quickly, a man of your experience.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game. You’re an amateur.”
“I know.” Jerry closed his eyes and smiled. “But I’m a quick learner. So tell me what you found out about Edmund Mathews and Ms. Croft.”
In a few sentences Harry Hooper told Jerry Trotter what he’d been told and about the source of the information. There was no doubt in Hooper’s mind that it was true.
“Thank you, Harry. That might just be enough for me.”
“So what’s the other thing you want to know?”
Jerry leaned in toward Hooper.
“I want you to tell me how I get my hands on some polonium-210.”
24.
GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT
MARCH 4, 2011, 3:23 P.M.
It was thirty miles, give or take, from Columbus Circle in Manhattan to Edmund Mathews’s house in Greenwich and by some miracle, Jerry’s driver, a former New York State highway patrolman, made the trip in just over fifty minutes. After leaving Harry Hooper in the hotel bar, Jerry had found Max Higgins waiting in the limo in front of his building. He got in and called Edmund Mathews immediately, pretty much ordering him and Russell to leave their Greenwich office and meet at Edmund’s house within the hour. Jerry had told Max nothing. Max thought Jerry looked terrible—red-rimmed eyes, unshaven cheeks, hair in disarray, and wearing a strange and rumpled shirt-and-khakis combination under an old leather jacket such as a biker might wear. And he could smell the alcohol on his breath. Max would have to wait for an explanation because as soon as he’d spoken with Edmund, Jerry stretched out in the limo’s generous backseat and fell into a noisy and fitful sleep.
In the hours since their lunch with Jerry and Max the day before, Edmund and Russell had done nothing significant in terms of solving their problems. Russell had busied himself overseeing the implementation of some of Edmund’s ideas about buying different types of life insurance policies and legal staffers had started combing through existing diabetics’ policies looking for what Russell had called “anomalies.” Anyone who’d used a middle initial on one document and not on another, they were to see if that was grounds for termination of the policy. Any agreements in progress were halted pending investigation. But these were stopgaps. If there was to be a macro solution, Edmund and Russell hoped it would come from Jerry.
When Edmund received Jerry’s summons, he was optimistic that salvation was at hand. Jerry had sounded hoarse, and he was even more abrupt than usual. But no matter. Russell had been positively giddy as the two men waited for Jerry, Edmund more reserved. From experience Edmund knew that if Jerry had thought of something, it wouldn’t be pain-free. There’d be a price to pay somewhere down the line.
Jerry’s limo pulled up to Edmund’s front door. As Edmund watched from a second-floor window, the driver hopped out and held the door open for Jerry, who slowly stepped into the chilly winter air. Even from this range, Jerry didn’t look so hot. As Edmund made his way downstairs, his wife, Alice, ever the good hostess, opened the front door.
“Alice!” Jerry said jovially. “I was hoping I’d see you. You look as lovely as ever.” And she did, her blond bob tucked back behind her ears, her light green eyes set off by a mint-green sweater, her gym-toned legs setting off a sharp, knee-length skirt.
“Hello, Jerry, how are you?” Alice grabbed Jerry’s elbow and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Jerry had tried to tame his hair and had quickly polished off half a roll of breath mints, but he hadn’t completely overcome his dishevelment. Nor had he done anything about a subtle ripeness that hovered around him like an invisible cloud. Alice recoiled a little.
“I was just saying to Max,” Jerry continued as Edmund joined them, “what a wonderful couple Alice and Edmund are. And little Darius makes three. Beautiful wife, a healthy heir, this stunning house. Edmund, you are a lucky SOB. The man who has everything. Wasn’t I just saying that, Max?”
“Absolutely, Jerry, and who could disagree?” Max had no idea what Jerry was talking about, but he played along. Two minutes earlier Jerry had been all but dead to the world.
Jerry had his arm around Alice’s shoulder as the group filed into the house. Edmund wondered what on earth was going on. Jerry had never shown the slightest interest in Alice, nor Edmund in Charlotte Trotter. They didn’t have that kind of relationship—it was all business.
“Russell here? Ah yes, there you are,” Jerry said, spying Russell emerging from the library.
“Can I get you gentlemen anything?” Alice asked, extricating herself from Jerry’s grip. Jerry moved to lean against a wall. From Edmund’s perspective it appeared as if Jerry was having trouble standing up.
“I’d love a coffee, thanks, Alice. You have one of those fancy machines, right? As strong as it comes, and in a large mug if you wouldn’t mind. Didn’t sleep so well last night.”
Alice moved toward the kitchen and the four men stood in Edmund’s expansive entryway.
“We don’t have all the paperwork from Statistical Solutions corroborating the concerns we have about the bell curves,” Edmund said, eager to get the ball rolling.
“I don’t care about that,” Jerry said. “It’s as bad as you thought. Actually, it’s probably worse than you feared. We have to preserve the capital we’ve invested, and the only way to do so is to act quickly and decisively. Like now.”
“Well, shall we go into the library and sit down and talk about it?” Edmund asked. “Or the living room?”
“No, Edmund,” Jerry said, suddenly sounding more focused. “You and I are going for a little walk outside.”
“A walk? It’s freezing out there! It’s going to snow later.”
“Don’t worry, Edmund, you’re not going to freeze to death. Go grab a coat.”
As Russell and Max moved into Edmund’s library, Edmund and Jerry stepped outside, Edmund fortified by a woolen overcoat, Jerry by the coffee Alice had made. It was five shots of espresso staining the inside of a Syracuse University mug.
“They’ve set up a company to control the patents for the organogenesis techniques,” Jerry said. “Rothman and Yamamoto. These are the guys, no doubt about it. They’re the problem.”
“I’m glad you’re taking the issue to heart,” Edmund said. They walked along an ornamental path in the front of the house, past rosebushes that had been severely pruned back for the winter. Patches of snow lay on the lawn in the shadow of the hedges. This was as barren as Edmund’s garden ever looked.
“We have to act at once. Those bell curves move at all to the right, it’s a disaster.”
“I’m pleased you see the same problem we do.”
Jerry stopped walking just short of the lawn.
“Unfortunately, we don’t see a simple financial solution, like selling ourselves short through an intermediary or securitizing
our policy holdings immediately. With Gloria Croft shorting big-time, we probably couldn’t find any institutional buyer.”
“I agree,” Edmund said. “But the life settlement concept is still sound. It’s maybe the best business opportunity I’ve ever come across. It would be a shame to have to give up at this early stage.”
“I agree,” Jerry said. And more than you know, he thought, more than even Max knew. “Which is why I’ve come up with another plan.”
There was a silence, then Jerry went on.
“It’s a little unorthodox, but it’s the best plan that serves all of our interests. Believe me, I’ve thought about nothing else over the last twenty-four hours. But it’s not for us to do—it’s for you to do. It was your idea, this whole thing. Your mess to get out of. Just you and I will speak of it, nothing will be in writing.”
Edmund nodded. He didn’t expect anything different. Not from Jerry.
“There’s only one solution, and it’s the way it has to be because this guy Rothman has got himself out there so far ahead of the pack.”
Another silence ensued.
“I think Rothman’s momentum has to be stopped. If it is, I think we’ll have a good five years before the rest of the research community catches up to where Rothman is today.”
Neither man said anything. Jerry’s words hung heavily between them as if they were written in the air. Finally Edmund broke the excruciating silence.
“How do we stop Rothman’s momentum, Jerry?”
