As he walked by, Beckett reached out and deftly snatched the paper from the man’s hands.
“Hey!” the hipster shouted.
Beckett made his eyes go wide.
“There’s a… a… a vegetable fire! Quick! Go save the kumquats!” Beckett exclaimed, pointing back the way he’d come.
The man looked at him as if he were certifiably insane.
“What the fuck are you talking about? A kumquat is a fruit.”
Beckett chuckled and then simply turned and started to walk away. The man moved toward him, but then changed his mind and shook his head.
“Asshole,” the hipster grumbled.
“You ain’t lying,” Beckett shot back.
He opened the newspaper and immediately smiled.
The thing about newspapers is that when something was popular on one day, they were likely going to run the exact same thing on the next… and the day after that… and the day after that. Pretty much continually until something else of substance occurred.
And this was no exception.
The front page was dominated by Winston Trent’s mugshot.
You got what you deserved…
But that wasn’t what Beckett was looking for.
On the second page, he saw a black-and-white image of Sir England and Grant and Flo-Ann McEwing cutting the ribbon.
Beckett scanned the text, looking for something that the article had alluded to the day prior.
He found it in the second last paragraph.
In addition to being the major funder for the McEwing Transplant Unit, the McEwing Foundation has also recently invested an additional two million into the New York City Renewed Life Center.
Having found the information he needed, Beckett began the monumental task of folding the paper. He gave up after a good minute of trying — it was like the world’s most complex Origami swan. Eventually, he just balled it up and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.
New York City Renewed Life Center.
The place sounded like one that Sir Francis England frequented nightly to have his skin regenerated.
So, the McEwing Foundation doesn’t have enough money to open the Transplant Unit on time, but they can fund the Regenerated Living Quarters or whatever the hell it’s called? How does that make sense?
Sure, Beckett could look the place up, figure out exactly what the Foundation was funding. But that would require going back to his office and sitting in front of his computer.
A much better idea was to meet an old friend who was in the know and share a drink.
With a smile, Beckett took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.
“Dr. Ron? How the hell have you been?”
Chapter 18
Dr. Ron Stransky was already at the bar when Beckett arrived, which came as no surprise; Ron was always at the bar. A friend from his medical school days — Ron had been a fourth year when Beckett just started — the man liked to drink as much as he liked to have his face plastered on the cover of surgical journals.
Beckett walked over to his friend and slapped him on the back. Ron looked up at him, and Beckett did a double-take. Never accused of being one of the more attractive people in medicine — Ron had a narrow nose and thin lips, which matched his thinning hairline — what the man lacked in looks he made up for in confidence.
But even when Ron smiled at him, there was a hollowness behind his eyes. He didn’t exude charisma at that moment; instead, the only thing he radiated was alcoholism.
“Dr. Campbell, what a nice surprise,” Ron said, reaching out for a hug. Beckett embraced the man and cringed when he felt his ribs through the back of his shirt.
“Not much of a surprise, given that we planned to meet here for drinks,” Beckett replied, his eyes drifting to the rock glass in Ron’s hand. “Which I see you’ve already gotten a head start on. That’s fine, though; you’ve always needed a head start to keep up with me. Also, on a related note, why the hell do you look like shit?”
Ron chuckled, which quickly degenerated into a wheeze.
“Shit, man, you look terrible,” Beckett said, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
“Well, you’re no Christmas Peach, either. Looks like you haven’t slept in a month.”
Beckett had no clue what the hell a Christmas Peach was, but Ron did have a point.
Sleep was… eventful, in a way it had never been before.
“Great, glad to get the niceties out of the way,” Beckett said as he grabbed the barstool next to his friend. “Please tell me that you aren’t drinking a shitty blended whiskey.”
“You know me; I could never lie to you.”
“Jack Daniels,” Beckett muttered. “You know, with the money you make, you should be drinking from the top shelf.”
Ron just shrugged and Beckett called the bartender over.
“A beer — anything will do.”
The bartender nodded and retreated to pour his drink.
“Ah, and I can see you’re still into the good stuff, as well.”
“Touché.”
As they waited for the bartender to return with Beckett’s beer, Ron quickly addressed the elephant in the bar, which he was apt to do. Like Beckett, Ron was curt and to the point. There was no standing on ceremony between them, given how deep their friendship ran.
“So, are you finally reinstated after what happened with Craig Sloan?”
Beckett tilted his head to one side.
“Reinstated… I was never de-instated. But yeah, things are mostly back to normal. They’re still using me sparingly as the ME, but I suspect that’ll change soon. Bodies be piling up.”
The bartender returned with his beer and Beckett slipped him a ten. As he drank, he stared directly at Ron.
“But that’s not why I asked you here. To be blunt, Ron, I need your brain.”
“Yeah, well, I do, too. You can’t have it.”
Beckett ignored the comment.
“You always had a knack for remembering useless knowledge… and it appears that it might finally come in handy.”
“What do you want to know?”
“The McEwing Foundation… any idea where they get their money from?”
Now it was Ron’s turn to raise an eyebrow, albeit one considerably thicker and bushier than Beckett’s own.
“Aren’t you on the Board of Directors for the transplant unit?”
Beckett took another gulp of beer.
“Allegedly. But I slept during most of the meetings and was hungover for the rest. Besides, I don’t think where they got their money from comes up that often at those sorts of things.”
Ron finished his drink and ordered another. The fact that the bartender didn’t expect payment as he had for Beckett suggested that Ron already had a tab running.
Figures.
“Well, you’re in luck: that is one of the few things that my addled brain can remember these days. Most of the McEwing family fortune came from their great-grandfather, John D. McEwing. He was a banker who invested in some early medical devices and treatments, mainly dialysis machines and vaccines — made a shitload of money. From there he just continued to invest and it trickled down the line. I worked with the late Peter McEwing — he was a great doctor, just like his father. It’s a shitty thing that happened to him, given that he was so young.”
Beckett nodded and recalled his own interactions with Dr. McEwing. The man had been boring and awkward, but from all accounts, he meant well. He was also an excellent doctor. As for how he died—
“Cancer,” Ron said, reading his thoughts. “Had early onset liver cancer that spread to his lungs and heart. It was ironic, really, given that he needed a new liver and there were none available to him just before they promised eight figures to the new transplant unit. Not that he was a candidate, anyway; the cancer would’ve just returned… still, a shitty way to go.”
Beckett etched this factoid into his mental ledger.
“What about the other things that the
foundation does? The New York Regenerating Life Project or whatever.”
Ron laughed and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He really did look terrible.
“Yeah, that was in the news a few weeks back. The New York City Renewed Life Center… sounds like an old age home but it’s actually meant for youth, to help them readjust to society.”
“Readjust… you mean like criminals?”
Ron tilted his glass and filled his cheeks with cheap whiskey before swallowing.
“That and addicts, mostly. I mean, I don’t blame them for giving it such an obtuse name. Could you imagine trying to get donations if they were upfront about their main delegates? New York Halfway House for Young, Drug Addicted Criminals. I think you’d agree that that name doesn’t have the same appeal.”
“Honesty… it’s a dying breed,” Beckett replied. “Cynicism, however, apparently is alive and well. Any idea who chooses where the money goes? Who makes the final decisions? That sort of crap?”
Ron shrugged.
“That I don’t know. But these types of foundations are usually run by a Board of Directors comprised of people who do nothing else but serve on other foundation boards — nepotism at its finest — with a sprinkling of family members thrown in.”
Beckett’s mind turned to Grant McEwing, the way he had been so confident in the cause of death of the submerged woman when none of the other residents even had a clue.
Things were definitely pointing at Grant as the person who had sent him the organs; after all, he had the skill set to remove them and had access to young men at the halfway house. But Beckett had stared the man in the face when he brought up the note — Home is where the heart is — to nothing but a blank stare.
“What’s with all the questions about the foundation?” Ron asked, drawing Beckett out of his head. “You thinking about starting your own? Dr. Beckett Campbell’s four-fingered guitar school for troubled youths and adolescent queers?”
Beckett laughed out loud, spraying beer on the table. He raised his missing finger and wagged it in the air.
“I’m not sure it would be much easier to get donations for a Foundation that has the words finger, youth, and adolescent queers in the name.”
He chugged his beer and slapped Ron on the back.
“I should get going. I want nothing more than to get totally shit-faced on a Tuesday morning with you, but—”
“—afternoon,” Ron corrected.
“Sure, afternoon… but I’ve got shit to do. Some of us have to work for a living — we can’t all rest on our laurels.”
“Rest on our laurels,” Ron repeated with a snicker. “What a stupid phrase — a plant to represent victory and status. It should be a rifle or spear. Speaking of victory, what did happen to your finger?”
Beckett smirked at the non-sequitur.
“Hunting accident,” he said, keeping with the theme. He slapped Ron on the back a second time. “Don’t forget to tip the bartender and thanks for your help.”
With that, Beckett started to make his way toward the door.
“Hunting accident? I thought you hated hunting.”
Beckett shrugged and kept walking.
It was true that while he wasn’t a fan of hunting defenceless animals, he’d recently come to realize that there was one type of hunting that he very much enjoyed.
The kind that involved bipedal prey who had already done some hunting of their own.
Chapter 19
Beckett put off doing any more work for the afternoon. He needed to sign off on three bodies that had arrived at the morgue earlier in the day, but none of them were urgent.
On the way home, he’d gotten a cryptic text from Suzan telling him that she had to stay late after anatomy class. She’d also asked him to wait around for her, which was odd — Suzan was independent if nothing else — but Beckett had declined.
The truth was, he just wanted to be alone for a little while. A dangerous proposition, what with his racing thoughts, but he needed time to just veg out.
He typed as much to Suzan, then shut off his phone.
Suzan would understand, or at least Beckett hoped she would. He also hoped that she’d swing by later and they’d work out their ‘feelings’.
After parking in his driveway, Beckett headed up the steps to his front door.
Once inside, he inhaled deeply.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
It was cheesy and cliché, but true. At home, he could be himself. At home when Suzan wasn’t there, he could really be himself.
As he walked over to grab a beer from the fridge, he peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it on the couch. Looking down at his pasty body, and the small paunch that had started around his midsection, he thought briefly about going to the gym to work out or for a drop-in ju-jiutsu class.
But as soon as the golden liquid hit his lips, the thought was dashed.
He’d told Ron that he had to leave the bar to get work done, but that had been a lie. He had to leave because he didn’t really feel comfortable drinking in front of him.
Ron looked like fucking death incarnate.
Beckett shuddered and took another swig of beer. As he made his way around the back of the couch and flicked on TV, he noticed that the window above the sink was open. He made his way over and peered outside. As was common in New York, it looked out over a small alley and another brick façade.
Beckett was staring out the window, looking at the pockmarked bricks of his neighbor’s domicile, when he heard a sound from behind him.
His first thought was that it was the TV, but it couldn’t be; he always muted it before he went to bed in case he got up early and was inclined to watch without waking Suzan. Nothing was more annoying than ear-splitting sports highlights to wake a woman from her slumber. Besides, he’d been living in this house for almost five years and he knew every sound that it made from the creaking of the floors underfoot, to the drone of the air conditioner during hot New York summers.
And this was definitely the former. Beckett took a deep breath and glanced down at the faucet in front of him.
Thank God for Suzan’s cleaning, he thought as he stared into the highly reflective material.
There, not six feet behind him, approached a figure dressed all in black.
In one smooth motion, Beckett reached out and grabbed a knife from the block and whipped around. He didn’t spin in a tight circle, however, but in a wide, looping arc, which took the intruder by surprise.
Beckett instinctively grabbed the man’s left wrist and twisted it behind his back before he could so much as yelp.
Then he leaned in close to the man’s ear and pressed the knife point against his throbbing carotid artery.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house?” Beckett demanded.
PART II - Surgical Intervention
Chapter 20
“Beckett! What the hell are you doing?” Suzan shouted as she burst through the door.
Beckett whipped around and glared at Suzan. Her eyes darted from the kitchen knife in his hand to the scene behind him.
And then she dropped the two plastic bags of Chinese food.
“Beckett!” she shouted again as she hurried past him.
Beckett stepped in front of her, trying to block her path with his free hand. She swatted it away.
“Suzan, this fucking guy broke—”
“Get the hell out of my way,” Suzan snapped. Beckett, confused now, reluctantly moved aside, but his grip on the knife didn’t loosen.
What the fuck is going on here?
“This is Brent,” Suzan said as she crouched.
During the entire interaction, the man in the chair, who had a shaved head and dark circles under his eyes, didn’t say anything at all. There was a trickle of blood leading from one nostril to the corner of his mouth courtesy of a slap that Beckett had delivered, but ever since entering the house, he hadn’t said more than two words.
“You k
now this man?” Beckett asked.
“This my friend Brent Taylor,” Suzan said, her own anger dissipating. Before Beckett could catch his bearings and figure out exactly what the hell is going on, Suzan ducked behind the man and started to untie the telephone cord that Beckett had used to bind him to the chair. “I told you that someone was coming by and might be staying with us for a while.”
Organ Donor: A Medical Thriller (Dr. Beckett Campbell, Medical Examiner Book 1) Page 7
