by Diana Kirk
"All right," she said. "Good night." She kissed his lips.
But her lips lingered too long. One kiss evolved into another. And another. Not the sort of kisses that said good-night. These were a definite hello-wake-up call. Adrenaline pumped and they were possessed with limitless stamina, writhing about the bed like a pair of teenagers.
Afterward, holding each other, saying nothing, Andrea listened to his regular breathing realizing he'd fallen asleep. If only she was lucky enough to experience dreamless sleep. Just for one night. If only. . .
HE STOOD outside her apartment. The lights went off. She had protection, now, but it wouldn't last forever. It had all become too easy. He hadn't wanted to kill the girl. Suzanne had surprised him. He couldn't let her go. Right now, he was invisible. How long would it last? But this time there was something else--a stirring deep within his groin. It had been good, better than a drug-high. As the light drifted from Suzanne's eyes, he was supreme, omnipotent, next to God. No wonder surgeons had such egos. He liked the feeling. A lot. This sensation made people kill again and again.
The rush.
The power.
The glory.
No wonder Grafton had killed so many. At first, a crime of necessity. Just to get rid of the bodies. No other way. And when Grafton turned on him, he'd turned the tables.
Now he watched.
And waited.
He'd do them all and especially that bitch. She'd get hers and he'd be the one to do it.
Chapter XVI
. . . AND WILL ABSTAIN FROM EVERY VOLUNTARY ACT OF MISCHIEF AND CORRUPTION, . . .
Andrea sprang upright in bed "The grant."
Maybe there was a difference between Grafton's original request and the one filed at the NIH. She couldn't believe she'd thought of it in her sleep. Amazing what a good night's rest did for her intuitive powers.
Yet she hadn't really slept at all. She slid back under the covers, thoughts of Gary Krastowitcz flaming her cheeks. Heat warmed her where he'd pressed against her. Still, when she finally slept, it was deep and refreshing. Ready for anything, Andrea rose. Gary was gone and a uniformed officer stood outside her door. There was a note on the table: Gone to see McNaughton. Meet you at my office around eleven. Did you have a good sleep? Love.
She held the note tightly. Love.
A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. On first encounter he was ignorant, cold, and insensitive. Now, she knew his tender streak, his intelligence, his kindness, his warmth. He was some-one she could talk to and care for and, most of all trust.
She went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. The fresh brewed smell was almost better than the taste. Using her finest gourmet coffee, soon the inviting aroma filled the room. Steaming mug in hand, Andrea forced herself to concentrate on the grant spread on the kitchen table. Gary was convinced the answer lay somewhere inside the document. She agreed. She needed to call Paris about the blood sample. Maybe there was a connection. She wished she could go to Paris and talk to Professeur DuBoismier personally. Had Milton discovered a miraculous cure? Whoever found it would be set for life, not only as a world hero, but financially. Was Milton killed for the formula or what he'd done?
She couldn't imagine.
But, today, she'd get some answers. First, a call to Hardwyn's secretary for the university submission copy, then Paris.
Andrea gulped her coffee, scooped up the grant papers, and stuffed them back into her brief case. She dressed quickly and phoned the Dean's office.
"Teresa, Dr. Pearson. Does your office have Dr. Grafton's NIH grant proposal?"
"Oh, sure. We've got a copy around here, somewhere. Want me to get it?"
"Great, I'll be in around ten to pick it up. I really appreciate it, Teresa."
IT TOOK ONLY thirty minutes to get to the medical school. But Andrea had a surprise waiting for her. Dr. Hardwyn paced the outer office. He seemed different, preoccupied, upset.
"Andrea," he said sternly. "Please come into my office."
"What's the problem?"
"Teresa tells me you've requested a copy of the NIH grant."
"Yes, I--"
"I'm sorry dear, you can't have it."
"What? Why not?"
"President Sullivan told me he's received several calls complaining about you."
"What kind of calls?"
"I don't know, Andrea, he asked me if you were on duty. I told him you had been given a few days off."
"Who complained?"
"He wants you to stop snooping around university property. Andrea, don't you understand? Your faculty appointment is in jeopardy."
"Peter. That bastard."
"You think he complained?"
"Either Peter or McNaughton, they both hate me."
"Andrea. No one hates you. It's just that you're not the police."
"But I'm working with the police. If they call Dr. Sullivan, will that take care of things?"
"I don't know. You need to lay low for a few days."
"Wait a minute. Last night, before Suzanne--" she stopped a moment, blinking back hot tears of frustration. "Sergeant Krastowitcz and I discovered a memo from the Pasteur Institute describing some of Milton's experiments as being successful."
"You did?"
"Yes. From a Professeur DuBoismier. We were going to call him, but after Suzanne. . .."
"Look, Andrea. Perhaps the president has been a bit harsh, but the university has to maintain its credibility. Residents simply can't interfere in administrative areas." He rolled his eyes, thinking. "However, there is something you can do."
She straightened her spine in anticipation. "What?"
"Take a trip to Paris and check out the information at Pasteur? Would that be agreeable?"
"Wow! When?"
"Right away of course. Teresa will make all the arrangements."
"Thank you, again, Dr. Hardwyn. It should only take a day. . . maybe I can--"
"Take several days," he said, interrupting, "especially in Paris. Take a week. These past few days have been hard on all of us. Especially you. Think it over, Andrea. It'll be good to get away. You'll make the president happy and perform a service for Dorlynd at the same time. Give me your answer, soon."
"Thank you, Dr. Hardwyn. I hope I didn't get you in any trouble."
"Nonsense. The president screams at me on a regular basis. All part of the job. Don't give it another thought. Now, hurry."
As she left his office, she noticed the look in Teresa's eyes. Was it a look of fear? Nonsense. What would scare the Dean's secretary? Andrea was tired, punchy. She needed a few days off. A few days in Paris.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Pearson," Teresa said. "I hope I didn't cause any problems. I had to have his permission to release the grant."
"President Sullivan's?"
"No. I--I. . . Dr. Hardwyn's. I had no idea he didn't want the grant to go out. We've got so many. No one ever seems to care about them. Duplicates float all over the university. But this one--must've been the only copy." She sighed. "I never know from one day to the next what he's going to want. Sometimes the pressure gets to me."
"Dr. Hardwyn said I should talk to you about flight arrangements for Paris."
"Oh, is he going to Paris?"
"I am going to the Pasteur Institute to check out some information."
"Sure. No trouble," she said, picking up the receiver. "I'll call the university travel agent."
Teresa punched numbers into the phone and made arrangements. Why didn't Hardwyn want her to see the grant? Why was there only one copy? Yet he suggested she go to Paris. Maybe she could find out something from the Institute. But why, all of a sudden, did he suggest she go? It was almost as if he was trying to get rid of her.
Back at her office, she'd go ahead and make a quick call to Paris. Couldn't hurt. She gingerly unlocked the door, heart pounding. There couldn't be another grisly scene waiting. Everything was as she left it last evening. With the exception of Suzanne's body on the floor. Andrea dialed the phone, fingers s
haking.
Professeur Jean DuBoismer signed the letter, conveniently recording both his office and home numbers. After a few failed attempts and a ten-minute session with the operator, she contacted an Institute receptionist. After another ten minutes, she located the professor.
"Hello, Professeur DuBoismer?" she said loudly, after another few minutes of waiting. "Dr. Andrea Pearson, calling from Omaha, Nebraska. I've been working with Dr. Milton Graf-ton on his DNA research project. I hope it's not too late to talk?"
"Oui, Docteur Pearson. Milton spoke of you many times. He has great respect for your young intellect. How can I help you?" The voice on the other end spoke English with a thick French accent.
"What can you tell me about the blood samples Milton Grafton sent you?" she asked.
"Oh, it is so wonderful. I am sure you are all overjoyed as are we. But cannot Milton tell you himself?"
"Professor, there's been a tragedy here at Dorlynd. Milton is dead. He was killed and the police are desperately trying to find a motive."
"Oh, no. . . no. . . his is too sad. . . such a catastrophe for a great scientist. Motive? Of course, I can give you a motive. What Milton discovered is so great that many would want it for themselves. We must not speak of it on the phone. You can come to the Institute so that I may explain it properly, yes?"
"I don't know, Sir. Time is crucial. I've been working with the police here. Can't you just tell me about it, please?"
"Of course, Docteur. Milton was trying to find a way to change the cells to make them complete again. He had talked about bathing cells in a DNA solution, working with electricity. First, shocking the cells to give them strength, then bathe them with a special bacterial solution. Now, he has some type of serum that changes the cells internally when injected into the blood stream. The last samples he sent us were astounding. We have been so excited to hear from him again. But nothing for the last two weeks. I couldn't understand it. Now he's dead. What's to become of--?"
Andrea couldn't believe her ears and for a moment held the phone away. If Milton had really done what the Professor said, he'd cured AIDS, not to mention all kinds of cancers. Impossible. Everyone said so. Even the latest technology only retarded certain diseases as long as the medication was taken. But to change the cells. To prevent. To cure.
"I--I'm sorry, Professeur DuBoismier. I'm shocked. I had no idea Milton was this far advanced in his theories."
"Docteur, it was no theory. He has done it. I personally worked on his samples and have them here in my laboratory. Somewhere among his papers you must find his notes, how he did it. A journal perhaps."
"His journal? He kept one, but I haven't found anything, yet."
"Do not worry. Milton was a good scientist. He always wrote everything down. But, you know that. Papers, notebooks, anything he could write, was his journal. He carried paper with him, always. Find his notes and you will have your answers. I make preparations to come to Omaha. There is much to do."
Andrea recradled the receiver. What would happen, now? This new development was almost too much to believe. She had no idea Milton would ever find a cure for anything. Who could she tell? Hardwyn? After he acted so strangely about her request for the grant? He'd tried to get her out of his hair because the president pressured him. If the president had said anything at all.
She remembered the letter Milton had written about her. Hardwyn had only read it to her; she hadn't actually seen it. Finally, when he said she could see it, it was gone. Maybe he was lying about the letter. Maybe he was lying about a lot of things. Like the cure.
There were too many questions. She needed Gary. Her watch showed ten forty-five. They'd agreed to meet at Police Headquarters at eleven. She'd tell him all about it over lunch.
KRASTOWITCZ ALMOST looked forward to interrogating McNaughton. He drove his Charger toward the doctor's complex. From what Andrea told him, McNaughton was an arrogant bastard with an expensive lifestyle. And they'd had a past relation-ship. Andrea didn't say much about him, except that it didn't work out. Whatever that meant these days.
Krastowitcz loved to take these rich bastard types and show them what the real world was all about. McNaughton's apartment complex was in the Regency development, one of Omaha's wealthiest. But something was wrong with this picture. If this guy needed money so bad that he worked in the Emergency Room, why'd he live in a ritzy place like this?
McNaughton answered the door, obviously startled to see Krastowitcz standing there.
"Wha--Who're you?"
"Sergeant Krastowitcz." He flashed his badge. "Omaha Police Department. I've got some questions. Mind if I come in?"
"I've got rounds in an hour," McNaughton said.
"From what I've been told, you're on suspension. That include rounds?"
"That bitch. Can't she keep her mouth shut?"
"You know, McNaughton, statements like that don't make you look real good."
"All right, Sergeant." McNaughton sneered. "Come in."
Krastowitcz entered the spacious apartment and surveyed his surroundings: thick leather chairs, oak tables, crystal. Doctors must have a natural thing for leather.
"Make it short. I do have rounds. Maybe not at Dorlynd, but my medical license wasn't suspended, only my training."
Krastowitcz pulled his thoughts to the present.
"You've been observed by others--"
"Dr. Pearson."
"I said others, Dr. McNaughton. That means more than one. They confirmed that you and Grafton had some problems."
"We had a confrontation."
"Over suspected cocaine abuse?"
"That's unfounded gossip. Grafton acted on a rumor. He had no proof."
"Were you using?"
"Sure, I'd be an idiot if I said I hadn't tried it, but plenty of Dorlynd medical personnel use coke. I'm just the one Grafton tried to nail."
There was an underlying evil personality to Grafton. In every investigation, things weren't always what they seemed. That's why Krastowitcz loved police work so much. "Why do you say that?"
"Because he resented the fact that I'd complained about him to the Dean."
"Hardwyn?"
"No. Dr. Radenauer, Associate Dean for Academic Affairs. We're supposed to go to him when we've got problems with supervisors."
"What problems?"
"Grafton made some pretty suggestive remarks to me."
"Suggestive? How so?" God forbid, the guy would offer up any information on his own. Krastowitcz's already short fuse burned dangerously.
"You know. . .the kind of remarks a guy makes. . .sexual harassment."
"I wouldn't know." No man ever wanted Krastowitcz's body, or maybe none had guts enough to ask for it. "You sure?"
"He wanted me to come over to his apartment and discuss his research project."
"That's suggestive?"
"Then he asked what kind of wine I liked and if I liked classical music. He said he'd make us a really special meal and then we'd get down to business."
"So?"
"I never expressed any interest in research. Especially not to him. I keep a low profile. The last thing I want is some boring research project. I came to Dorlynd to be a clinician and make money. Besides, I moonlight at other Emergency Rooms. I don't have time for research. The bottom line, Sergeant, is that I'm not gay and the thought of Grafton sickened me."
"So, what did you do?"
"Basically I told him that. It got pretty ugly and he threw me out of his office. I told him to lay off me or I'd go to the Dean. He laughed and said go ahead. The next day I was suspended for suspected drug abuse. That's when I went to Radenauer."
"What did he say?"
"He was sympathetic, said he'd check it out. Then Grafton was dead. That's all there was to it."
"I'll check your story out with Radenauer."
"Go ahead. I've got nothing more to hide than half the faculty at Dorlynd. They've all got skeletons in their exam rooms."
"What's the problem between you and D
r. Pearson?"
"I can't stand her. That's all."
"Rumor has it that you two were involved during your internship year."
"So?"
"What happened?"
"Not only is it none of your business, Sergeant, but she's a conniving bitch. Maybe you'd better check her out. She seemed awfully close to Grafton. Kind of unnatural, if you ask me. She was always sucking up, wanting to be included in everything. All she wanted was that lousy faculty position. Can you believe that?" He chuckled. "She'd do anything for it. Maybe even kill for it. The grapevine said she was having problems with Grafton, too."
"Problems?"
"Seems Grafton didn't think she was as great as she thought she was. He actually blocked her faculty appointment, or something like that. I don't know all the details."
"What about Dr. Pearson and the Dean?"
"Now there's a cute couple. The Dean should've thrown her out a long time ago. But he's a pretty good guy and has a soft spot when it comes to her. He takes all the flack for everything."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"Listen, Sergeant, there's an old rule: get to know the secretaries well, and you'll know everything that goes on. I've been dating Hardwyn's secretary for a year, now. Teresa's a nice gal and keeps me informed."
"Haven't you ever heard the old saying, `Don't shit where you eat?'" Krastowitcz eyed McNaughton with growing disgust. Not only did McNaughton still carry a torch as evidenced by his jealousy of Andrea, but he wasn't above using anyone or anything to get what he wanted.
"Whatever works, Sergeant."
"Don't leave town," Krastowitcz said and rose. "I may have some more questions."
"Sure, whatever. . .." McNaughton mumbled, closing the door.
Krastowitcz hurried to his car. McNaughton was a pompous asshole, but he was no killer. Of that, Krastowitcz had been convinced. Now what? The priest, maybe?
THE DRIVE BACK to Dorlynd was a hot one. His sport coat stuck to his back and sweat streamed down his face. Mopping his brow with his already damp handkerchief, Krastowitcz didn't relish talking to Father Jamison, again, but Radenauer confirmed McNaughton's story and now the investigation was narrowed down to two people. The priest and the lab assistant. Must be a clue there, somewhere, and he was sure it involved those two. Again, he went to the priest's quarters and asked for Jamison.
