by David Lender
CHAPTER 1
DANI NORTH WALKED DOWN WEST End Avenue toward the Mercer School, her son Gabe at her side. The air was cold and fresh. Minutes earlier, crossing Broadway, she’d seen tulips on the median, and the leaves on the maple trees were ready to pop. Now, scents of spring—wet earth and hyacinths in window boxes—were apparent. She yawned, bone tired from the hectic weeks of the Tribeca Film Festival wearing her down on top of work and the daily routine of single-parenting a preteen. Tired or not, she was on a high and Gabe walked close enough that she thought to take his hand. That is, if he’d let me. She reminded herself it was perfectly normal for a nine-year-old not to want his mom to hold his hand anymore. Normal. What would those morons at Division of Youth and Family Services in New Jersey say about that? Probably still call him ADHD and drug him up. She’d love to run DYFS into the ground, along with their partners in crime, the pharmaceutical industry. Legalized drug pushers.
Leave it, she told herself. Channel the anger into something productive. That made her smile. She had, and well. It was starting to feel real that The Drugging of Our Children, her latest film, had won best documentary at Tribeca last night. That channeled anger was doing some good, getting the word out. Educating parents about their choices, ones she hadn’t been aware of for Gabe. Who knew? If she had, she might never have lost that three-year nightmare of lawsuits with DYFS in Hackensack. It forced her to accept mandatory drugging of Gabe, because otherwise the court would have taken him from her.
She looked over at Gabe now. Chin high, proud of how he looked in his Ralph Lauren blue blazer, gray pants and white oxford button-down, school tie snugged up against his neck. Only his black Vans betrayed his age. Yes, normal. Thanks in part to Dr. O.
Gabe caught her looking at him. “Now that you won, you gonna get a bonus and turn the electric back on?”
“You mean ‘going to’ and ‘electricity.’” She thought about the last two weeks of burning candles at night. She’d put off the electric bill in order to scrape up Gabe’s tuition for this semester at Mercer. “Besides, we were camping, remember?”
“C’mon, Mom, that worked on me when I was like five years old. I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Yes, you are.”
Gabe thought for a second. “Alright, but I’m not stupid.”
“No, I’m not getting a bonus,” Dani said, running a hand over Gabe’s hair, “but I get paid today and we’ll be back to normal. Lights and TV.”
“Next time I’m telling Nanny. She’ll pay it.”
“Do that and you can forget about TV until you’re eighteen.”
They reached the corner diagonally across West End from the entrance to Mercer. “Leave me here,” Gabe said, looking away from her.
Dani didn’t respond, just grabbed his shirtsleeve between her fingers and started across the street. He pulled out of her grasp and increased his pace. Dani saw Damien Richardson on the opposite corner as they approached. He stood looking at the half dozen kids grouped around the entrance to Mercer, tentative. She knew the bigger boys picked on Damien. She felt a tug at her heart. “Morning, Damien,” she called.
Damien turned to them. His face brightened and he smiled. “Hi, Mrs. North. What’s up, Gabe?”
“Come on, Damien,” Dani whispered when she reached him. “I’ll walk you in.”
Ten minutes later she crossed 79th Street toward Broadway, her mind buzzing with last night’s triumph and her upcoming day. She pulled her BlackBerry out of her pocket, checked the screen. 8:10. Enough time to get through her voicemails and emails before Dr. Maguire, the researcher from Pharma International, showed up. Now she wondered again what his agenda was, why he was so anxious and secretive about the meeting. But it was something important—at least to Maguire. She’d been calling him for weeks, coaxing him into an interview for the new documentary on autism she was just beginning. She’d been referred to Maguire by his friend, John McCloskey, the KellerDorne Pharmaceutical technician who’d served as whistleblower on KellerDorne’s painkiller, Myriad, after patients who took it started dropping dead from heart attacks. Dani’s interview of McCloskey published in the Crusador was well after McCloskey went public, but somehow it managed to electrify the issue. As a result, the contributions had flowed into Dr. Orlovski to fund the documentaries he produced, including Dani’s The Drugging of Our Children.
Maybe Maguire needed to get something off his chest, too. Dani picked up her pace. Her BlackBerry rang and her breath caught in her throat when she saw Mom’s number on the screen. How could she forget? Dad.
“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?”
“Okay.” She paused. “You know what day it is, don’t you?”
Dani’s mind automatically did the math. She’d been 22. Seven years. “Of course.” She stopped walking and leaned over the BlackBerry as if sheltering her words from passersby. She said, “Each year I think about him constantly during this day. Sometimes it seems like…” her voice trailed off.
“I miss him more each year, too,” Mom said. Her voice was steady, like she’d steeled herself to get through the day.
“When’s his Mass?”
“One o’clock.”
Dani didn’t respond right away. “I can’t make it this year.”
“I know, sweetie. I just wanted to hear your voice. I knew you weren’t coming. You had a big day yesterday. Congratulations. I’m sure lots of people want to talk to you.”
“It’s not that. I’m just jammed with the usual stuff. Will you light a candle for me?”
“Sure. I’ll speak to you later. Gabe okay?”
“He’s great. Maybe we’ll get out this weekend. How’s Jack?”
“The same.” Dani felt her hand muscles tense around the BlackBerry.
“Anything going on?”
“The usual. He was out most of the night, couldn’t get up for work.”
“I’ll get out there this weekend,” Dani said. They signed off. She continued walking, feeling guilty. Lisa and George lived far enough away that they never made Dad’s Mass. And Jack was high half the time, so it was like she was alone even if he came with her. At least Mom could count on Dani. Or so she thought. This was the second year in a row Dani would miss Dad’s Mass. It hurt. Particularly knowing how devout a Catholic Mom was, how much Mom wanted Dani to experience her faith the way she did. She sighed and kept walking, thinking she’d find a way to make it up to Mom, feeling unworthy.
Dani reached the entrance to Dr. Yuri Orlovski’s office at 79th and Broadway. A half dozen patients already sat in the waiting room when she stepped through the door. She paused to wave at Carla behind the reception desk, who mouthed, “Congratulations.” Dani nodded and smiled, then headed up the steep 20 steps to her office. By the time she reached the top, she reflected as she usually did, What would I do without Dr. O? It was the best job she’d ever had, even aside from him rescuing Gabe a year ago from Child Protective Services, New York’s equivalent of New Jersey’s DYFS. Dr. O’s homeopathic remedies and detoxification had purged Gabe’s body of the mercury and other poisons that Dr. O maintained were largely caused by vaccines. And he certified as an MD that Gabe’s ADHD was “cured.” That got Gabe off Child Protective Services’ list and off mandatory ADHD medications to attend public school. This year she’d scrounged up enough to afford to get him into Mercer.
And now she ran the nonmedical practice side of Dr. O’s mini-empire, as he jokingly called it. But it was no joke. It was a flourishing Internet business of whole food based vitamins; health-related DVDs and books; and healthy lifestyle products like juicers and water filters. And a good portion of the profits funded Dr. O’s real passion: documentaries on health issues, the only thing—except, of course for Gabe—that got Dani out of bed every morning.
Her colleagues, Richard Kaminsky, Jason Waite and Seth Weinstein stood talking near the entrance to Dr. O’s Vitamin Shop when Dani got to the top of the steps. Richard started applauding and the others joined in. She stood, cringing from emba
rrassment, yet secretly relishing the recognition. They walked over and greeted her with hugs.
“I knew you’d do it,” Richard said.
“Absolutely,” Ralph said.
They were joined by a half dozen others, including Kaitlin Drake, her editor. Dani was gradually overcome by an odd sensation of discomfort. She recalled how she’d wilted under the spotlight when asked to say a few words on accepting her award last night. It made her feel as if her colleagues would think she was undeserving of their praise if they’d seen her frozen with panic. She’d wanted to say something about creating a film that spoke her truth, and that of thousands of other mothers, but she was unable to utter more than “Thank you,” in front of 2,000 people.
It took Dani another 10 minutes to reach her desk. She booted up her computer and started going through her emails. Eighty-four today. Oof. The usual: mothers with no money and sick children, desperate to see Dr. O. Many she was counseling on vitamins and remedies. A few like Jennifer Knox: a mother with an autistic child who Dani had interviewed for her new documentary, who needed to vent to someone who understood, keep her from going crazy. Finally, a number of congratulatory wishes. Then her voicemails. Thirty-six, more of the same. One was from James, at first congratulating her, next a little pathetic and finally lecturing her about not throwing away five years. As she neared the end of her voicemails she heard his voice again, and feeling nothing at all—rather than angry or impatient— deleted the message without listening to it. That one probably hammered at James’ constant theme: commitment. After she finished with her voicemails she checked her blog: 3,748 pageviews yesterday, about 50% more than usual. She wrote a quick blog post thanking her supporters and urging them to continue to spread the word on Drugging and its message, looked at the time—8:58—then sat back in her chair to wait for Dr. Maguire.
Stevens waited while his partner, Turnbull, double-parked their police black-and-white in front of the doc’s office. “Don’t be long, Alice,” Turnbull said.
“How come I gotta listen to your shit every time I go to buy my vitamins?”
“And don’t catch a wittle cold while you’re there, girlie-man.”
Stevens opened the door. “I need five minutes, asshole.”
“Five more minutes for the crooks to prey on our harmless citizens.”
Stevens stepped out of the car, looked back at Turnbull and said, “Less time than it takes you to feed greasy fries and cholesterol to your fat ass at Burger Heaven.” He slammed the car door and headed toward Dr. Orlovski’s. At the top of the steep stairway he turned right and got in line behind three other customers at the Dutch door, open at the top, that served as the sales window for the Vitamin Shop.
Hunter Stark sat behind the wheel of a Ford Taurus across the street from Dr. Orlovski’s office, a spot he’d staked out at 6:30 a.m. to make sure he was positioned properly. He rubbed his hands, admiring his custom-made nappa lambskin gloves. They were an essential element of his professional toolkit, as important as his Ruger; form-fitting and almost like wearing nothing at all. At $500 a pair from Dominic Pierotucci’s shop in Genoa, they were a bargain.
Stark’s gaze scanned the street in front of Dr. Orlovski’s office. He was tense. These jobs were tough enough in a low-risk environment, but this last-minute bullshit didn’t allow for any planning, choice of site or operational subtlety. Still, figuring out things like this and taking the risk were why he got paid the big bucks.
The girl had entered about 8:15, and now he checked his watch again—just before 9:00—as he saw a cop car pull up. One of the uniforms got out and walked through Orlovski’s front door. Not good. It would be a complication if Maguire showed up with the cop in there.
He felt one of those odd pains he got behind his eyes when things were about to go wrong. Less than a minute after the cop went in, he’d seen a guy that matched Maguire’s description on the corner of 79th Street. Stark glanced down at the picture he held in his lap. Maguire, no question about it. Shit, they told him the man was big, but he must be 6’5”, shoulders like an ox. A guy who looked like he could take right lead from Muhammad Ali and keep coming. Maguire walked with his head tilted down at the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, real purpose in his stride, moving fast.
Stark felt adrenaline surge through him. Off your ass. Double-time. Move, move, move. He threw open the car door and headed across the street, matching Maguire’s pace, then faster. He unzipped his jacket as he passed the police cruiser, slipped his right hand inside and grabbed the handle of his knife, just underneath his Ruger in its chest holster. By the time Maguire reached the door Stark was only a few strides behind him. Stark felt the familiar thud of his pulse in his ears, dryness in his mouth, his jaw clenching involuntarily. Here we go.
When Stark got inside Maguire was on the third step, his feet pounding like he was Frankenstein. Stark glanced up to the top of the steps just as he reached Maguire. Nobody there. He swung out the knife and plunged in a clean stab all the way to the hilt in Maguire’s kidney.
Maguire let out a howl like a bull mastiff and grabbed his back. Stark pulled the knife out for another stab, saw blood on the blade and felt the rush. Maguire then spun to face Stark, just as they always did, so Stark could go for the kill gore just below the solar plexus. But the guy was big and strong. Too late, Stark saw the left hook coming toward his head. The knife hit bone just as Maguire’s fist caught Stark on the chin. The lights went out for what must’ve been only a fraction of a second because Stark found himself grabbing the banister, his back against the wall but still on his feet as Maguire thundered up the steps. Stark righted himself and started after him, shoving the knife back in its holster, grabbing the Ruger with its silencer attached and sliding it out of his jacket. By the time Maguire got to the top of the stairs and turned left Stark was only about six steps below him.
Stevens heard someone crashing up the steps like a buffalo, a yell like a wounded animal, then some scuffling and what must’ve been a couple of guys running up the stairs. He turned and saw one guy get to the top, duck into the first office and lean against a woman standing there, then push her aside. Then another guy came up the stairs with—holy shit!—a Dirty Harry-sized piece with a silencer on it. On instinct, Stevens flipped open his holster and grabbed his service revolver. As he did, the guy with the gun reached up and put a round square in the big guy’s back, and the big guy went down like a tree right in front of the woman. Stevens now held his Smith & Wesson in both hands, crouched in firing position as the guy with the gun bent down and started reaching into the big guy’s pocket.
No clear shot. The woman was in the way. “Freeze!” Stevens yelled.
The guy with the gun glanced back and pulled off a round without even seeming to move. Stevens felt his left hip explode in pain and found himself on his back, looking upside down at the guy, who now turned and pointed the piece at him. Stevens’ arm was outstretched. He fired a crazy round over the guy’s head and when the guy ducked Stevens rolled onto his stomach, aimed and squeezed the trigger one, two, three, four times as the guy dived down the stairway and out of sight. Stevens dropped his head to the floor and everything went black.
Stark skidded to a stop about a quarter of the way down the stairway, got up and bounded down the rest of the steps and out the door. He held the Ruger at his side as he turned down Broadway, seeing the other cop still sitting in his squad car. How the hell hadn’t he heard the shots? The guy must be deaf. Stark slid the Ruger back into its holster and turned to look into a store window to conceal his movements. He zipped up his jacket and started toward 79th Street. He’d abandon the Taurus across the street. Leaving Maguire’s picture in it was dumb, but who cared? The cops would know it was a hit anyhow. Stark’s heart was still thudding against his chest when he reached 72nd Street and hailed a cab. Inside, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Maguire’s blood off his gloves. A clean kill on Maguire, no question. But the client would be pissed he hadn’t been able to check Maguire’s
pockets, even see if Maguire had handed anything off to the girl. And she’d gotten a good look at him. He’d have to circle back on that. The cop was unfortunate. If he lived he might be able to ID him, too. And if he didn’t live, well, that would make for unnecessary heat that might send him underground and out of work for a while, at least in the States. Overall, messy. Not a good day’s work.
Dani didn’t think it was possible to choke on air, but that’s how she felt. She gasped for breath and knew air was flowing in, but somehow it seemed to be suffocating her. She stood in front of her desk. Her knees were weak and she slumped backward, supporting herself with her hands behind her on her desk. Her ears rang from those awful shots, and she felt sick to her stomach from the smells in the room—blood mixed with gunpowder. She stared down at the man lying at her feet. He must be Dr. Maguire; he’d arrived promptly at 9:00, their scheduled time. She looked across the hall and now saw two people bent over the cop, who wasn’t moving. That snapped her out of her paralysis because now she knelt down and put two fingers on Maguire’s neck to check his pulse. Nothing. She realized she clutched a USB flash memory drive in her palm, and now remembered Maguire had thrust it there before he shoved her away. She slipped it into her blazer pocket.
Sirens, and a moment later a single uniformed cop ran up the stairs, glanced at Maguire, and then went in to tend to the other cop. By the time the paramedics arrived, Dani’s stomach was beginning to settle. She wanted to go back behind her desk and sit down, but was still afraid to move. As the paramedics took the wounded cop away, two men in suits appeared at the top of the stairs. They spoke to the other cop for a few moments, then came over to Dani’s office. The short one bent over and started going through Maguire’s pockets. Dani recoiled. Even if it was the man’s job, it was disgusting. Ten minutes ago Maguire was a man who ran to her and implored her with desperate eyes. Now he was a carcass to be sifted through for evidence.
