by Lee Goldberg
“So be it,” Jack said. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t help you fight this.”
Mark detailed what he had in mind and the risks involved and then waited for Jack to change his mind.
“When will you be here?” Jack asked.
“Tomorrow,” Mark said. “I have to pay a visit to an old friend in Phoenix first and then I’ll drive up. We don’t have much time.”
“I’ll be ready,” Jack said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Mark stopped at a mall, bought some clothes, a couple pairs of shoes, and a small suitcase to carry them in. He found a restroom, changed out of his T-shirt and shorts into casual business attire, and went back to his car, where he discovered he had no room left in the two-seater for his suitcase.
So he drove behind the mall, found a Dumpster, and threw out everything but his diplomas, his toiletries, and the bag of electronics from Tanis.
There was no room for sentimentality in his life right now. Only one thing mattered.
He put his suitcase in the trunk, closed it, and headed for his unscheduled meeting with Noah Dent.
The headquarters of MediSolutions was a three-story multicolored cube that aggressively clashed with the rocky desert backdrop and the adobe-influenced styling of the surrounding buildings.
The lobby was decorated in stainless steel, giving it all the charm of a meat locker, which, given the company’s trade in body parts, was strangely appropriate.
Mark approached the security desk and told the stocky, fish-eyed guard that he was there to see Noah Dent. The guard asked Mark for his driver’s license and, glancing dismissively at it, called Dent’s office. The conversation lasted less than five seconds.
The guard handed Mark back his driver’s license, gave him a clip-on security pass, and walked him to the elevator. Mark stepped inside. The guard leaned in, used a key to unlock the control panel, and pressed the button for the third floor.
As soon as the guard left, and the doors slid shut, Mark hit the button for the second floor just to see what would happen. The button didn’t work.
There was a woman waiting for him outside the elevator on the third floor. She was in her twenties and had both the look and the artificially cheery attitude of a stewardess. Mark was tempted to ask her for a Diet Coke and a bag of peanuts as she led him down a long row of cubicles to Noah Dent’s corner office.
Dent didn’t bother to rise from behind his massive desk. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and smiled at Mark. He was leaner and more physically fit than Mark remembered him. Desert living and revenge obviously agreed with him.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Dent said. “To be honest, I’ve been counting the minutes.”
“Do you have a speech prepared?”
“I knew you’d come looking for someone to blame for your misery,” Dent said. “Here’s an idea. Try a mirror.”
“I feel terrible about what happened to Tanya,” Mark said. “It was a tragedy. But she committed murder.”
“She killed the man who brutally raped her and left her for dead,” Dent said.
“If that was all she did, I would have understood. I might have let her get away with it. But she also killed an innocent bystander to cover up her crime.”
“A homeless man who was dying anyway,” Dent said. “She ended his suffering. It was hardly murder.”
“Is that how you rationalize the actions of the people you’ve helped to commit murder?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mercy Reynolds injected two brain-dead organ donors with West Nile virus so that whoever received their body parts would die,” Mark said. “If you helped her do it, you’re an accessory to murder.”
“I am an accessory to murder, Doctor. The murder of Mercy Reynolds.”
“You set her up to die,” Mark said.
“Damn right I did,” Dent said. “When I wrote her that letter of recommendation, I might as well have been signing her death certificate. I had no idea she was going to use it to apply for a job at Community General. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t listen to me. She had a bright future until she walked in there. You took that future away from her.”
“She was killed for the good of the conspiracy,” Mark said. “If you didn’t do it, you know who did.”
“Steve Sloan,” Dent said. “Your son killed Mercy in a lame attempt to make her appear responsible for the crimes committed by your sycophants. I knew as soon as you discovered that Mercy once worked for me that you’d show up here, trying to blame me for everything.”
“You’re obviously involved,” Mark said.
“I’m involved because I cared about Mercy Reynolds, yet another young woman that you’ve destroyed. I’m involved because my company is a victim of a body-parts scam perpetrated by your doctors. The FDA has announced a health alert and issued a nationwide organ recall that’s going to cost us tens of millions of dollars.”
“Revenge isn’t cheap, Noah. Send the bill to Carter Sweeney.”
“Who?” Dent asked.
Mark leaned on the desk and looked Dent in the eye. “I’m giving you fair warning. I won’t let this stand. I’m going to devote my life to bringing you down.”
“You do that, Mark. Come back often. I want to see how you rot from the inside out.”
Mark turned and walked away.
The black Bentley Continental GT in the driveway of Jack Stewart’s Washington Park bungalow was worth more than Liandra Haven’s condo across the street. But it wasn’t the six-figure price tag of the car that impressed the twenty-six-year-old real estate agent. And it wasn’t that he was attractive, wealthy, and a doctor, though that would have been enough to make most single women she knew weak-kneed.
What made her swoon over Jack Stewart was the fact that he didn’t behave like an attractive, wealthy doctor. He was a genuinely nice guy, which, for Liandra, was the sexiest thing a person could be.
She’d been living on his quiet, tree-lined street near Washington Park for only a month or so, but in that time she’d seen him play catch with some kids, help his next-door neighbor clean out his garage, and rescue a dog that had been hit by a UPS truck.
He always chatted with his neighbors and actually listened to what they had to say instead of talking about himself, which was very unusual for someone who was attractive, wealthy, and a doctor. Most people with his attributes believed that they were the most interesting topic of conversation imaginable, given that they also happened to be the center of the universe.
She’d spoken with him a few times, and never once did he try to impress her with anything but his natural, amiable charm.
And it was working.
She hoped he wasn’t moving, but there was a big Dumpster in front of his place, and it looked like he was doing a lot of remodeling, usually the first sign in this older neighborhood that a house might be going on the market soon.
Liandra didn’t want to see him go. But then again, if he was leaving, she wanted to get the listing. Whether he was or not, it gave her an excuse to say hello.
Jack was getting a late start that morning and so was she. They came out of their homes at just about the same moment. He smiled at her and she waved him over. They met in the middle of the street.
“Good morning, Liandra,” Jack said, flashing a smile that seemed to make his eyes sparkle. She felt herself blushing, and that embarrassed her, which only made her blush more.
“Tell me you aren’t moving, Jack. And if you are, tell me why I don’t have the listing.”
She wondered if she was being too aggressive, too real estate-focused, and if that would turn him away.
“I’m here to stay,” Jack said. “I’m finally getting around to doing everything on my fix-it-up list. Before I knew it, I was gutting the whole place.”
“I know how that is,” she said, just to be saying something. “I’m glad you’re not going anywhere. I still have the bottle of win
e you gave me as a housewarming gift. I was hoping you’d share it with me one night.”
She’d surprised herself with her admission. She was never this forward, at least not when it came to anything that didn’t involve an escrow.
“Anytime,” Jack said. “Come to think of, I’m free tonight. How about you? You bring the wine, I’ll put two steaks on the grill, and we can eat outside under the stars.”
Her face felt so warm, she was afraid her hair might spontaneously combust. “That sounds nice.”
“Good, because to be honest, my backyard has become my kitchen and dining room until the remodel is done,” Jack said. “How does seven sound to you?”
“Perfect,” she said.
“See you then,” he said, and went back across the street to his Bentley.
Liandra turned her back to him and got into her Camry, a smile on her face that she suspected would stay there all day. She hoped he didn’t remember the bottle of wine that he’d given her because it was long gone, wasted on a take-out Chinese dinner she’d eaten alone, surrounded by moving boxes.
Her first stop of the day was going to be the liquor store to find a nice replacement bottle. Even if he did catch her in the lie, she knew he’d be too much of a gentleman to call her on it. Her next stop would be the department store to buy something slinky that would make her irresistible and test the limits of his gentlemanly behavior.
She was looking over her shoulder and backing out of her driveway, when his Bentley exploded, bursting apart in a fireball.
Liandra instinctively slammed on her brakes and ducked below her seat, her ears ringing from the blast. After a moment, her whole body shaking, she raised her head and peered out the car window.
The Bentley was completely consumed by fire, her view obscured by the thick black smoke rising from the car and the Dumpster, where the flames had already ignited the trash and were licking at the house.
Liandra got out of her car and ran across the street, but was immediately repelled by the heat and smoke. She stumbled back, nearly tripping over something at her feet. She looked down.
It was a severed hand, charred black.
Her horrified scream was lost in a choking cough that brought her to her knees.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Detective Mickey Katz had seen his fair share of shootings, stabbings, stranglings, and even a beheading, but this was his first car bombing.
The whole area outside of Jack Stewart’s house was a soggy, sooty mess. Stewart’s property was cordoned off with yellow tape. The neighbors, lookee-loos, and media were kept at the far end of the block by three uniformed officers.
It had taken the fire department about forty-five minutes to completely extinguish the fire, which had spread to the house, engulfing the garage. Just by doing their jobs, the firefighters had probably washed a good deal of the best evidence into the Denver sewer system.
Once the fire department released the scene, the bomb squad, the medical examiner, and the CSI guys came to collect whatever evidence was left. Everybody wore white jumpsuits, galoshes, gloves, and oxygen masks, except for Mickey Katz. He didn’t bother with the mask. He’d been smoking cigarettes since he was fourteen, so he doubted that whatever carcinogens, pathogens, or other gens were in the air were any worse than what was already in his body.
Half of Jack’s blackened remains were still belted into the passenger seat of his Bentley when Mickey arrived; the rest were spread out around the front yard. Mickey had spoken to the only witness, a lady realtor who lived across the street. She didn’t have much to say, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her that real estate values in the neighborhood were about to plummet. Murders will do that.
Jane Becher, the ME, had recovered most of Jack Stewart and was bagging up the last of him when Mickey walked over to get her preliminary assessment.
“What a waste,” Jane said, bumming a Marlboro off of him.
“It usually is,” Mickey said, lighting the cigarette for her.
“I’m talking about the car,” Jane said. “You’d think they would have had the decency to shoot him instead of trashing such a fine piece of automotive engineering.”
“You’re such a softy,” he said. “How soon can you confirm the ID?”
“Most of his jaw is intact and the dental records are waiting for me at the office,” she said. “I can have a report for you in the morning. Unless you want to drop by and pick it up tonight.”
“At the office or your place?”
“Depends if you’re back with your wife again,” she said.
“I’m not,” he said.
“That’s what you told me last time.”
He shrugged. “Does it really make a difference?”
She thought about it.
“Don’t come too late,” she said and walked off.
He watched her go, openly admiring the way her hips moved under her jumpsuit, and that’s when he saw the distraught white-haired old man arguing with an officer at the barricade. The old man appeared to be insisting on being let through. Mickey walked over to see what was up.
“I’m Dr. Mark Sloan,” the man said to the officer. “I’m a close personal friend of Jack Stewart’s. I need to know if he’s okay.”
The officer glanced at Mickey as he approached and tipped his head towards the old man. “This guy says he knows the deceased.”
“Deceased?” the old man said. The word came out as barely a whisper, almost like he’d spent his last breath to say it.
Mickey could have punched the officer for his stupidity. Apparently, Mickey’s feelings showed on his face. The officer thought he could improve Mickey’s impression of him by talking some more.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I thought it was obvious he was dead vis-à-vis the bombed-out car and all.”
Mickey ignored the officer and lifted the crime scene tape. “Please come with me, Dr. Sloan.”
Mark ducked under the tape and walked unsteadily over to Mickey.
“I’m Lieutenant Mickey Katz, Denver PD Homicide,” he said, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his heel. “What was your relationship to Dr. Stewart?”
“Friends,” Mark mumbled, staring past Mickey to the burned-out Bentley. “Old friends.”
Mickey picked up the cigarette stub and bagged it so it wouldn’t be mistakenly taken as evidence. “Do you have any idea why someone would put a bomb in his car?”
Mark nodded, his eyes welling with tears.
“Are you going to tell me?” Mickey asked.
Mark nodded again. “But you aren’t going to believe me.”
The doctor was right. Mickey didn’t believe him. Mark’s explanation was the long, paranoid rant of a crazy person. By the time Mark finished his convoluted tale, they were sitting in an interrogation room at the station, each of them on his second cup of lousy coffee.
“So you’re saying Carter Sweeney and all the murderers you’ve put away arranged to have Dr. Stewart killed to get back at you,” Mickey said.
“There was no one else left I could turn to,” Mark said. “I thought Sweeney didn’t know about Jack, but I was wrong. Sweeney got them all. There’s no one left.”
Mickey finished his coffee and examined the paper cup like he was interested in the craftsmanship. He just needed a minute to think.
He’d had Mark checked out on their ride to the station. It had taken maybe two minutes before someone called back to tell Mickey that Dr. Sloan’s son was the cop who’d murdered the LA district attorney.
So Mickey knew some of the story already. What he didn’t know was that Dr. Stewart had once been part of Mark Sloan’s team of amateur sleuths.
“You came to Denver to enlist Dr. Stewart in your effort to clear your son and your coworkers,” Mickey said. “Is that correct?”
Mark nodded. “I called him yesterday from the road. We talked and he agreed to help. We were going to work out a plan. Instead, I got him killed.”
“If they wanted to kil
l him,” Mickey said, “why wait until now to do it?”
“They knew I was in Phoenix yesterday. Noah Dent probably called them, and they guessed where I’d be going next. Or they found out somehow that I’d been trying to reach Jack. It doesn’t matter. They wanted to have a big surprise waiting for me when I got here. They timed it for maximum shock value, which is why they couldn’t resist blowing him up in his Bentley.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Because it’s a Bentley,” Mark said. “As in Dr. Amanda Bentley.”
“You don’t think that’s just a coincidence?”
“There is no such thing as a coincidence where Carter Sweeney is concerned. Jack and Amanda used to work together. They were very close. I think he might even have been in love with her. Don’t you see how it all fits? Killing Jack in his Bentley was Sweeney’s idea of a sick joke. They want to break me, but they never will. They will only strengthen my resolve.”
“I see,” Mickey said.
What Mickey saw was that the hour and a half he’d spent with Mark had been a complete waste of time. He put his pen back in his pocket and stopped taking notes. They were worthless anyway.
“You say that like you think I’m crazy,” Mark said.
“To be honest, I have a hard time believing that Jack Stewart was murdered to prevent him from helping you.”
“Do you have a better explanation?”
“I understand Dr. Stewart came from a Mob family back east.”
Mark shook his head. “Jack cut himself off from that a long time ago.”
“Recent events suggest otherwise,” Mickey said. “Or maybe he was killed to send a message to one of his relatives. I don’t know. I’ve only been on this case a couple of hours.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Jack Stewart, my former protégé, was murdered only days after Sweeney was set free, I was fired, and my son, Amanda, Jesse, and Susan were jailed?”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“I’m the connection!” Mark yelled.
“You haven’t worked with Dr. Stewart in years and he had nothing to do with Sweeney’s arrest.”
