“How long till we get whatever’s left of the devices?” Schwartz asked now, in the early morning hush.
“We’ll have Mrs Ferguson’s later this morning,” Hagen replied. “They’ll be flying the Boston remains to us as fast as they can.” The president shook his grey head. “God knows what the press will make of this if it gets out.”
“We have to stop it getting out,” Leary said.
“What is the situation on that score?” Ashcroft asked Hagen. “How much have the families been told?”
“That’s another problem,” Hagen said. “Sean Ferguson, the husband, is a journalist.” A hint of despair touched his voice.
“Shit,” Leary said.
“According to the police, they were together when it happened – and I mean together.” Hagen folded his hands and laid them on his desk, visibly shaken but still fighting to stay calm. “That poor man saw it happen. Whether he’s read the autopsy report yet or not, he saw his wife die before his eyes because of one of our pacemakers.”
“We have to stop this getting out.” Leary was very grim. “There’ll be chaos, pandemonium – patients clamouring to have their pacers removed.”
“Stop it, Howard,” Ashcroft said.
“Jesus Christ, Olivia, about twelve thousand people a year entrust their lives to us!”
“And losing our tempers won’t help any of them.”
“What do you suggest?” Leary glowered at her.
Schwartz stood up. “I have only one practical suggestion to make at this point.” His voice grew a little stronger. “That in the absence of any more information, I start getting some kind of investigation under way.”
“How long, Fred?” Hagen asked.
“I can’t answer that.”
“Couldn’t you at least hazard a guess?” Leary was sarcastic.
“How can he?” Ashcroft reasoned. “He needs facts – some place to start.”
“I’ll see that you get everything you need,” Hagen told Schwartz.
“It’s going to be tough today.” Schwartz spoke directly to Hagen, ignoring Leary. “We obviously can’t involve anyone else, so I’ll have to keep production moving, and work alone after hours.”
“Thank God for the weekend,” Leary said.
“Looking on the black side,” Ashcroft came in again, tentatively, “if we have no answer by Monday, shouldn’t we consider halting production?”
“Once the FDA get hold of this” – Hagen was dismal – ”I doubt we’ll have much choice, but for now – ” A new thought struck him. “This could be pretty dangerous for you, Fred. Once you start checking master copies or whatever’s left of the batches – I mean, we can’t be sure they’re not lethal too.”
“They’re not,” Schwartz said, decisively. “I’d stake my reputation on it.”
“We’re talking about staking your life,” Ashcroft pointed out. “And no matter how confident you may feel, we have to consider protecting the rest of the workforce.”
“Olivia has a point,” Hagen said.
“A point that could mean halting production.” Leary was very blunt. “A point that would mean withdrawing lifesaving treatment from hundreds of patients, at least – not to mention telling our employees and everyone they know that we’re too dangerous to work for. Why not just buy a full page in the Tribune? You’ll destroy Hagen Pacing, and you’ll panic every pacemaker patient in the country.”
Schwartz sat down again. “I hate to say this,” he said, ‘but in some ways having two deaths may make things a little easier – ”
“Easier!” Hagen was appalled.
“Only in that soon we should at least have two sets of clues to feed into the computer, maybe narrow the problem – if it is our problem – down to a single production batch.”
“Jesus, Fred,” Leary said, sarcastically, “maybe you’d like a whole string of explosions.”
“Take it easy, Howard.” Hagen focused back on Schwartz. “Do you really think there’s the remotest chance this might not be a production problem?”
“I know it can’t be,” Schwartz replied steadfastly. “There is simply nothing in the devices that could possibly cause anything like this to happen.”
“The batteries are combustible,” Leary said.
“And hermetically sealed – we’ve never had any trouble with them. Which is one of the reasons I’m not all that concerned about the danger of examining the master copies – to myself or to anyone else on the premises.”
“You’ll still have to take precautions,” Hagen told him. “Protective clothing, goggles, gloves – ”
“Of course.”
For a moment or two, no one spoke.
“Okay,” Hagen said. “First things first. Aside from getting every ounce of available information, I’m going to do everything I can to persuade the people who already know about this not to break this story wide open.” He paused. “I don’t have to tell any of you how crucial it is that no one else in the complex or outside gets to hear even a whisper.”
“Of course not,” Ashcroft said.
“No one’ll hear it from me,” Leary confirmed. “You’ll have to be more careful than any of us,” he told Schwartz. “You’re the one at the sharp end down there on the floor.”
Schwartz’s resentment was plain. “Don’t you think that I, of all people, can’t see the catastrophic consequences of a leak?”
“Come on, folks,” Hagen soothed. “Let’s all try to keep calm.”
“I’m calm,” Schwartz said.
“I’m so calm I scare myself,” Leary said, wryly.
Olivia Ashcroft rose. “I’m going home to change – unless there’s anything I can do for you right this minute, Fred. We all know you work better alone – ”
“I have to work alone, while we’re trying to maintain normality.”
“But if another head or pair of eyes would make a difference, behind the scenes – ?”
“I’ll let you know.” Schwartz smiled at her. “Thank you.”
Leary looked at Hagen. “Al, I need a quick word.” He glanced at the other two. “On a separate issue.”
“Sure,” Hagen said. “See you later, Olivia.” He nodded at Schwartz. “Good luck, Fred.”
Ashcroft and Schwartz left the room and Hagen sat down again.
“What’s up, Howard?”
Leary kept his voice low. “Are you sure he’s up to this?”
“You mean Schwartz? More than anyone else I know.”
Leary looked sceptical. “I know we’ve always thought he was a whiz, and nothing major has gone wrong since he’s been with us. But let’s face it, Al, most of our systems were in place before Schwartz joined us. He’s never faced a real test before.”
Every muscle in Hagen’s face was tautly drawn. “Right this minute, Howard, I’d be lying if I told you I was sure of anything.” He paused. “But I do think I’ve come to know Schwartz pretty well over the years, and there is just one thing I am certain of, and that’s that Hagen Pacing means everything to him.”
“I think that applies to all of us.” Leary shrugged. “Maybe I’m just frustrated at having to leave the detective work to him. Just a few years ago, I’d have been the one working twenty-four hours a day with my eyes glued to a microscope. It isn’t easy leaving it to someone else.”
“Schwartz may not have your flair, Howard, or your qualifications,” Hagen said, gently, “but even you have to admit he’s the most conscientious and meticulous man you could hope to find.”
“So you don’t think we should consider bringing in outside help?”
“Not until we have to,” Hagen said fervently. “Lord knows there are too many people involved already.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get moving on some calls. Over the next couple of hours, I’m going to have to persuade the Chicago and Boston Police Departments and the Ferguson and Long families that we’re moving heaven and earth to nail this down.”
“You have to keep them quiet, Al.”
“We’d better all hope and pray that I can.” Hagen’s eyes were very grim. “Because if I can’t, and if they do insist on making this public, all hell is going to break loose.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Leary said.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, January 9th
Though ribbing, gentle or otherwise, was as much a part of life in the Chicago Police Department as drinking with the guys at the end of a shift, ever since Lieutenant Joseph Duval had almost single-handedly doused the flames of the multiple arsonist-killer known as The Inhuman Torch, few of his colleagues mocked his hunches. They teased the sharp-nosed, sharp-jawed detective because he stayed thin no matter how much he ate, and they scoffed at him because he could get drunk on one bottle of beer, but they respected his well-known tenacity and they seldom kidded around when Duval had one of his gut feelings.
Within fifteen minutes of entering the president’s office at Hagen Pacing early on Friday afternoon, Joe’s sixth sense – which always began in the form of a weird prickling along his spinal cord – had warned him that not only was this going to turn into a case, but that, sure as shit, it was going to be a big one.
“I hate scientists,” he confided to Commander Jackson on Saturday morning at the station. “They’re on another planet. We have two bodies, a man and a woman nine hundred miles apart, their chests blown to chopped liver by their pacemakers, both made by these guys, and all they can say is that it couldn’t happen.”
“According to Al Hagen, it couldn’t,” Jackson said.
“But it has happened.” Joe shook his dark head. “Apples don’t explode either, but if forensics sent me a report proving that two Red Delicious had blasted into atoms, that would be good enough for me. But not for these people, with their formulae and their lists of components.”
“All of which supposedly prove there’s nothing in these things that could explode.”
“Which means either they’re wrong, and there’s been some kind of chemical reaction they never envisaged – ”
“Impossible, according to Hagen.”
“ – or,” Joe continued, “those two devices contained a little something extra.”
“You’re talking about sabotage, Duval.”
“I’m talking about homicide.”
“You’re talking about bombs.”
“I guess.”
“There’s no real evidence.”
“Not yet.”
“I want you to be wrong on this one, Duval,” Jackson said.
“I want me to be wrong, too.”
“But you don’t think you are?”
“No.”
“Jesus.” The word was softly spoken, almost a murmur.
“All they seem to know so far is that both pacemakers were produced months ago,” Joe said. “The Quality Assurance Manager – a guy called Schwartz – swears the factory is clean.”
“Hagen says they need time,” Jackson said.
“How much time can we give them, Commander? It’s been almost a week since Long died.”
The two men fell silent. Within the dark wood-lined walls of the commander’s office, with its framed certificates and photographs of its occupant shaking hands with distinguished men and women from the mayor to the Superintendent of Police, it was generally possible to seize a fragment of calm, while outside in the big open-plan office filled with chipped desks, dented filing cabinets, a bunch of detectives and secretaries, there was usually an atmosphere of noisy chaos. Isaiah Jackson, always trim, always well dressed, hated noise, disliked people who tried to yell at him to get a point across, and despite his deep, resonant voice, was known for his ability to bawl people out in a whisper.
“Do you trust Hagen?” Joe asked.
“I’ve never met him.” The commander paused. “But I told you I knew Marie Ferguson’s father, William Howe.” He leaned back in his chair and pointed at one of the black and white photographs on the wall to his left. “That’s him – the tall guy in the hat. If he were alive today, Al Hagen might have been boiled in oil by now.”
“The folks at Hagen are nervous of Sean Ferguson. You know he’s a freelance journalist?”
“Can’t say I blame them.”
“Maybe not, not if they’re scared he might write a piece that’s going to give thousands of patients heart attacks.” Joe was grim. “But I had the distinct feeling when I met Howard Leary – that’s the Head of Production – that he, for one, was more interested in covering his backside.”
“I take it you didn’t care for Leary.”
“I thought he was an arrogant asshole, but I think he’s probably right about keeping it away from the press for as long as possible.”
“If you’re right about this,” Jackson said, “Leary’s a prime suspect.”
“Along with everybody else at Hagen Pacing.” Joe paused. “So what’s the plan, Commander? Do we bring in Bomb and Arson and close the place down?”
“Hagen agrees with Schwartz – says they need time.”
Joe shrugged. “I guess we don’t have much choice if we want to keep things under wraps. And they are the experts.” He thought. “How about we give them the rest of the weekend, but start moving in, discreetly? Give them all the help we can and do some checking of our own.”
“What do you need?” the commander asked.
“I’d like to wander around the factory the rest of today and tomorrow. Then from Monday, I think two of us should go in – just two – keep it tight. Go in undercover, make out we’re doing some kind of time-and-motion study.” Joe pondered. “Lipman would make a pretty good scientist-type, if she’s free.”
Jackson nodded. “I’ll consult with Chief Hankin, then call Hagen and set it up.”
“On a strictly need-to-know basis,” Joe added. “Only those who already know what’s going on.” He glanced down at his notes. “Leary, Olivia Ashcroft and Schwartz.” He paused again. “I liked Schwartz. He was too busy to talk to me, but he looked haunted, like this thing was killing him.”
“What about Ashcroft?”
“I didn’t meet her, she was home with her family.”
“What did you make of Hagen?”
“He reminded me of one of my college professors.” Joe considered. “First impression, I thought he cared – not necessarily just because of the business.”
The commander looked intently at the lieutenant. “This could just be a terrible accident, you know, Duval.”
“I hope it is.”
“But you’ve got one of your damned hunches, haven’t you?”
Joe grinned as he got to his feet.
“Thank God I’m not infallible,” he said.
Chapter Nine
Sunday, January 10th
After Chris Webber had come to take Katy to school on Friday morning, Lally had found her house uncommonly quiet. He had arrived early to have time for a word with his daughter before they left, and Lally had found their conversation almost unbearably poignant.
“Mommy’s fine this morning, sweetheart,” Chris had begun. “But we both know that doesn’t mean she isn’t sick any more. And I think the time has come for us to make sure that she gets the treatment she needs to make her better.”
“But Mommy isn’t really sick, Daddy, is she?” Katy said. “It only happens when she’s had too much to drink.”
“But that’s just it, Katy, that is the illness.” Chris’s eyes were distressed. “We’ve talked about it before, remember? The different ways too much liquor affects people?”
“I remember,” Katy said. “Some people fall down, and some get sick to their stomachs, and some people get real dumb or real sad.”
“Usually,” her father went on, “they’re just a big pain in the neck, but with a few people, alcohol really changes them. Even if they’re usually kind and normal and gentle, a few drinks makes them mad.”
“Like Mommy,” Katy said.
“Exactly like Mommy.”
“So how will they make
her better, Daddy? Will the doctor give her medicine, or what?”
Chris took his daughter’s hand. “This isn’t like having the flu or tonsillitis, Katy. It’s possible that Mommy may have to go to a hospital for a little while.”
“How long?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Two days?”
“More than that,” Chris said.
“A whole week?”
“Maybe a little longer than that.” Seeing Katy’s expression, Chris squeezed her hand more tightly. “But you’ll be able to see her, sweetheart, and it’ll be worth it, don’t you think, if the doctors can make Mommy feel better again?”
“I guess.” Katy sounded doubtful.
Alone again, Lally had tried to busy herself with baking for the café, but she had felt strangely lonely. Hugo often stayed out at night with friends, and Lally was happy enough by herself as a rule, but having Katy stay over, and then having Chris to dinner – all those confidences, all that unburdening and sharing – had given her a sense of rare intimacy. In practical terms, of course, Lally hardly knew the Webbers at all, yet there could be no denying that as of now, she was involved with them, like it or not.
But do I like it? she asked herself, folding eggs into her dough mixture.
There was no simple answer to the question. She hated the fact that a ten-year-old girl was being exposed to fear and hurt and too much adult misery. She’d loathed seeing Andrea Webber transformed by drink, and she certainly hadn’t liked seeing the pain and dismay in her husband’s eyes. But she had to admit that she had liked the hours she and Chris had spent together and, if she was entirely honest with herself, she’d liked hearing him say that his marriage had been over for years. Though of course he’d said nothing of the kind to Katy that morning.
Speared abruptly by guilt, Lally shook herself. There was nothing between her and Chris Webber, and even if she had been attracted to him, there had been not the slightest indication that the feeling had been mutual. The man had a hundred things on his mind, and she was certainly not one of them. Besides, so far as the Webbers’ marriage was concerned, nothing was over until it was over. And wouldn’t it be far better for Katy if her family life could still be salvaged?
If I Should Die Page 6
