Third Strike: A Charlie Fox Mystery

by Zoe Sharp

  It was my own argument, but it hurt that he recognized the truth of it enough to fall silent.

  “I realize it wasn’t your fault, Charlie,” Parker said. “But you know as well as I do how easily the newspapers put their own spin on things. And that’s not the only thing they’ve come up with.”

  I recalled the report he’d practically thrown across this very table at me only two days previously, and knew whatever they’d found now it had to be worse.

  Parker flicked his eyes at Sean, then back to me and said, “Look, I don’t believe half of what they’ve printed, but—”

  “Tell me,” I said through suddenly stiff lips.

  He sighed heavily. “I don’t know where they’ve gotten half this stuff, but they seem to think you’ve had run-ins with the cops not just here, but in the UK and Ireland, and with the security services in Germany. They’re claiming that you’ve killed at least half a dozen people, making out you’re some kind of crazy …”

  He looked at my face and his voice trailed off.

  “If you believe that about Charlie,” Sean said coolly, staring Parker straight in the eye, “then you should never have taken either of us on in the first place.”

  Parker shrugged. “What I believe is immaterial,” he said, but he was rattled. “It’s other people’s perceptions that are the problem here.”

  “Why?” Sean demanded, letting the word crack out. “If she was a guy, everyone would be queuing up to buy her a beer and listen to the war stories. But because she’s a woman, the fact that she’s good at her job and has proved it in the field is considered somehow indecent.” He tilted his head as though he had the other man on a microscope slide. “I thought you were more enlightened, Parker.”

  “Tell that to our clients, Sean,” Parker snapped back. “We lost another contract this morning. They’re leaving like rats off a sinking ship!” He held up a hand when Sean would have countered, pinched at the bridge of his nose for a few long moments, trying to relieve the tension. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

  “Don’t be,” I said roughly, trying not to make my despair obvious. “You brought us in as an asset not a liability, and I’ve brought this trouble down on you.”

  He waved away my latest apology and seemed to make an effort to focus. “What we need—”

  There was a sudden knock on the door and Bill Rendelson stuck his head round without waiting for an invitation, his expression sour.

  “You got calls stacking up, boss,” he said shortly. His eyes slid to Sean and me and, if anything, his face grew even more thunderous. “And they’re ready for you to go back in.”

  “Cards on the table time,” Sean said, and his coolly indifferent tone was a challenge all by itself. “I assume you don’t have a significant drinking problem?” The wording was a nicely irritant touch, implying as it did that the older man did indeed have an issue with alcohol and the only subject under discussion was the severity.

  My father didn’t so much glare at Sean as subject him to a withering scrutiny most people would have shriveled under. Probably me included.

  “Of course I don’t.”

  He and my mother had seated themselves in two of the client chairs, side by side, forming a united front. Parker had taken his customary seat behind the desk and I wondered if he was trying to reassert his authority by such a move. I hovered in between, leaning on a corner of the desk as though ready to play for either side, depending how things were going.

  “In view of your somewhat public confession, there’s no ‘of course’ about it,” Sean said with a deadly smile. He sat down in one of the client chairs opposite my parents and crossed his legs, apparently totally at ease, before adding quietly, “So, are you going to tell us what the real story is here? What really happened to this patient of yours who died in Boston?”

  For a moment my father didn’t speak, then he gave an audible sigh, as though gathering his inner resources. “Jeremy Lee had severe spinal osteoporosis,” he said at last.

  “Osteoporosis?” Parker queried as we exchanged blank looks. “That’s the kind of thing little old ladies get, isn’t it? Makes them fall down and break their hips.”

  My father gave a pained nod at this somewhat simplistic view. “In essence, yes,” he allowed. “But it affects in excess of two hundred million people worldwide—twenty percent of whom are men. That’s more than forty million, and the problem is growing.”

  “What causes it?” I asked. “And what caused it in this case?”

  “It’s a popular misconception that it’s down to calcium deficiency, but that’s not the whole story. We have an aging population, more sedentary lifestyles.” My father shrugged. “But in half the cases of osteoporosis in men, the cause is unknown,” he said. “Although smoking can affect bone cells, and drinking inhibits the body’s absorption of calcium, Jeremy did neither.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Foxcroft,” Parker said, “we have a lot of homegrown medical talent over here. Why were you called in?”

  My father favored him with an austere smile. “To begin with, Jeremy was misdiagnosed and had lost a certain amount of faith in his colleagues,” he said. “By the time he contacted me—or rather, his wife did—he was very ill. Miranda was hopeful that there might be a surgical option that would offer him some relief, and I think it’s fair to say I have a recognized level of expertise in that area.”

  At this point it seemed to occur to him that the events of the last few days might have sullied that spotless reputation somewhat. A shadow, no more than a flicker, passed across his face. My mother, sitting next to him, snuck her fingers through his and squeezed. For a moment he squeezed back, then disengaged his hand. He never once looked at her directly.

  “Miranda called me and asked for my help,” he added simply. “So I went.”

  It must be nice, I thought with fierce jealousy, to have the kind of friendship with my father that motivates such an instant response.

  “And was there anything you could do?” Sean asked.

  My father shook his head. “I did some tests to see if there was the possibility of installing titanium cages to support Jeremy’s vertebrae, but it was too late for that. His bones were like chalk. By the time I got there he was in a wheelchair, his spine had almost totally collapsed and he was in constant pain.” That shadow again, darker this time. “It was … difficult to see him like that.”

  I felt the transfer of his anger. “And what was being done for him?”

  “Not much beyond palliative care,” he said, dismissive. “They’d tried him on synthetic bone-stimulating hormones in an attempt to increase his bone density, but without success. According to his notes, over the past few months his condition had deteriorated at a rate I would normally have expected to take years. I ruled out anything environmental, went back several generations to eliminate the hereditary angle. It seemed to me that the hospital was making little attempt to find out the root cause of his illness.”

  “Surely,” Sean said, frowning, “if he was getting older—”

  “Jeremy was in his early forties,” my father cut in. “I met him when he was a young student over in London. Hardly an old man, would you say?”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I discovered that the hospital was involved in clinical trials for a new treatment for osteoporosis developed by the pharmaceutical giant, Storax. It’s not yet licensed, but they’ve had some remarkable successes so far. I contacted them to see if it might be possible to use it in this case.”

  “I didn’t think you were such a risk taker, Richard,” Sean said.

  “Sean,” my mother said in quiet censure. “A man’s life was at stake.”

  My father acknowledged her intervention with a faint nod. “Miranda voiced her doubts but, by that stage I felt there was very little to lose and I convinced her we should give it a try. I felt we had few options left open to us.”

  “And what did Jeremy Lee feel about this?”

 
“Jeremy had picked up an infection and lapsed into a coma,” he said, no emotion in his voice. “Storax were reluctant to extend their trial at this stage, but in the end I … persuaded them.” He gave another small smile. “They sent two of their people up to Boston to administer the treatment. And that’s when we discovered that Jeremy had already received it.”

  “Hold on,” Parker said. “You mean he’d already been given this Storax treatment and was still getting worse?”

  “That’s how it appeared. My suspicion was that the hospital had been using him as an unwitting guinea pig.” He took a moment that might have been to calm himself, and his expression afterwards was almost rueful. “I’m afraid I may have made my dissatisfaction with this state of affairs somewhat clear.”

  I suppressed a smile. My father in full righteous flow would be a sight to behold.

  “Can you prove any of this?” Sean asked, and although his tone was absolutely neutral, my father bristled anyway.

  “Sadly, no,” he said sharply. “The Storax people were doing more tests to confirm it when I was asked to leave—politely, of course—by the hospital administrators.”

  “And you agreed?”

  He shrugged. “I had no choice. My position there was afforded as a courtesy, not a right. Before I left, I made it clear to the hospital that I was intending to take the matter further. Unfortunately, I never got the chance.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jeremy died that night. Miranda got the call around midnight and I drove her to the hospital, but it was already too late.”

  Again, he paused, took a breath—the only outward sign of his distress. He was talking about the death of a friend and he might have been discussing having missed a bus.

  “What actually killed him in the end?” Parker asked quietly.

  “In my opinion, a hundred milligrams of intravenous morphine,” my father said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “As I can be—and before you ask, no, I can’t prove that, either,” he said, glancing at Sean. “Not without access to his notes. Maybe not even then.”

  “But you were sure enough at one point to make a public accusation to that effect,” Sean said, quirking one eyebrow. “Wasn’t that somewhat … foolish if you didn’t have any proof?”

  My father’s chin came up. “Yes, as it turned out,” he said calmly. “The following morning I received a telephone call informing me of my so-called drink problem and telling me what would happen to Elizabeth if I didn’t participate in my own downfall.” His eyes flickered closed for a moment. “They were rather graphic and very detailed,” he added with grim restraint.

  “Oh, Richard,” my mother said softly, her eyes on his face.

  “We have to take this to the police,” Parker said, reaching for the phone on his desk. “If we—”

  “No.”

  There it was again, that quiet command. It was enough to bring Parker up short. His hand stilled and he regarded my father in steady silence for a few moments before he asked in a level tone, “Why not?”

  My father didn’t reply immediately. He leaned forwards in his seat, clasping his hands and seeming absorbed by the way his fingers linked together. Eventually he looked up, his gaze taking in the three of us, ranged against him.

  “You must think I inhabit a very rarefied little world,” he said, his voice reflective and almost a little remote. “And I suppose that in some ways, I do. I am not accustomed to being manhandled, to having my family threatened, and I find I … don’t care for it.”

  “They won’t do it again,” I said, fast and low. “Trust me. They won’t get the chance.”

  “No, they won’t,” my father said with a brittle smile. “But not because you’ll be there to take on all comers, Charlotte, I assure you.” He straightened the crease in his suit trousers and brushed away a piece of lint from the fine cloth before he looked up again. “When I was a medical student I had a bit of a reputation as a poker player,” he said. “I always knew when to bluff and when to fold a bad hand.”

  “And you feel this is a bad hand,” Sean said. “So you’re going to fold, is that it?” He couldn’t quite keep the sneer out of his voice, but my father didn’t rise to it.

  “I don’t know who was behind my coercion and Elizabeth’s unfortunate experience, but I can only assume they have some connection to the hospital,” my father said. “They had a major civil action brought against them last year for medical negligence, which they lost—somewhat disastrously—and they can’t afford another. It would appear they’re prepared to go to extreme lengths to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Sean ducked his head in acknowledgment of the point. “That’s a fair description,” he said. “But what about your supposed friend, Jeremy Lee? What about his widow? You’re just going to walk away and leave things as they are?”

  My father’s face whitened. “The longer I stay, the worse I’m making the situation for Miranda,” he said. “I’ve been totally discredited as any kind of expert witness. Trying to redress things now will only make them worse still. My best course of action is to go home as soon as possible, so we can try to put this whole thing behind us.”

  My father rose, automatically buttoning the jacket of that immaculately tailored suit, and helped my mother out of her chair. She clung to his arm. He turned to face us.

  “Thank you—all of you—for your assistance,” he said, not quite meeting my eye. His gaze just seemed to scutter across me from Sean to Parker and back again. “But there is nothing more you can do here.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Until the arrangements could be made for them to go home to the UK, my father booked a room for himself and my mother at the Grand Hyatt, which was somewhat more in keeping with his tastes and made me realize I should have questioned who’d chosen his previous hotel.

  There were a lot of things I should have questioned.

  My father refused Parker’s offer of the use of McGregor and the Navigator while they were in New York. Instead, much to my mother’s obvious disappointment, he insisted that they would catch a cab on the street, and Sean and I went down with them to the lobby. It was a good opportunity to have one last go at getting my father to make a stand, but he’d fallen back on frosty formality.

  My mother did her best to fill the awkward silence with nervous, inconsequential chatter that put nobody at ease. I wasn’t the only one who was glad when we reached ground level.

  Sean nodded to the doorman, who whisked outside to summon a cab, something he seemed to achieve almost instantly.

  “You should have told me you were in trouble,” I said, making one last effort at getting through, aware even as I spoke of the stiffness in my voice that would prevent me from doing so. “Whatever you may think of me, this is what I do.”

  My father looked down his nose at me. “I’m well aware of your capabilities, Charlotte,” he said curtly. “That is precisely why I didn’t.”

  We saw the yellow Crown Victoria pull up smartly outside, and moved towards the doors. My mother seemed to have some spring back in her step, as though now she was reunited with her husband, all was right with the world again. With a sense of panic, I felt my parents slipping away from me. Unwilling to let it end like this, I walked with them, out into the pale slanted sunshine.

  Sean had carried my mother’s heavy suitcase as far down as the lobby without apparent effort, setting it down while he tipped the doorman. My father picked it up, clearly surprised by the unexpected weight, and began lugging it across the sidewalk to the waiting cab while my mother paused in the doorway to rifle through her handbag for her sunglasses.

  I had started to follow him when I heard an engine, away to our left, even above the normal background sounds of traffic. American engines are generally big and torquey. They don’t need to rev in order to provide power unless you want a lot of it, and you want it now. This was being thrashed and I turned instinctively towards the noise.

  I was just in time to see
another taxicab mount the curb about ten meters away, trailing sparks as it graunched over the concrete, front suspension taking the hit. It came barreling along the sidewalk towards us.

  Like the one idling by the curb, the second cab was a yellow Crown Victoria. The big car leapt towards us, seeming wide enough to totally fill the space between the building and the street, engine roaring. The front wing grazed off the front façade, striking yet more sparks like it was breathing fire, and it kept on coming.

  My father froze in its path, still clutching the handle of the suitcase. Adrenaline fired into my system like a shot of nitrous. I took three or four rapid, boosted strides and hit him shoulder against shoulder, the force of my momentum enough to send him pitching clear of the cab’s flight path.

  Spinning halfway towards the threat, I saw nothing but the black plastic of the front grille and a vast sea of yellow steel that made up the car’s bonnet. I even had time to notice the taxi medallion riveted to the center.

  In that weird, slowed-down way things have, I recognized that I didn’t have time to run, and nowhere to run to. My only thought was to minimize the hit.

  Years of falling off horses as a kid taught me not to try and break a fall with my limbs outstretched. Later, years of martial arts training of one form or another taught me how to use them to slow my descent much more scientifically.

  So I jumped, straight up, tucking my knees in like I was dive-bombing into a swimming pool. I didn’t have nearly enough height to clear the Crown Vic’s front grille, which clipped my left leg halfway down my calf as the car shot underneath me, causing me to tumble violently. As I somersaulted across the expanse of yellow bonnet, I slapped my hand and forearm down hard onto the steel to lessen the impact, but hit the windscreen hip and elbow first with enough force to break the laminated glass anyway.

  I had visions of continuing to roll right up over the roof, at which point the huge slant-sided advertising hoarding that ran full length along it would probably have broken my back. Then the driver of the rogue cab slammed on his brakes.