Madison stood up and began to pace. “I know a former president is soon forgotten, but it’s interesting how much influence he wields. Legislators at all levels seek my opinion. My endorsement is invaluable when it comes time to make appointments or run for political office. I have a foundation that receives millions in donations each year and pays out about the same amount in grants, and there are some people who think it would be to their financial benefit if someone else headed that foundation. Sound like good enough reasons?”
“Vaguely, but I’m still not convinced. Any specifics you can share with me?”
“No, let’s say that I have both friends and enemies everywhere—not just here at home.”
***
Detective Stan Warren had snatched a few hours’ sleep on one of the cots in a room at the rear of the police station. He’d shaved and brushed his teeth using items from the shaving kit he kept in his desk. He’d changed into a clean shirt from the gym bag that resided in the trunk of his car for occasions like this. He hoped the change was enough to keep him from looking the way he felt.
Warren’s only consolation, and a small one at that, was that he had little doubt Dr. Chavez had spent an even more uncomfortable night. He sat across from Chavez in a different interview room this time. Figuring that perhaps it was time to introduce the “good cop” into this scenario, the detective came into the room with two Styrofoam cups of coffee and placed one on the table in front of Chavez. “I don’t guess you’ve had breakfast yet,” Warren said.
Chavez reached for the cup with his free hand, the other bound by a handcuff shackled to the ring in the center of the table. “No, and I dread thinking what it might be if and when it comes.” He took a swallow of coffee. “After I have been freed, I must send you some of our Colombian coffee. It tastes so much better than this.”
So much for being nice. “Okay, Doc. Let’s get down to business.” The door opened and another detective joined them. “This is Detective Robinson. Now, let’s go on the record.” He pushed a button on the recorder in the middle of the table and identified everyone in the room. After he’d again recited the Miranda warning to Chavez, Warren said, “Why did you kill Barbara Carper?”
Chavez shook his head. “I didn’t kill her. And when your officers complete their investigation, they’ll confirm that. I presume she was shot, since as soon as you rushed off from our interview last evening, I was taken to another room where my hands were tested for gunshot residue. Undoubtedly the same type of test was done on my clothing.” He gestured at the jail coveralls he now wore. “And since I didn’t fire a gun, I know those tests were negative.”
Warren opened his mouth, but Chavez held up his finger. “Let me tell you what happened. Yes, I knew Barbara Carper. We had met a few times behind the hospital to share a cigarette. She’d spent some time in Mexico and enjoyed speaking Spanish with me. Last night, she didn’t have her cigarettes or lighter with her. I gave her a pack and loaned her my lighter, which she promised to give back to me today when we saw each other again. When I left her, she was very much alive.”
“You left out one thing. Was she the one who stole the RP-78 from Madison’s room? Wasn’t she supposed to give it to you, in return for cash?”
“Of course not,” Chavez said. “The drug I offered to Ms. Marks is some I discovered in my luggage. I’d brought one more vial than I thought, and I was willing to turn it over to Agent Lang. Naturally, I assumed there might be some kind of a reward for my help.” He adopted a look of injured innocence. “And there was no attempt at extortion. I’m certain that was simply a case of you and Miss Marks misunderstanding what I said.”
At that moment, the door to the interview room opened and Lieutenant Donovan stuck his head in the door. “Stan, a word with you?”
Outside, Warren said, “What? Do you have some more information for me?”
“Yes. Two patrol officers went to Barbara Carper’s apartment to search it. In the refrigerator, they found this.” He held up a plastic evidence bag that contained a small vial of a clear, amber liquid. Warren had to put on his reading glasses to decipher the label: DM. “I suspect Dr. Pearson can identify this as the vial of RP-78 used to treat David Madison.”
22
Jerry Lang stood outside the hospital room of the former president. All this bouncing back and forth between Madison’s home and Prestonwood Hospital was frustrating. He didn’t understand how Madison could fire Dr. Pearson one moment and beg him to resume his care the next. Then again, it wasn’t his place to make those decisions, or to question them. His responsibility was to protect the safety of this ex-president of the United States. And so far, I’ve barely managed to stay one step ahead of the person or persons trying to kill him.
He turned toward the door as it opened, and a nurse he’d come to know, Mary Wynn, exited the room. “He wants to see you,” she said.
Lang shrugged. It was probably something to do with arrangements for Madison to leave the hospital and return home yet again later today. Well, that was part of his job. He’d better find out what the boss wanted.
“Sir, you wanted to see me,” Lang said as he approached Madison, who was sitting in the room’s recliner wearing his own pajamas and a navy blue robe with the presidential seal over the breast pocket.
“Yes, Jerry. I’ve been pretty much out of it since right after we got back from South America, but now I’ve had a chance to think back.” Madison gestured to a chair. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
Lang settled into the chair, turning it so that he partially faced Madison and partially the door. Agent Gilmore was on duty outside, but Lang still felt the responsibility of his assignment. “Yes, sir?”
“At the time it happened, I figured the woman who threw that flask of yellow stuff onto Ben Lambert, Rachel Moore, and me was just some crazy person striking out at the Americans who dared come to her village. Matter of fact, I originally thought it was a jar of urine or something. But obviously, she was trying to infect us.”
Lang nodded. He could predict the question Madison was going to ask.
“You weren’t with us that day. Agent Burkhardt was in charge of the protection detail. How did he let that woman get so close to us?” Madison took a deep breath. “And, for that matter, who was that woman?”
“Probably my fault, sir. I’d picked up some of the turista that others in our group were experiencing, and I stayed behind after Dr. Lambert gave me some medicine for it. Burkhardt fouled up, and I’ve already talked with him. As for the woman, when he tried to chase her down, she disappeared into a warren of alleyways crowded with people.”
“Now we know that what she was doing was trying to expose us to a lethal infection,” Madison said. “Thank goodness Dr. Pearson and Dr. Johnson were able to take care of that.”
Lang waited, wondering if he was about to be criticized for letting the incident occur.
“The next question is, who was behind that attack? Was it the same person who tried to have me shot? And are there more surprises out there?”
“Sir, I know those are rhetorical questions, but let me say that it’s hard for me to investigate any of this while protecting you, especially if I have to guard against an information leak. Detective Warren is working on it, but he’s having to use back channels as well.”
Madison stood and moved to the window, looked out, and walked back to his chair. “I know. And the secrecy won’t be necessary much longer. In the meantime, just know that I appreciate the job you and your detail do in protecting me.”
“Is that all, sir?”
“Just keep me alive a few more days, Jerry. Just keep me alive.”
***
Warren was at his desk when he saw a shadow fall across the papers in front of him. He looked up and saw Agent Jerry Lang standing behind him. “What brings you down here?” he asked, gesturing for the agent to sit down.
Lang hooked a chair from the desk behind Warren’s and dragged it forward. He eased into it and said, “Look,
we’ve each been busy looking at different aspects of this problem. Now I think it’s time we tried to put it all together.” He held up one hand to stop Warren from responding. “And let me say that if there are arrests coming out of what we find, they’re all yours. My job is to protect David Madison. I’m not looking for a promotion. Matter of fact . . . No, never mind. Let’s simply say I don’t need any recognition for this.”
“Okay, here’s what we’ve got,” Warren said.
He began by telling the Secret Service agent what they’d found in Lambert’s office.
“So it’s likely he was bribed to give Madison an inert substance instead of a diphtheria immunization. The fact that Moore got the same shot was simply an unfortunate coincidence,” Lang said. “I wonder if the original plan was just to use diphtheria. If so, that should be curable, even with no immunization.”
“No,” Warren said. “I think the diphtheria was to cover the other infection. By the time the Bacillus whatever-it’s-called was discovered, it would be too late to treat Madison, assuming there was any treatment.”
“And do you know who was behind the shooting attempt?” Lang asked.
“No, but we suspect it was probably the same person who bribed Lambert.” Warren went on to tell about the Cayman Islands bank account they’d found for the shooter. “Maybe the person behind this also had an account there. Then it would be a simple matter just to transfer money out of that account into new ones set up for Lambert and Malnyk.”
“If Madison hadn’t insisted we keep this quiet, I could make a few phone calls and try to find out,” Lang said.
“I’ve got a detective working on it. If we find out the source of that bribe money, I’ll let you know.”
“What about Chavez? Have you gotten anything out of him?” Lang asked.
Warren shook his head. “We want to charge him with Carper’s murder, but he tested negative for gunshot residues. However, those tests aren’t infallible.”
“Can you put him at the scene of the murder?”
“Chavez admits he met her for a smoke, but says she was alive when he left her. There’s one thing, though.” The detective told Lang about the vial of RP-78 found in Carper’s refrigerator. “It’s possible she stole it and Chavez was going to buy it from her.”
“How? Why?”
“She had the opportunity to slip it out of Madison’s room,” Warren said. “Maybe she had a deal with Chavez, then wanted more money, so he shot her.”
Lang shook his head. “There’s too much we don’t know.”
“You’re right,” Warren said. “But we will. Meanwhile, you keep working from your end. I’ll work this part. We’ll meet in the middle.” He brought his two hands together as though he were capturing an insect. “And when we do, maybe we’ll have our bad guy.”
***
Chavez, his hands chained to a wide leather belt, his feet shackled to allow him to shuffle but not run, moved along in a line with three other prisoners due to be transferred from the downtown jail to the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, from which he’d be arraigned on Monday. The four men were herded up through the back door of a van and directed to sit on a bench that ran along one side. The front area where the driver and another guard sat was separated from the rear by strong steel mesh.
Once inside, Chavez bowed his head, refusing to talk with the other prisoners. The compartment where he sat had no windows on the side, and the glass on the back door was so dirty as to allow almost no light to pass through. This suited Chavez. Once the door closed, he reached beneath the sturdy leather belt to which his chains were attached until his groping fingers found the paper clip he’d managed to find and palm shortly after he was first arrested. He straightened one half the clip and bent the tip against the buckle of his belt. If the lock to these shackles was like the one for handcuffs, he’d be free in a few moments. The dim atmosphere was no problem for Chavez, who kept his eyes closed as he worked. He’d learned to do this by touch, rather than by sight.
Although the facility to which he was going was only a couple of miles away, and Saturday traffic was light, an accident delayed the passage of the van. That was all right with Chavez, and by the time the vehicle came to a final halt he was ready.
He felt the van stop, then shouts came from outside. “You guys are almost an hour late. What kept you?”
“There was an accident. We were sitting in traffic.”
“Well, you’ll have to sit a while longer. The motor that opens the sally port is acting up. They’re working on it.”
The conversation became quieter, and it appeared some sort of compromise was reached, because it wasn’t long before Chavez heard and saw the back door of the van opening. Evidently, he and his companions were going to be marched through a side door rather than the van pulling inside the complex. Perfect.
He’d been the first one into the vehicle, which meant he was the last in line to exit. The driver of the van was engaged with a Lew Sterrett guard, completing the paperwork for the exchange. The deputy, who’d ridden shotgun, both figuratively and literally, was standing at the foot of the single step that extended off the bumper of the van, saying, “Watch your step. Watch your step. Hurry up. Watch your step.”
As he stepped down, Chavez appeared to trip. Suddenly his hands, which were free of his shackles, went out to wrench away the weapon the guard held. He hit the man one stroke with the butt of the shotgun, then turned to the driver and the other guard. “Take your guns out of your holsters with two fingers, slowly. One false move and I fire.” He waited until they complied. “Now drop them by your feet and kick them over to me.”
The men did as he said, although the looks they gave Chavez plainly said, “You’ll regret this.”
He stuffed first one gun, then the other, beneath his belt, from which dangled open handcuffs. “Now, into the back of the van. Quickly.” He herded the driver in, then made the jail guard help the deputy from whom he’d taken the shotgun into the back of the van. He closed the door and twisted the handle to lock in the three men. That should give him a few minutes head start.
“Hey, man!” It was one of the prisoners who’d been in the back of the van with Chavez. “You can’t leave without us.”
Chavez threw a contemptuous look at the prisoner, casually pointed the shotgun at him, and pulled the trigger. As though lifted by an invisible hand, the man was thrown back four or five feet, landing on his back. His extremities jerked for one awful moment, and then he collapsed. The corpse lay on the pavement in a spreading pool of blood, its open eyes staring blankly at the sky.
The other two prisoners stood transfixed, not daring to speak or move.
“Anyone else?” Chavez asked. He pumped another shell into the chamber of the shotgun, then turned and sprinted the thirty yards to the adjacent street. He waved his shotgun at a passing car and when it didn’t stop, fired a shot across the front of the vehicle. The driver skidded to a halt, opened his door, and took off running. Chavez nodded once with satisfaction before he climbed in and drove away.
***
“You didn’t have to drive me home,” Rachel said as Josh pulled away from Prestonwood Hospital.
“Happy to do it.” He could drive the route to Rachel’s apartment by memory, and that’s exactly what he did, letting his thoughts roam free. There were so many things he wanted to tell Rachel, but the first order of business was to get her home and settled. He’d told Allison not to come over until early evening, saying he’d stick around until then.
“Is my car still safe in the hospital parking lot?”
“It should be,” Josh replied. “We can get it later this weekend. For now, Allison will be with you, and she has a car.”
“Is Mr. Madison already gone?” Rachel asked.
Josh checked his watch. Eleven a.m. “He left about an hour ago. His staff will see that he’s okay, and they’ve hired a private duty nurse, one who helped take care of Mrs. Madison when she broke her leg. She’s going to check him twi
ce a day and report any problems. She’ll also give him his last couple of injections of RP-78.”
Rachel frowned. “What should I do about mine?”
“Allison or I will give them. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you.”
Because Rachel had been in isolation, the flowers that some of her colleagues had sent at the time of her hospitalization had been distributed throughout the hospital. She wore the scrub dress Allison had procured for her the other day, along with a pair of rubber clogs left behind by someone in the nurses’ dressing room. With virtually nothing to unload, Josh soon had Rachel settled on the couch.
“Would you like me to fix you some lunch?” he asked.
“Can we wait a while? Then maybe we can go out for a sandwich or something,” Rachel said. “I feel like it’s been a year since I was out among people.”
“I think we can arrange that.” Josh sat down next to her. “You were with us when we searched Ben Lambert’s office. I’ve been thinking about that ever since then, and I’d like to run some ideas by you.”
She nodded. “Sure.”
“As I see it, there may be two things going on here. First, someone wants David Madison dead. The deadly infection didn’t seem to be working, so they hired someone to shoot him. That failed, so there may be another attempt.”
“Aren’t—”
Josh held up his hand to stop her. “The police and the Secret Service are investigating that. I understand. But as a physician, I’m wondering about how I just ‘happened’ to find RP-78 when I needed it. I mean, the coincidences keep piling up. Karen Marks talks to someone at the CDC who mentions the drug. I call the manufacturer and talk with the chief medical officer, who turns out to be a buddy of mine. When the amount of drug he could bring wasn’t enough and I was at my wit’s end, I tried the doctor who was running the only drug trial Argosy had started for RP-78. He was able to bring some more, and so far it looks like it’s working.”
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