Miracle Cure (1991)

by Harlan Coben

  "I don't know," she said.

  "You'll have to ask Harvey."

  "What do you mean you don't know?"

  "Just what I said."

  "Did Bradley have AIDS?"

  "It can't leave this room," Sara said.

  "It won't."

  "The answer is yes."

  "Was he being treated for it?"

  "Yes, but I don't know where. It was a big secret, and I didn't want hi m t o tell me."

  "Why not?" he asked.

  "You know who his father is, of course."

  "Of course."

  "The senator beat the crap out of Bradley when he found out that I kne w a bout his AIDS. Bradley's father was terrified that the truth would b e e xposed."

  "Because it would ruin him."

  "Exactly. So we tried not to talk about it."

  "I see." Max stopped, looked up toward the sky, scratched his neck wher e i t met the top of his chest.

  "Wouldn't Dr. Riker have said something to you if he was treatin g b radley?"

  "No way. The clinic is cloaked in secrecy. I do not know the names o f a ny patients being treated at the clinic."

  "Interesting." Max looked away for a moment, his hand moving up now t o r ub his face.

  "So why did Dr. Riker speak to you about the two murders last night?"

  She hesitated.

  "I think you better ask Harvey that."

  "Sara, you're not going to pull that 'can't reveal my source' crap o n m e, are you?"

  "I'm afraid I'll have to for right now. But speak to Harvey. He ca n e nlighten you better than I can anyway."

  Max shrugged.

  "Okay. Let's find him."

  After passing two security checkpoints, Max and Sara found Harvey in hi s o ffice in the Sidney Pavilion. He looked up from his paper-cluttere d d esk, his eyes red and weary.

  "what's up?" he asked.

  "Harvey, you remember Lieutenant Bernstein."

  "Of course. Hello, Lieutenant."

  "How's it going, Doc?"

  "Fine, thanks," Harvey replied.

  "Sara, I just finished talking to Michael. As we suspected, th e a bdominal ultrasound showed swelling in Michael's liver." "What doe s t hat mean?" Sara asked.

  "It could mean a dozen things, but Dr. Sagarel, Eric, and I still agre e t hat it is probably hepatitis. We should have the results of the bloo d t est in another day or two. Chances are he'll need a couple of week s h ere and at least a month of bed rest."

  "And basketball?"

  "Not this season, Sara. There's an outside chance he'll be able to pla y i n the play-offs."

  "He knows?" "I told him. His reaction was a little strange."

  "Meaning?" "It didn't really bother him all that much. He told me th e g ood news about your pregnancy. Hell, it was all he'd talk about."

  "Pregnancy?" Max .

  "You didn't tell me."

  "Hardly seemed the time." "Congratulations," Max said.

  "Thank you. Harvey, Lieutenant Bernstein needs to talk to you."

  Harvey stood and moved in front of his desk.

  "Is this about what we discussed last night?"

  "Might be," Max interjected, trying to sound professional but comin g a cross like a bad actor in an old private-eye movie. He had never bee n g ood at the tough-guy bit.

  "Is Bradley Jenkins a patient of yours?"

  Harvey's face twisted into a look of confusion and annoyance.

  "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

  Bernstein cleared his throat.

  "Mind answering the question?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do." His line of vision swung over to Sara.

  "What's going on here?"

  Sara looked over to Max, who nodded for her to go ahead.

  "Bradley Jenkins was found murdered this morning," she said.

  "What?"

  "Multiple stab wounds," Bernstein said.

  "We suspect that his death is related to the murders of two patients a t y our clinic, a Bill Whitherson and a Scott Trian."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "Now would you mind answering my question? Was Bradley Jenkins a patien t a t the clinic?"

  Harvey moved tentatively back toward his chair like a man who had take n t oo many blows. He sat down and lowered his head into his hands.

  "Sara," he asked after a few moments had passed, "can he be trusted?"

  "Yes."

  His eyes tried to lock onto Bernstein's, but the lieutenant's were bus y d ancing about the small office.

  "Swear you won't let the media get it."

  "Swear."

  "Yes, Bradley Jenkins was a patient of mine a very confidentia l p atient."

  "How long had Bradley been receiving treatment here?"

  "Not long. Four months maybe."

  "And the other two Whitherson and Trian?"

  "They were both here from almost the beginning."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "More than two years."

  Max nodded. He finally took out his pad and used the pencil to write o n i t.

  "Now why don't you tell me about last night's conversation with Miss.

  Lowell?"

  Harvey looked over to Sara.

  "You can trust him," she said.

  Hesitantly, Harvey began by telling Max his suspicions that the murder s w ere related to the clinic. Then he explained that they were close , painfully close, to finding a treatment for AIDS.

  Max nodded vigorously, jotting pages of notes and listening withou t c omment.

  When Harvey stopped speaking, Bernstein said, "You said 'we' might hav e f ound a cure. Who is 'we'?"

  "Mostly myself and my late partner, Dr. Bruce Grey and a new member o f t he team, Dr. Eric Blake."

  "Blake's a friend of Michael's, isn't he?"

  "Yes," Sara replied.

  Max's eyes narrowed in thought. The pencil found its way back into hi s m outh.

  "Dr. Bruce Grey.. isn't he the guy who swan-dived through a hotel windo w a couple of weeks back?"

  Harvey glanced toward Sara and then nodded.

  "Interesting," Max said again.

  "So what do you make of his suicide, Dr. Riker?"

  "I'm not sure I make anything out of it," Harvey replied.

  "Bruce committed suicide, I guess. That's what the police insist anyway.

  The rest of what I told Sara must have been some wild fabrications m y o vertired mind and overactive imagination invented.

  It's crazy."

  Max moved toward the chair in front of the desk and sat down.

  "I enjoy crazy."

  Cassandra tiptoed down the staircase. She was still a bit hung over fro m l ast night's festivities, but her headache was not nearly as bad a s u sual. She tried to put the pieces of the previous evening bac k t ogether. She recalled some heavy-duty conversation with Michael. Sh e v aguely remembered screwing Senator Jenkins in the cabana. She had som e r ecollection of drinking too much.

  But the part she remembered with startling clarity came toward the en d o f the party. Cassandra had made her way to the bar for one last sho t b efore she called it a night. While waiting for the bartender to fil l h er glass, she started a conversation with a man who also seemed a bi t i nebriated. She knew who the man was, had met him a few times, but sh e h ad never paid him much (or any) attention. But no one else was around , and Cassandra was feeling particularly charitable.

  When the guests began to leave over an hour later, Cassandra realize d t hat she was still talking with the same man. Talking.

  Not flirting, not hitting on, not being hit upon, not fucking. Jus t t alking. And shit, she had to be seriously intoxicated. Under normal , more sober circumstances she would not waste a good spit on this guy.

  But the man had been a perfect gentleman. He listened to her, to wha t s he had to say. Oh she had seen men feign interest in order to get i n h er pants, but somehow she knew that this guy was actually interested i n w hat she had to say.
>
  Strange.

  Even stranger, when she finally asked him if he wanted to go upstair s w ith her, he answered, "Not tonight." "Why not?" she asked.

  The man shook his head and smiled.

  "Didn't I see this once on the Twilight Zone? The homely man and th e g orgeous woman switch places? I can't believe I'm saying this, but her e g oes I don't want to be just another notch on your belt."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I know, I know. I don't believe it either. Look, Cassandra, I'd give m y r ight arm to spend an evening with you."

  "So?"

  He shrugged, holding up his hands helplessly.

  "If I go upstairs with you now, that'll be it. But if I refuse, yo u m ight be intrigued.

  You might want to pursue it though I can't help thinking that onc e y ou're sober you ll think this whole conversation was a nightmare." Sh e s miled.

  "You're giving away your strategy, Harvey."

  "Yeah, well, I never was very good at this stuff and I'm a bit out o f p ractice like twenty-six years out of practice. Do yourself a favor , Cassandra. Stay away from me. I'm trouble." "Now you really have m e i ntrigued," she said.

  "Nothing to be intrigued about," Harvey continued.

  "I'm just a workaholic who spends every waking and sleeping moment in a h ospital in Spanish Harlem. I have no time for a social life.

  It was a fun evening, a wonderful distraction, but it's time I returne d t o Planet Earth." "I wish you'd reconsider," she said.

  Harvey pounded the side of his head like he was trying to clear it.

  "I'm dreaming, aren't I?" he asked.

  "This whole conversation is a dream."

  "Maybe. I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

  Now it was tomorrow and for some strange reason, Cassandra wanted to se e h arvey Riker again. One problem she had spent most of the morning tryin g t o figure out what she should do next and had come up with nothing.

  Should she wait until Harvey called? Suppose he didn't? And talk abou t b eing out of practice it had been years since Cassandra questioned o r c ared if a man called her or not.

  Then a solution had presented itself when her father came home.

  "Where were you?" she had asked him.

  "At Columbia Presbyterian," John Lowell replied, distracted.

  "Michael was rushed there."

  "Is he all right?"

  "I think so. His friends are taking care of him."

  "Harvey Riker?"

  Her father nodded.

  "They think he has hepatitis."

  "I think I'll go visit him."

  "Whatever. When are you going to go?"

  "In ten minutes," she said.

  "Good. I have a meeting in a little while, and I don't want anyon e a round when my appointment gets here. Understood?"

  But that had been over an hour ago, which was why she was tiptoeing.

  Her father's private meetings were just that private.

  Bathed in secrecy. He would be furious if he found out she was stil l h ome. She crept down the hallway toward the garage. As she passed he r f ather's study, she heard his voice come through the thick oak. He s ounded very angry.

  "Goddamn it, you shouldn't be here," her father shouted.

  "Relax," another voice said, a voice Cassandra could not quite place.

  "You said no one was home."

  "Doesn't matter. I don't want you in my house."

  "Stop worrying so much. There's work to be done."

  Who the hell ... ? Cassandra carefully moved away from the door, he r m ind racing. The voice was so familiar. She had heard it before, she wa s s ure of it. But where? And who did it belong to?

  She was at a traffic light about a mile away when the answer came t o h er.

  Chapter 7.

  "What I found in Dr. Grey's note," handwriting analyst Rober t s winster began, "is pretty rare."

  Lieutenant Max Bernstein nodded.

  "I know. It might just explain everything."

  "Like what?" "Later," Max said.

  "I have a million things to do."

  "I can take a hint. I'm as good as gone."

  Max shook Swinster's hand and patted his back.

  "Thanks again, Bob. I really appreciate it."

  "No problem, Twitch. I'm glad I could help."

  Robert Swinster walked away from Bernstein's desk as Sara hobbled towar d i t.

  "Hi, Max."

  He smiled at her.

  "Glad you could get here so fast. Have a seat."

  Sara examined the man and his desk. All the usual signs were there hi s r ed eyes, the ragged edges of his fingernails, the thought lines in hi s f orehead, the fingers twiddling with the pencil, the paper clips he ha d s napped in half lying all over the desk, the hand constantly rubbing hi s u nshaven face.

  For two days Max and his men had investigated the sensational murder o f y oung Bradley Jenkins by the now-infamous Gay Slasher. A distraugh t s enator Jenkins had gone into hiding and would make no comments to th e p ress about the rumors swirling around his son's death. His Senat e s pokesman continuously spewed a standard line the murder was clearly a p loy by certain subversive groups to destroy the senator's reputatio n a nd personal life.

  Max had interviewed Senator Jenkins yesterday, after his son's funeral.

  Bernstein had seen during his years in homicide what a tragedy like thi s c ould do to even the strongest of men, but he was still taken aback b y t he senator's appearance. His skin was ashen, his eyes wide an d u ncomprehending, his shoulder slumped, his whole demeanor defeated.

  The senator had answered Max's questions in a flat, distant voice, bu t i t seemed that the man knew very little that would help find the killer.

  "Who was that?" Sara asked.

  "Robert Swinster," Max replied, "a handwriting analyst. He wa s r echecking Bruce Grey's note."

  "Did he find anything?"

  The phone on the desk buzzed. Max put up a finger to signal for her t o w ait and picked up the receiver.

  "Yes?"

  "Daily News on line five again. ABC-TV on line eight."

  "I'm not talking to the press right now," he snapped. He slammed th e r eceiver back into the cradle.

  "Damn reporters," he muttered.

  "Enough to drive a man crazy."

  "Temper, temper."

  "Everyone keeps screaming how we're not doing our job. How the hell ar e w e supposed to get anything done with the press breathing down our neck s a ll the time? Bunch of vultures present company excluded, of course. Yo u k now something? I think the media hopes the psycho will strike again , the sick bastards."

  "Comes with the territory," Sara replied.

  "I know," Max said, "but the pressure on this one is unbelievable. A t t he press conference the other day I felt like fresh meat in front o f s tarving Dobermans. And that's not the half of it. The mayor's demandin g a nswers in that holier-than-thou way of his. Every gay activist i s c oming out of the woodwork accusing the fascist police department o f d iscriminating against homosexuals. I've had a dozen phony confession s t oday alone.

  Everyone suddenly wants to be the Gay Slasher." He took a deep breath.

  "Ah, screw it. So how's Michael?"

  "Feeling better. His teammates are visiting him now."

  "Good. I needed to talk this over with you right away."

  "Bouncing time, eh?" Max nodded and smiled wearily. Several years ag o s ara had been instrumental in helping Max find a cop-killer who ha d r andomly gunned down four of Max's fellow officers in one week.

  Max had learned from that experience that he liked bouncing ideas off a n i ntelligent listener, and Sara was about as sharp a listener as ther e w as. Very often they said some crazy things to each other, came up wit h s ome crazy hypotheses, even called each other crazy, but eventually th e i rrational statements began to mesh with the more rational facts, ofte n f orming solid solutions.

  "Is this case harder for you than most?" she asked.

  "M
eaning?"

  "You know what I mean."

  He smiled nervously, checking to make sure that no one was withi n e arshot.

  "It'd make an interesting news angle, huh? The fag detective in charg e o f finding the Gay Slasher?"

  She said nothing.

  "Sara, you're still the only one who knows aside from Lenny and m y m other." He swallowed, his Adam's apple visibly sliding up and down.

  "I wish I could say something, but do you know what would happen to m e i f the force found out?"

  "I can imagine."

  "I'd lose everything. I'd be lucky if they let me work as a meter maid."

  "You don't have to explain yourself to me, Max."

  He nodded, his eyes lowered to the floor.

  "By the way, Lenny says hello."

  "How is he?"

  He shrugged.

  "He's a nag, but I love him."

  "As long as you're happy."

  "You sound like my mother. Can we get back to the case now?"

  "Okay" Sara said, "what have you got so far?"

  "Not much. We got a wino who saw Bradley's body being dumped behind th e b lack Magic early in the a . M. We also located the car the killer wa s d riving at the time. That's about it."

  "Go on."

  "It seems the wino, a Mr. Louis Bluwell, was sleeping off a couple o f b ottles of gin under some garbage bags when he heard the car and saw a m an he described as 'a big monster' get out of the car and dump the bod y a mongst the garbage bags. Mr. Bluwell said the car was a beat-up gree n c hevy. We found a car matching that description abandoned on Riversid e d rive around 145th Street. There was a fair amount make that gallons o f t he victim's blood splashed all over the floor of the trunk. The car ha d b een stolen the previous evening."

  "Did the lab find anything else in the car?"

  "One set of fingerprints the victim's. A few hairs all belonging to th e v ictim." "Figures," Sara said.

  "Anything else?"

  "According to Mr. Bluwell, the man in the car was big a mountain-siz e g uy with dark hair. No noticeable features."

  "So what do you make of it?"

  Bernstein leaned back, placing his hands together, the fingertips of hi s i ndex fingers resting against his nose. He put his feet on his desk.

  "I find it all interesting," he remarked.

  "How so?" Sara asked.

  "It just doesn't make sense."

  "What doesn't?"

  "Okay, help me here, Sara. What do we know so far? First, all thre e v ictims were homosexuals. Second, all three victims were being treate d a t the same AIDS clinic. Third, all three died of stab wounds within th e p ast three weeks."