Miracle Cure

by Coben, Harlan

  As they kissed again, the phone rang. Michael reluctantly reached over, picked up the receiver, and said hello. After a brief pause he handed it to Sara.

  “It’s for you,” he said.

  “Who is it?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Sara put the phone to her ear. A nasal, female voice said, “Please hold while I connect you.”

  There was one ring before the phone was picked up.

  “Sara?”

  “Max?”

  “Jeez, you weren’t easy to find. Took me over an hour to track you down. How’ve you been?”

  “Never better.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  She could almost see him chewing on his nails as he spoke. “This isn’t a social call, is it, Max?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “So what’s up?”

  Max Bernstein let go a long breath. “Bradley Jenkins was murdered. I need to talk to you right away.”

  THEY met half an hour later in a quiet corner in the hospital cafeteria. After a quick greeting Max said, “Everything we say here is confidential and off the record, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Let me ask you something right off the top.”

  “Go ahead,” Sara said.

  “Was Bradley Jenkins gay?”

  “Yes.”

  Max had expected that answer. He nodded, his curly dark hair swaying with the movement. He put a fresh pencil into his mouth and began to chew. Then he crossed his right leg over his left, ran his hand through his curls, put his feet back on the floor, and then crossed his left leg over his right.

  Bernstein was thirty-two years old, but he looked a good five years younger. Sara knew the police department—for that matter the world at large—considered Twitch Bernstein a bit of an enigma. Despite being homicide’s number one lieutenant, he had no love of danger. He hated carrying a gun and had never used one in the line of duty. He was barely adequate with his fists, did not consider himself particularly brave, and tried to avoid violence whenever possible.

  What he did like, however, was solving puzzles—the bigger, the better. And he was good at it. Damn good. No one knew for sure just how he did it, but Bernstein had the rare ability to plod and putter and shift and unnerve and fidget his way to the answer.

  “My turn to ask a question,” Sara said. “What happened to Bradley and why did you want to know if he was gay?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “Max . . .”

  “Just trying to keep things light,” Bernstein said. “We found his body this morning behind a gay bar in the Village.”

  “Jesus.”

  “The autopsy is not in yet, but we’re sure he died from multiple stab wounds. We think . . . Sara, are you all right?”

  Sara’s eyes were wide, her face shockingly pale. “Have there been other murders?” she uttered.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Don’t play with me, Max.”

  “We may have a serial killer on our hands,” he said. “I wasn’t involved in the investigation of the first two cases, but two other men were killed in the same grisly way. We suspect that the same person committed all three murders.”

  “And why did you ask if Bradley was gay?”

  “Because the other two victims were. The killer may be targeting the gay community. Now it’s my turn. How did you know that there were other victims?”

  “I assume you’ve met Dr. Harvey Riker,” she began.

  “Sure.”

  “You know that he is operating an AIDS clinic in here?”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “The first two victims—what were their names?”

  “Bill Whitherson and Scott Trian.”

  “Right. They were part of a select group of AIDS patients who were being treated in this clinic. It should be in your files.”

  Bernstein’s leg began to shake. “To be honest I haven’t had a chance to go through them thoroughly yet. I just got the case an hour ago.”

  “Anyway, Harvey told me about it last night. That’s how I knew.”

  “An obvious question—was Bradley being treated here too?”

  Sara lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a sip. “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 him to 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 knew about his AIDS. Bradley’s father was terrified that the truth would be exposed.”

  “Because it would ruin him.”

  “Exactly. So we tried not to talk about it.”

  “I see.” Max stopped, looked up toward the ceiling, scratched his neck where it met the top of his chest. “Wouldn’t Dr. Riker have said something to you if he was treating Bradley?”

  “No way. The clinic is cloaked in secrecy. I do not know the names of any patients being treated at the clinic.”

  “Interesting.” Max looked away for a moment, his hand moving up now to rub 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 on me, are you?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to for right now. But speak to Harvey. He can enlighten you better than I can anyway.”

  Max shrugged. “Okay. Let’s find him.”

  AFTER passing two security checkpoints, Max and Sara found Harvey in his office in the Sidney Pavilion. He looked up from his paper-cluttered desk, 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, the abdominal ultrasound showed swelling in Michael’s liver.”

  “What does that mean?” Sara asked.

  “It could mean a dozen things, but Dr. Sagarel, Eric, and I still agree that it is probably hepatitis. We should have the results of the blood test in another day or two. Chances are he’ll need a couple of weeks here and at least a month of bed rest.”

  “And basketball?”

  “Not this season, Sara. There’s an outside chance he’ll be able to play in 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 the good news about your pregnancy. Hell, it was all he’d talk about.”

  “Pregnancy?” Max interrupted. “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 coming across like a bad actor in an old private-eye movie. He had never been good 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 at your clinic, a Bill Whitherson and a Scott Trian.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Now would you mind answering my question? Was Bradley Jenkins a patient at the clinic?”

  Harvey moved tentatively back toward his chair like a man who had taken too 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 busy dancing about the small office. “Swear you won’t let the media get it.”

  “Swear.”

  “Yes, Bradley Jenkins was a patient of mine—a very confidential patient.”

  “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 on it. “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 murders were 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 without comment.

  When Harvey stopped speaking, Bernstein said, “You said ‘we’ might have found a cure. Who is ‘we’?”

  “Mostly myself and my late partner, Dr. Bruce Grey—and a new member of the 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 his mouth. “Dr. Bruce Grey . . . isn’t he the guy who swan-dived through a hotel window 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 my overtired 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 hungover from last night’s festivities, but her headache was not nearly as bad as usual. She tried to put the pieces of the previous evening back together. She recalled some heavy-duty conversation with Michael. She vaguely remembered screwing Senator Jenkins in the cabana. She had some recollection of drinking too much.

  But the part she remembered with startling clarity came toward the end of the party. Cassandra had made her way to the bar for one last shot before she called it a night. While waiting for the bartender to fill her glass, she started a conversation with a man who also seemed a bit inebriated. She knew who the man was, had met him a few times, but she had 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 more than an hour later, Cassandra realized that she was still talking with the same man. Talking. Not flirting, not hitting on, not being hit upon, not fucking. Just talking. 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 what she had to say. Oh, she had seen men feign interest in order to get in her pants, but somehow she knew that this guy was actually interested in what she had to say.

  Strange.

  Even stranger, when she finally asked him if he wanted to go upstairs with 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 the gorgeous woman switch places? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but here goes—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 my right 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, you might be intrigued. You might want to pursue it—though I can’t help thinking that once you’re sober you’ll think this whole conversation was a nightmare.”

  She smiled. “You’re giving away your strategy, Harvey.”

  “Yeah, well, I never was very good at this stuff and I’m a bit out of practice—like twenty-six years out of practice. Do yourself a favor, Cassandra. Stay away from me. I’m trouble.”

  “Now you really have me intrigued,” she said.

  “Nothing to be intrigued about,” Harvey continued. “I’m just a workaholic who spends every waking and sleeping moment in a hospital in Spanish Harlem. I have no time for a social life. It was a fun evening, a wonderful distraction, but it’s time I returned to 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 see Harvey Riker again. One problem—she had spent most of the morning trying to 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 about being out of practice—it had been years since Cassandra questioned or cared 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 anyone around when my appointment gets here. Understood?”

  But that had been more than 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 still home. She crept down the hallway toward the garage. As she passed her father’s study, she heard his voice come through the thick oak. He sounded 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, her mind racing. The voice was so familiar. She had heard it before, she was sure of it. But where? And who did it belong to?

  She was at a traffic light about a mile away when the answer came to her.

  7

  “WHAT I found in Dr. Grey’s note,” handwriting analyst Robert Swi
nster 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 toward it.

  “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—his red eyes, the ragged edges of his fingernails, the thought lines in his forehead, the fingers twiddling with the pencil, the paper clips he had snapped in half lying all over the desk, the hand constantly rubbing his unshaven face.

  For two days Max and his men had investigated the sensational murder of young Bradley Jenkins by the now-infamous Gay Slasher. A distraught Senator Jenkins had gone into hiding and would make no comments to the press about the rumors swirling around his son’s death. His Senate spokesman continuously spewed a standard line—the murder was clearly a ploy by certain subversive groups to destroy the senator’s reputation and 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 this could do to even the strongest of men, but he was still taken aback by the senator’s appearance. His skin was ashen, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, his shoulders slumped, his whole demeanor defeated. The senator had answered Max’s questions in a flat, distant voice, but it 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 was rechecking Bruce Grey’s note.”

  “Did he find anything?”

  The phone on the desk buzzed. Max put up a finger to signal for her to wait 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 the receiver back into the cradle. “Damn reporters,” he muttered. “Enough to drive a man crazy.”