Jack’s attorney came to mind. Sure, he could have given the information to Bill Cates, but he didn’t have a lot of confidence in Cates’s ability to exonerate Jack, and that was why it was important to feed this information to Max before she got all tangled up in the discovery process. Any little bit of information he could give her that would result in one less piece of evidence to use against Jack was well worth the effort.
Pain throbbed in his right knee every time his foot hit the pavement as he jogged toward the hospital, trying to dodge the raindrops. Having had knee surgery just two months earlier, he’d been advised not to jog, but without a raincoat or an umbrella, he had little choice. Sure, he could have flagged down a taxi to drive him the five blocks from the parking garage to the hospital, but chances of getting one in this sudden downpour were next to nil. Normally, his umbrella would have been in the backseat of his car, but he’d lent it to his sister the last time she’d visited him.
He stopped in the doorway of a store and pulled his sports jacket up over his head to use as a shield and then jogged the remaining distance to the front door of Mount Sinai.
Inside the hospital’s vestibule, he removed his jacket and shook the raindrops off. Then he slid his arms back inside the sleeves and walked through the second set of double doors. Seeing a sign for a restroom, he made a beeline inside and used paper towels to dry his hair and the cuffs of his trousers. He combed his hair with his fingers and made his way over to the volunteers’ station. He leaned against the tall counter, and an elderly man approached, his pale face mottled by the bright red blotches that covered his bulbous nose. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Chambers,” Cory said. “Can you tell me what floor she’s on?”
The man eased himself down in front of a terminal and keyed in the name. “Let me get that information for you,” he said. “You said you have an appointment with her?”
“Yes.” He presented his identification.
“I don’t see your name on the appointment list.”
“Mrs. Morrison’s secretary was the one who made the appointment for me.”
“Let me call upstairs and find out,” he said, dialing the number. While he spoke, Cory sat down and waited until the volunteer gestured at him. He returned to the counter.
“Her office is on the twelfth floor, Room 12N561, and the elevator bank is that way, sir.” He pointed, then turned to answer another visitor’s question. Cory heard the man’s voice fade into the background as he headed toward the elevator. He stopped to push the lighted button just as everyone else who was waiting for the elevator had, as though it would cause the car to appear faster. When the doors finally opened, a man in a lab coat entered ahead of him and gave a casual nod of his head to a surgeon in the back who was dressed in scrubs. Cory stepped inside the already packed car, with visitors and hospital staff crammed in like sardines, half wondering if he should wait for the next one. Checking his watch, he opted to remain, knowing the next car wouldn’t be any better.
The doors closed and he held his breath against the smell of an overabundance of strong perfumes and heavy nicotine users. Wedged between two men, nausea roiled in his stomach from the sharp mixture of smells. He pinched his nose to block out the offensive odors, not caring if he offended anyone, and just wished the damn elevator wouldn’t stop at every floor along the way.
When the doors finally opened on his floor, he elbowed his way out to catch his breath. He’d definitely be taking the stairs after this meeting, although he could feel his knee beginning to swell, reminding him he’d tried to do too much too soon after the surgery.
Seeing offices on each side of the hall, he looked for the department name until he found it and walked inside the reception area. An older woman served as secretary. She looked up from her computer wearing brown-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
“Are you Mr. Rossini?” the woman asked. Cory nodded and handed her his business card. “I’m Donna Gordon, Mrs. Chambers’ secretary. “I’m sorry to tell you Mrs. Chambers had to leave, but Kelly Sweetstone is covering for her.”
“Okay.” Cory shrugged. “So long as she can answer all my questions, that’s fine. Although that’s why I’d accepted a later appointment with her.”
“I know, but these things happen. Kelly’s more than qualified to fill in for her. Why don’t you have a seat.” She gestured. “She’ll be out in a few minutes.” The secretary no sooner finished her sentence than the door opened and Kelly Sweetstone walked in.
She extended her hand in greeting. “Mr. Rossini, I’m Kelly Sweetstone. Thanks for stopping by. We’re always happy to have the general public ask questions. Please, come in and have a seat.” She walked behind the desk and sat down. “So what’s on your mind?”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” he said. “What happened to Mrs. Chambers?”
She closed the binder on her desk. “She had something she needed to take care of.” She shrugged. “So how can I help you?”
She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and shivered. “It’s cold in here today.” Reaching for a sweater on the credenza, Kelly slipped her arms inside the sleeves and raised her shoulders. “Ah, that’s much better. Sorry. So tell me why you’re here and how I can help?”
“I’m doing an investigation on heart transplants that was prompted by a recent transplant performed on the senator’s daughter—there’s talk that the process might have been circumvented and she got special treatment because of her status.”
“That’s absolutely impossible. There are strict guidelines,” Kelly stated firmly.
“Then can you help me to understand how one person might be bypassed for another?”
She shook her head in dismay. “I apologize for my reaction, but this happens every time a family member of a high-profile figure receives what the public thinks is special treatment. As you can imagine, we must have a backup plan for every organ that is requested by one of our surgeons, mainly because, at a moment’s notice, something could go wrong.” She looked at Cory full on. “Let me tell you the process. When a candidate’s name is next on the list, that person is called into the hospital to be prepped for surgery, as is the backup candidate, just in case something goes wrong with the primary candidate. In each case, the candidate who is to receive the organ may be rejected because of a mismatch.”
“Even though it was originally thought to be a match?” Cory asked.
“Absolutely. There are many contributing factors that go into the decision. For example, many tests are performed to evaluate a perfect match. Blood tests are taken and analyzed right up to the very last minute to determine if it’s a good donor match and to avoid any chance that the donor organ will be rejected, which is always a possibility. In addition, diagnostic testing is done to check the lungs and overall health status of each recipient: X-rays, ultrasound procedures, CT scans, pulmonary function tests, and even dental examinations. Don’t forget, even though these people have been under our care, they’re still exposed to relatives visiting who may not even realize they’re coming down with something. Our patients are very vulnerable to contagions.” She angled her head. “So, as you can see, it’s not a cut-and-dried process. And, even after all this is done, there’s always the possibility that the heart could still be rejected and both the patient and the heart are lost.” She stared at him, apparently waiting for a response.
“And there would be records of these tests being performed to prove the person wasn’t a match and why?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said with a strong conviction.
“What if the results were fudged to make the other recipient look like a bad candidate when they weren’t?”
“Mr. Rossini. Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you have any idea how many employees it would take to fudge a report?” She gave a tilt of her head. “We’re talking several, maybe more than a half dozen people.”
“It is possible, t
hough, isn’t it?”
“Why would someone do that when they know they’d be risking their job and their reputation?”
“What if it weren’t six people but only the lab technician who fudged that report, knowing the heart would be given to the next person in line. Maybe the technician is a member of the senator’s family?”
Her smirk widened. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Rossini, but you’re reaching.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Rest assured, though, I will get to the bottom of this.”
Cory couldn’t fault her for refusing to admit that fudging the records could happen. Comments like that left the hospital vulnerable to a lawsuit.
“So there you have it. The whole process.” She gave a slight shrug.
“Thank you for your time.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mr. Rossini.”
“I will.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Max walked back to her desk. “Oh my God, I smell hot dogs. I’m famished.”
“Then that works out well, because I ran outside and bought us lunch from the vendor on the corner.” He handed the bag over to her.
“Bless your heart, Riley.” She shook her head. “I don’t even freakin’ know what day it is.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he said. “With the hours we’ve been putting in, the days are all running together. So as not to keep you in suspense any longer, it’s now 2:10 p.m. on Tuesday afternoon.” He grinned. “Want the date too?”
“No.” She snickered. “I think I can figure that out.” Max unwrapped her hot dog and took a bite. “I know I’m going to be tasting this all afternoon, but I don’t care, because there isn’t anything like a street vendor’s hot dog with lots of mustard and sauerkraut.” She took another bite and moaned. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“So what did you find out about the financials?” she asked Riley.
“Not a thing,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “Other than the freeze Barrett had on his account, there’s nothing else that’s obvious. But we also have to take into consideration that these people have all kinds of money; it could be an offshore account that’s being used to pay someone off for cooking the records, for all we know. Now that we’re pretty certain there was a relationship between the parties, they each have enough clout to do anything they want, pay out any amount of money, and still not get caught. Neither one of them are slouches when it comes to exposure. They’re smart, educated people who know their way around the system. And what they don’t know, financial advisors will know and would recommend what would get them the least attention.”
“Make sure you check everything,” Max said. “Grants, scholarships, foundations he may be involved with, like Big Brothers Big Sisters. I know he sponsors several organizations in the city . . . the names of those escape me at the moment, but let’s do a thorough search on all of them and the preschool Helen Barrett founded. It’s called The Little Tykes Academy,” Max said, glancing down at her notes, “over on East 35th.” She twisted her head from side to side in an effort to relieve the tension in her shoulders that was now working its way upward into a splitting headache. Pulling her desk drawer open, she grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen and dropped four pills into the palm of her hand. She tilted her head back and slugged down the pills with the stale coffee sitting on her desk. She made a face. “Christ, that tastes like sludge.”
“How long has that cup been sitting there?” Riley asked.
Max shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t even know what day it was, how do you expect me to know how long the coffee’s been sitting?” She laughed.
“Why don’t you go relax for a while in the break room, maybe walk outside to get some fresh air? It might help that headache of yours,” Riley suggested.
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay as soon as the ibuprofen kicks in.” She rubbed her temples. “We may be grasping at straws, but that’s what we’ll do until we get to the bottom of this. If they’re paying hush money, we’re bound to find something in their books.” Riley was jotting down notes as she spoke. “For sure, the senator is going to want the residents of New York to know she’s fighting for some worthy cause with the kind of money she has at her disposal, so if she’s paying hush money, she could be using those funds,” Max said.
“Then we’re talking money laundering if they’re using a foundation to pay people off.” She nodded. “If these two were co-conspirators in the death of Helen Barrett,” Riley said, “and if what those nurses told Cory is true about that transplant being an illegal act, Barrett and Stansbury are in a lot of trouble.”
“Yes, and if they’re guilty, those two smart, educated people are going to spend a whole lot of time behind bars.” Max rubbed her hand over her eyes and covered her mouth with a yawn. “Excuse me. I was up late last night.”
Riley’s brows rose. “Oh yeah? With anyone I know?”
Max laughed. “Yeah, me and my notepad.”
“Geez, Max, you lead a boring life.”
“Tell me about it.” She gave a half smile. “Okay, enough of this silly talk. I have a few more questions I want to ask Barrett, so let’s get him in here.”
“I’ll send the uniforms to pick him up,” Riley said and keyed in the number.
Max noticed Jeffrey Barrett walking through the front entrance in his scrubs looking rather perturbed. She greeted him. “Thanks for coming down to the precinct, Doctor. We have a few more questions we’d like to ask.”
“I thought you were done with all of that.”
“Well, we thought so too, but we have some new information we need to investigate, and we’d like your help.”
“You realize you pulled me away from an important meeting.”
“I’m very sorry about that, but I’m trying to solve a homicide.”
“And I’m trying to save lives,” he spat out.
“Touché, but mine trumps yours. Sorry you don’t see it that way. Don’t you want to know who killed your wife?”
“Of course I do. But I’ve also got a job to handle.”
“But you have other doctors who can handle your work when you’re not around, just as you had arranged when you planned your honeymoon, so relax and please cooperate.”
“Every surgeon has a large enough workload already, let alone having to cover for me too. Do you get that, Detective?”
“Oh, I get it all right. Unless you’re a Jack Kevorkian, there’s never a convenient time for someone to die.” Max gave him a pointed frown. “We all have these minor inconveniences every once in a while, but you learn to roll with the punches. Now, can I get you a soda or some coffee?”
“Neither. Let’s get this done so I can get back to work.”
“Certainly. So how are you doing, Dr. Barrett?”
“I’m still grieving, but my work has helped me deal with it. It’s the alone time that has my mind working overtime. Thankfully, the right person is behind bars and will be for a long time. I couldn’t ask for more.”
She pointed to the door. “Right in here.” She gestured. “You sure you don’t want anything to drink?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. I’m fine. Can we get on with this?” Jeffrey sat down in the chair and stared at them expectantly.
“We just discovered something that’s a little confusing for us, and I’m hoping you can clear up the mystery.”
“You want to know about Senator Stansbury and me?”
Max feigned confusion. “What about her?”
“You weren’t at her office on Friday, now were you?” The two detectives watched him shift uncomfortably.
“No. I was at the precinct all day.” She turned to her partner. “Did you visit the senator on Friday, Riley?”
“No. I was right here too. But we’re interested in knowing more,” he said. “Are you saying someone from our department paid her a visit? What did they want?”
Barrett scratched his cheek. “I guess I was mistaken. Just disregard what I
was saying and go ahead and tell me why you brought me down here.”
“But now you’ve piqued our curiosity, and we want to know more about you and the senator,” Max said.
He huffed out air. “Well . . . all right.” He shook his head in disgust, realizing he’d left himself wide open for scrutiny. “I didn’t really know the senator until I operated on her daughter.”
“Okay.” Max walked around the room while questioning him. Jeffrey followed her with his eyes. She liked using this method for questioning. It made the suspects anxious, and very often they’d blurt out the truth just so the detective would stop.
“We really just met.”
“Okay. So who was asking her questions?”
“I don’t know who he was, but she said he was tall with dark hair. I thought it was someone from this office.”
“They never gave her a business card?” Max asked.
“She said they did, but she doesn’t know what she did with it.”
“That’s interesting. As for who could have gone to see her, that could be a million people in this office, Dr. Barrett. So the senator called to tell you?”
He shifted in his seat. “Yes . . . well, no. She called me to ask a question about her daughter’s transplant, and while we were chatting she mentioned someone from the NYPD came to see her. I just thought it might have been your team.”
Max pretended to be confused. “Did he say he was from our office?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t know that. I guess I just assumed. Forget I even brought this up.”
“So you know the senator and her husband on a personal level?”
“Yes . . . I mean no. She’s not married.”
Blind Retribution Page 17
