Chromosome 6 – Cook, Robin

Chromosome 6

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Robin Cook

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Table of Contents

—————–

    – Prologue

    – Chapter 1

    – Chapter 2

    – Chapter 3

    – Chapter 4

    – Chapter 5

    – Chapter 6

    – Chapter 7

    – Chapter 8

    – Chapter 9

    – Chapter 10

    – Chapter 11

    – Chapter 12

    – Chapter 13

    – Chapter 14

    – Chapter 15

    – Chapter 16

    – Chapter 17

    – Chapter 18

    – Chapter 19

    – Chapter 20

    – Chapter 21

    – Chapter 22

    – Chapter 23

    – Epilogue

    – Glossary

 

 

PROLOGUE

——–

 

MARCH 3, 1997

 

3:30 P.M.

 

COGO, EQUATORIAL GUINEA

 

GIVEN a Ph.D. in molecular biology from MIT that had been earned in

close cooperation with the Massachusetts General Hospital, Kevin

Marshall found his squeamishness regarding medical procedures a distinct

embarrassment. Although he’d never admitted it to anyone, just having a

blood test or a vaccination was an ordeal for him. Needles were his

specific bete noire. The sight of them caused his legs to go rubbery and

a cold sweat to break out on his broad forehead. Once he’d even fainted

in college after getting a measles shot.

 

At age thirty-four, after many years of postgraduate biomedical

research, some of it involving live animals, he’d expected to outgrow

his phobia, but it hadn’t happened. And it was for that reason he was

not in operating room 1A or 1B at the moment. Instead he’d chosen to

remain in the intervening scrub room, where he was leaning against the

scrub sink, a vantage that allowed him to look through angled windows

into both OR’s–until he felt the need to avert his eyes.

 

The two patients had been in their respective rooms for about a quarter

hour in preparation for their respective procedures. The two surgical

teams were quietly conversing while standing off to the side. They were

gowned and gloved and ready to commence.

 

There’d been little technical conversation in the OR’s except between

the anesthesiologist and the two anesthetists as the patients were

inducted under general anesthesia. The lone anesthesiologist had slipped

back and forth between the two rooms to supervise and to be available at

any sign of trouble.

 

But there was no trouble. At least not yet. Nonetheless, Kevin felt

anxious. To his surprise he did not experience the same sense of triumph

he had enjoyed during three previous comparable procedures when he’d

exalted in the power of science and his own creativity.

 

Instead of jubilation Kevin felt a mushrooming unease. His discomfort

had started almost a week previously, but it was now, watching these

patients and contemplating their different prognoses, that Kevin felt

the disquietude with disturbing poignancy. The effect was similar to his

thinking about needles: perspiration appeared on his forehead and his

legs trembled. He had to grasp the edge of the scrub sink to steady

himself.

 

The door to operating room 1A opened suddenly, startling Kevin. He was

confronted by a figure whose pale blue eyes were framed by a hood and a

face mask. Recognition was rapid: It was Candace Brickmann, one of the

surgical nurses.

 

‘The IV’s are all started, and the patients are asleep,’ Candace said.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in? You’ll be able to see much

better.’

 

‘Thank you, but I’m fine right here,’ Kevin said.

 

‘Suit yourself,’ Candace said.

 

The door swung shut behind Candace as she returned to one of the

surgeries. Kevin watched her scurry across the room and say something to

the surgeons. Their response was to turn in Kevin’s direction and give

him a thumbs-up sign. Kevin self-consciously returned the gesture.

 

The surgeons went back to their conversation, but the effect of the

wordless communication with Kevin magnified his sense of complicity. He

let go of the scrub sink and took a step backward. His unease was now

tinged with fear. What had he done?

 

Spinning on his heels, Kevin fled from the scrub room and then from the

operating suite. A puff of air followed him as he left the mildly

positive pressure aseptic OR area and entered his gleaming, futuristic

laboratory. He was breathing heavily as if out of breath from exertion.

 

On any other day, merely walking into his domain would have filled him

with anticipation just at the thought of the discoveries awaiting his

magic hand. The series of rooms literally bristled with hi-tech

equipment the likes of which used to be the focus of his fantasies. Now

these sophisticated machines were at his beck and call, day and night.

Absently he ran his fingers lightly along the stainless-steel cowlings,

casually brushing the analogue dials and digital displays as he headed

for his office. He touched the hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar DNA

sequencer and the five-hundred-thousand-dollar globular NMR machine that

sprouted a tangle of wires like a giant sea anemone. He glanced at the

PCR’s, whose red lights blinked like distant quasars announcing

successive DNA-strand doublings. It was an environment that had

previously filled Kevin with hope and promise. But now each Eppendorf

microcentrifuge tube and each tissue-culture flask stood as mute

reminders of the building foreboding he was experiencing.

 

Advancing to his desk, Kevin looked down at his gene map of the short

arm of chromosome 6. His area of principal interest was outlined in red.

It was the major histocompatibility complex. The problem was that the

MHC was only a small portion of the short arm of chromosome 6. There

were large blank areas that represented millions and millions of base

pairs, and hence hundreds of other genes. Kevin did not know what they

did.

 

A recent request for information concerning these genes that he’d put

out over the Internet had resulted in some vague replies. Several

researchers had responded that the short arm of chromosome 6 contained

genes that were involved with muscular-skeletal development. But that

was it. There were no details.

 

Kevin shuddered involuntarily. He raised his eyes to the large picture

window above his desk. As usual it was streaked with moisture from the

tropical rain that swept across the view in undulating sheets. The

droplets slowly descended until enough had fused to reach a critical

mass. Then they raced off the surface like sparks from a grinding wheel.

 

Kevin’s eyes focused into the distance. The contrast between the

gleaming, air-conditioned interior with the outside world was always a

shock. Roiling, gun-metal gray clouds filled the sky despite the fact

that the dry season was supposed to have begun three weeks previously.

The land was dominated by riotous vegetation that was so dark green as

to almost appear black. Along the edge of the town it rose up like a

gigantic, threatening tidal wave.

 

Kevin’s office was in the hospital-laboratory complex that was one of

the few new structures in the previously decaying and deserted Spanish

colonial town of Cogo in the little-known African country of Equatorial

Guinea. The building was three stories tall. Kevin’s office was on the

top floor, facing southeast. From his window he could see a good portion

of the town as it sprawled haphazardly toward the Estuario del Muni and

its contributory rivers.

 

Some of the neighboring buildings had been renovated, some were in the

process, but most had not been touched. A half dozen previously handsome

haciendas were enveloped by vines and roots of vegetation that had gone

wild. Over the whole scene hung the perennial mist of super-saturated

warm air.

 

In the immediate foreground Kevin could see beneath the arched arcade of

the old town hall. In the shadows were the inevitable handful of

Equatoguinean soldiers in combat fatigues with AK-47’s haphazardly slung

over their shoulders. As usual they were smoking, arguing, and consuming

Cameroonean beer.

 

Finally Kevin let his eyes wander beyond the town. He’d been

unconsciously avoiding doing so, but now he focused on the estuary whose

rain-lashed surface looked like beaten tin. Directly south he could just

make out the forested shoreline of Gabon. Looking to the east he

followed the trail of islands that stretched toward the interior of the

continent. On the horizon he could see the largest of the islands, Isla

Francesca, named by the Portuguese in the fifteenth century. In contrast

to the other islands, Isla Francesca had a jungle-covered limestone

escarpment that ran down its center like the backbone of a dinosaur.

 

Kevin’s heart skipped a beat. Despite the rain and the mist, he could

see what he’d feared he’d see. Just like a week ago there was the

unmistakable wisp of smoke lazily undulating toward the leaden sky.

 

Kevin slumped into his desk chair and cradled his head in his hands. He

asked himself what he’d done. Having minored in the Classics as an

undergraduate, he knew about Greek myths. Now he questioned if he’d made

a Promethean mistake. Smoke meant fire, and he had to wonder if it was

the proverbial fire inadvertently stolen from the gods.

 

6:45 P.M.

 

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

 

While a cold March wind rattled the storm windows, Taylor Devonshire

Cabot reveled in the security and warmth of his walnut-paneled study in

his sprawling Manchester-by-the-Sea home north of Boston, Massachusetts.

Harriette Livingston Cabot, Taylor’s wife, was in the kitchen

supervising the final stages of dinner scheduled to be served at

seven-thirty sharp.

 

On the arm of Taylor’s chair balanced a cut-crystal glass of neat,

single-malt whiskey. A fire crackled in the fireplace as Wagner played

on the stereo, the volume turned low. In addition there were three,

built-in televisions tuned respectively to a local news station, CNN,

and ESPN.

 

Taylor was the picture of contentment. He’d spent a busy but productive

day at the world headquarters of GenSys, a relatively new biotechnology

firm he’d started eight years previously. The company had constructed a

new building along the Charles River in Boston to take advantage of the

proximity of both Harvard and MIT for recruitment purposes.

 

The evening commute had been easier than usual, and Taylor hadn’t had

time to finish his scheduled reading. Knowing his employer’s habits,

Rodney, his driver, had apologized for getting Taylor home so quickly.

 

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with a significant delay tomorrow

night to make up,’ Taylor had quipped.

 

‘I’ll do my best,’ Rodney had responded.

 

So Taylor wasn’t listening to the stereo or watching the TVs. Instead he

was carefully reading the financial report scheduled to be released at

the GenSys stockholders’ meeting scheduled the following week. But that

didn’t mean he was unaware of what was going on around him. He was very

much aware of the sound of the wind, the sputtering of the fire, the

music, and alert to the various reporters’ banters on the TVs. So when

the name Carlo Franconi was mentioned, Taylor’s head snapped up.

 

The first thing Taylor did was lift the remote and turn up the sound of

the central television. It was the local news on the CBS affiliate. The

anchors were Jack Williams and Liz Walker. Jack Williams had mentioned

the name Carlo Franconi, and was going on to say that the station had

obtained a videotape of the killing of this known Mafia figure who had

some association with Boston crime families.

 

‘This tape is quite graphic,’ Jack warned. ‘Parental discretion is

recommended. You might remember that a few days ago we reported that the

ailing Franconi had disappeared after his indictment, and many had

feared he’d jumped bail. But then he’d just reappeared yesterday with

the news that he’d struck a deal with the New York City’s DA’s office to

plea-bargain and enter the witness-protection program. However, this

evening while emerging from a favorite restaurant, the indicted

racketeer was fatally shot.’

 

Taylor was transfixed as he watched an amateur video of an overweight

man emerge from a restaurant accompanied by several people who looked

like policemen. With a casual wave, the man acknowledged the crowd who’d

assembled and then headed to an awaiting limousine. He assiduously

ignored questions from any journalists angling to get close to him. Just

as he was bending to enter the car, Franconi’s body jerked, and he

staggered backward with his hand clasping the base of his neck. As he

fell to his right, his body jerked again before hitting the ground. The

men who’d accompanied him had drawn their guns and were frantically

turning in all directions. The pursuing journalists had all hit the

deck.

 

‘Whoa!’ Jack commented. ‘What a scene! Sort’a reminds me of the killing

of Lee Harvey Oswald. So much for police protection.’

 

‘I wonder what effect this will have on future similar witnesses?’ Liz

asked.

 

‘Not good, I’m sure,’ Jack said.

 

Taylor’s eyes immediately switched to CNN, which was at that moment

about to show the same video. He watched the sequence again. It made him

wince. At the end of the tape, CNN went live to a reporter outside the

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York.

 

‘The question now is whether there were one or two assailants,’ the

reporter said over the sound of the traffic on First Avenue. ‘It’s our

impression that Franconi was shot twice. The police are understandably

chagrined over this episode and have refused to speculate or offer any

information whatsoever. We do know that an autopsy is scheduled for

tomorrow morning, and we assume that ballistics will answer the

question.’

 

Taylor turned down the sound on the television, then picked up his

drink. Walking to the window, he gazed out at the angry, dark sea.

Franconi’s death could mean trouble. He looked at his watch. It was

almost midnight in West Africa.

 

Snatching up the phone, Taylor called the operator at GenSys and told

him he wanted to speak with Kevin Marshall immediately.

 

Replacing the receiver, Taylor returned his gaze out the window. He’d

never felt completely comfortable about this project although

financially it was looking very profitable. He wondered if he should

stop it. The phone interrupted his thoughts.

 

Picking the receiver back up, Taylor was told that Mr. Marshall was

available. After some static Kevin’s sleepy voice crackled over the

line.

 

‘Is this really Taylor Cabot?’ Kevin asked.

 

‘Do you remember a Carlo Franconi?’ Taylor demanded, ignoring Kevin’s

question.

 

‘Of course,’ Kevin said.

 

‘He’s been murdered this afternoon,’ Taylor said. ‘There’s an autopsy

scheduled for the morning in New York City. What I want to know is,

could that be a problem?’

 

There was a moment of silence. Taylor was about to question whether the

connection had been broken when Kevin spoke up.

 

‘Yes, it could be a problem,’ Kevin said.

 

‘Someone could figure out everything from an autopsy?’

 

‘It’s possible,’ Kevin said. ‘I wouldn’t say probable, but it is

possible.’

 

‘I don’t like possible,’ Taylor said. He disconnected from Kevin and

called the operator back at GenSys. Taylor said he wanted to speak

immediately to Dr. Raymond Lyons. He emphasized that it was an

emergency.

 

NEW YORK CITY

 

‘Excuse me,’ the waiter whispered. He’d approached Dr. Lyons from the

left side, having waited for a break in the conversation the doctor was

engaged in with his young, blond assistant and current lover, Darlene

Poison. Between his gracefully graying hair and conservative apparel,

the good doctor looked like the quintessential, soap-opera physician. He

was in his early fifties, tall, tanned, and enviably slender with

refined, patrician good looks.

 

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ the waiter continued. ‘But there is an emergency

call for you. Can I offer you our cordless phone or would you prefer to

use the phone in the hall?’

 

Raymond’s blue eyes darted back and forth between Darlene’s affable but

bland face and the considerate waiter whose impeccable demeanor

reflected Aureole’s 26 service rating in Zagat’s restaurant guide.

Raymond did not look happy.

 

‘Perhaps I should tell them you are not available,’ the waiter

suggested.

 

‘No, I’ll take the cordless,’ Raymond said. He couldn’t imagine who

could be calling him on an emergency basis. Raymond had not been

practicing medicine since he’d lost his medical license after having

been convicted of a major Medicare scam he’d been carrying on for a

dozen years.

 

‘Hello?’ Raymond said with a degree of trepidation.

 

‘This is Taylor Cabot. There’s a problem.’

 

Raymond visibly stiffened and his brow furrowed.

 

Taylor quickly summarized the Carlo Franconi situation and his call to

Kevin Marshall.

 

‘This operation is your baby,’ Taylor concluded irritably. ‘And let me

warn you: it is small potatoes in the grand scheme of things. If there

is trouble, I’ll scrap the entire enterprise. I don’t want bad

publicity, so handle it.’

 

‘But what can I do?’ Raymond blurted out.

 

‘Frankly, I don’t know,’ Taylor said. ‘But you’d better think of

something, and you’d better do it fast.’

 

‘Things couldn’t be going any better from my end,’ Raymond interjected.

‘Just today I made positive contact with a physician in L.A. who treats

a lot of movie stars and wealthy West Coast businessmen. She’s

interested in setting up a branch in California.’

 

‘Maybe you didn’t hear me,’ Taylor said. ‘There isn’t going to be a

branch anyplace if this Franconi problem isn’t resolved. So you’d better

get busy. I’d say you have about twelve hours.’

 

The resounding click of the disconnection made Raymond’s head jerk. He

looked at the phone as if it had been responsible for the precipitate

termination of the conversation. The waiter, who’d retreated to an

appropriate distance, stepped forward to retrieve the phone before

disappearing.

 

‘Trouble?’ Darlene questioned.

 

‘Oh, God!’ Raymond voiced. Nervously he chewed the quick of his thumb.

It was more than trouble. It was potential disaster. With his attempts

at retrieving his medical license tied up in the quagmire of the

judicial system, his current work situation was all he had, and things

had only recently been clicking. It had taken him five years to get

where he was. He couldn’t let it all go down the drain.

 

‘What is it?’ Darlene asked. She reached out and pulled Raymond’s hand

away from his mouth.

 

Raymond quickly explained about the upcoming autopsy on Carlo Franconi

and repeated Taylor Cabot’s threat to scrap the entire enterprise.

 

‘But it’s finally making big money,’ Darlene said. ‘He won’t scrap it.’

 

Raymond gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘It isn’t big money to someone

like Taylor Cabot and GenSys,’ he said. ‘He’d scrap it for certain.

Hell, it was difficult to talk him into it in the first place.’

 

‘Then you have to tell them not to do the autopsy,’ Darlene said.

 

Raymond stared at his companion. He knew she meant well, and he’d never

been attracted to her for her brain power. So he resisted lashing out.

But his reply was sarcastic: ‘You think I can just call up the medical

examiner’s office and tell them not to do an autopsy on such a case?

Give me a break!’

 

‘But you know a lot of important people,’ Darlene persisted. ‘Ask them

to call.’

 

‘Please, dear . . .’ Raymond said condescendingly, but then he paused.

He began to think that unwittingly Darlene had a point. An idea began to

germinate.

 

‘What about Dr. Levitz?’ Darlene said. ‘He was Mr. Franconi’s doctor.

Maybe he could help.’

 

‘I was just thinking the same thing,’ Raymond said. Dr. Daniel Levitz

was a Park Avenue physician with a big office, high overhead, and a

dwindling patient base, thanks to managed care. He’d been easy to

recruit and had been one of the first doctors to join the venture. On

top of that, he’d brought in many clients, some of them in the same

business as Carlo Franconi.

 

Raymond stood up, extracted his wallet, and plopped three crisp

one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. He knew that was more than enough

for the tab and a generous tip. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to make a

house call.’

 

‘But I haven’t finished my entree,’ Darlene complained.

 

Raymond didn’t respond. Instead he whisked Darlene’s chair out from the

table, forcing her to her feet. The more he thought about Dr. Levitz,

the more he thought the man could be the savior. As the personal

physician of a number of competing New York crime families, Levitz knew

people who could do the impossible.

 

CHAPTER 1

———

 

MARCH 4, 1997

 

7:25 A.M.

 

NEW YORK CITY

 

JACK Stapleton bent over and put more muscle into his pedaling as he

sprinted the last block heading east along Thirtieth Street. About fifty

yards from First Avenue he sat up and coasted no-hands before beginning

to brake. The upcoming traffic light was not in his favor, and even Jack

wasn’t crazy enough to sail out into the mix of cars, buses, and trucks

racing uptown.

 

The weather had warmed considerably and the five inches of slush that

had fallen two days previously was gone save for a few dirty piles

between parked cars. Jack was pleased the roads were clear since he’d

not been able to commute on his bike for several days. The bike was only

three weeks old. It was a replacement for one that had been stolen a

year previously.

 

Originally, Jack had planned on replacing the bike immediately. But he’d

changed his mind after a terrifyingly close encounter with death made

him temporarily conservative about risk. The episode had nothing to do

with bike riding in the city, but nonetheless it scared him enough to

acknowledge that his riding style had been deliberately reckless.

 

But time dimmed Jack’s fears. The final prod came when he lost his watch

and wallet in a subway mugging. A day later, Jack bought himself a new

Cannondale mountain bike, and as far as his friends were concerned, he

was up to his old tricks. In reality, he was no longer tempting fate by

squeezing between speeding delivery vans and parked cars; he no longer

slalomed down Second Avenue; and for the most part he stayed out of

Central Park after dark.

 

Jack came to a stop at the corner to wait for the light, and as his foot

touched down on the pavement he surveyed the scene. Almost at once he

became aware of a bevy of TV vans with extended antennae parked on the

east side of First Avenue in front of his destination: the Office of the

Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York, or what some people

called simply, the morgue.

 

Jack was an associate medical examiner, and he’d been in that position

for almost a year and a half so he’d seen such journalistic congestion

on numerous occasions. Generally it meant that there had been a death of

a celebrity, or at least someone made momentarily famous by the media.

If it wasn’t a single death, then it was a mass disaster like an

airplane crash or a train wreck. For reasons both personal and public

Jack hoped it was the former.

 

With a green light, Jack pedaled across First Avenue and entered the

morgue through the receiving dock on Thirtieth Street. He parked his

bike in his usual location near the Hart Island coffins used for the

unclaimed dead and took the elevator up to the first floor.

 

It was immediately apparent to Jack that the place was in a minor

uproar. Several of the day secretaries were busily manning the phones in

the communications room: they normally didn’t arrive until eight. Their

consoles were awash with blinking red lights. Even Sergeant Murphy’s

cubicle was open and the overhead light was on, and his usual modus

operandi was to arrive sometime after nine.

 

With curiosity mounting, Jack entered the ID room and headed directly

for the coffeepot. Vinnie Amendola, one of the mortuary techs, was

hiding behind his newspaper as per usual. But that was the only normal

circumstance for that time of the morning. Generally Jack was the first

pathologist to arrive, but on this particular day the deputy chief, Dr.

Calvin Washington, Dr. Laurie Montgomery, and Dr. Chet McGovern were

already there. The three were involved in a deep discussion along with

Sergeant Murphy and, to Jack’s surprise, Detective Lieutenant Lou

Soldano from homicide. Lou was a frequent visitor to the morgue, but

certainly not at seven-thirty in the morning. On top of that, he looked

like he’d never been to bed, or if he had, he’d slept in his clothes.

 

Jack helped himself to coffee. No one acknowledged his arrival. After

adding a dollop of half-and-half as well as a cube of sugar to his cup,

Jack wandered to the door to the lobby. He glanced out, and as he’d

expected the area was filled to overflowing with media people talking

among themselves and drinking take-out coffee. What he didn’t expect was

that many were also smoking cigarettes. Since smoking was strictly

taboo, Jack told Vinnie to go out there and inform them.

 

‘You’re closer,’ Vinnie said, without looking up from his newspaper.

 

Jack rolled his eyes at Vinnie’s lack of respect but had to admit Vinnie

was right. So Jack walked over to the locked glass door and opened it.

Before he could call out his no smoking pronouncement, he was literally

mobbed.

 

Jack had to push the microphones away that were thrust into his face.

The simultaneous questions precluded any real comprehension of what the

questions were other than about an anticipated autopsy.

 

Jack shouted at the top of his lungs that there was no smoking, then had

to literally peel hands off his arm before he was able to get the door

closed. On the other side the reporters surged forward, pressing

colleagues roughly against the glass like tomatoes in a jar of

preserves.

 

Disgusted, Jack returned to the ID room.

 

‘Will someone clue me in to what’s going on?’ he called out.

 

Everyone turned in Jack’s direction, but Laurie was the first to

respond. ‘You haven’t heard?’

 

‘Now, would I be asking if I’d heard?’ Jack said.

 

‘It’s been all over the TV for crissake,’ Calvin snapped.

 

‘Jack doesn’t own a TV,’ Laurie said. ‘His neighborhood won’t allow it.’

 

‘Where do you live, son?’ Sergeant Murphy asked. ‘I’ve never heard of

neighbors not allowing each other to have a television.’ The aging,

red-faced, Irish policeman had a pronounced paternal streak. He’d been

assigned to the medical examiner’s office for more years than he was

willing to admit and thought of all the employees as family.

 

‘He lives in Harlem,’ Chet said. ‘Actually his neighbors would love him

to get a set so they could permanently borrow it.’

 

‘Enough, you guys,’ Jack said. ‘Fill me in on the excitement.’

 

‘A Mafia don was gunned down yesterday late afternoon,’ Calvin’s booming

voice announced. ‘It’s stirred up a hornet’s nest of trouble since he’d

agreed to cooperate with the DA’s office and was under police

protection.’

 

‘He was no Mafia don,’ Lou Soldano said. ‘He was nothing but a mid-level

functionary of the Vaccarro crime family.’

 

‘Whatever,’ Calvin said with a wave of his hand. ‘The key point is that

he was whacked while literally boxed in by a number of New York’s

finest, which doesn’t say much about their ability to protect someone in

their charge.’

 

‘He was warned not to go to that restaurant,’ Lou protested. ‘I know

that for a fact. And it’s almost impossible to protect someone if the

individual refuses to follow suggestions.’

 

‘Any chance he could have been killed by the police?’ Jack asked. One of

the roles of a medical examiner was to think of all angles, especially

when situations of custody were concerned.

 

‘He wasn’t under arrest,’ Lou said, guessing what was going through

Jack’s mind. ‘He’d been arrested and indicted, but he was out on bail.’

 

‘So what’s the big deal?’ Jack asked.

 

‘The big deal is that the mayor, the district attorney, and the police

commissioner are all under a lot of heat,’ Calvin said.

 

‘Amen,’ Lou said. ‘Particularly the police commissioner. That’s why I’m

here. It’s turning into one of those public-relations nightmares that

the media loves to blow way out of proportion. We’ve got to apprehend

the perpetrator or perpetrators ASAP, otherwise heads are going to

roll.’

 

‘And not to discourage future potential witnesses,’ Jack said.

 

‘Yeah, that too,’ Lou said.

 

‘I don’t know, Laurie,’ Calvin said, getting back to the discussion

they’d been having before Jack’s interruption. ‘I appreciate you coming

in early and offering to do this autopsy, but maybe Bingham might want

to do it himself.’

 

‘But why?’ Laurie complained. ‘Look, it’s a straightforward case, and

I’ve recently done a lot of gunshot wounds. Besides, with Dr. Bingham’s

budget meeting this morning at City Hall, he can’t be here until almost

noon. By then I can have the autopsy done and whatever information I

come up with will be in the hands of the police. With their time

constraint, it makes the most sense.’

 

Calvin looked at Lou. ‘Do you think five or six hours will make a

difference with the investigation?’

 

‘It could,’ Lou admitted. ‘Hell, the sooner the autopsy is done the

better. I mean, just knowing if we’re looking for one or two people will

be a big help.’

 

Calvin sighed. ‘I hate this kind of decision.’ He shifted his massive

two-hundred-and-fifty-pound muscular bulk from one foot to the other.

‘Trouble is, half the time I can’t anticipate Bingham’s reaction. But

what the hell! Go for it, Laurie. The case is yours.’

 

‘Thanks, Calvin,’ Laurie said gleefully. She snatched up the folder from

the table. ‘Is it okay if Lou observes?’

 

‘By all means,’ Calvin said.

 

‘Come on, Lou!’ Laurie said. She rescued her coat from a chair and

started for the door. ‘Let’s head downstairs, do a quick external exam,

and have the body X-rayed. In the confusion last night it apparently

wasn’t done.’

 

‘I’m right behind you,’ Lou said.

 

Jack hesitated for a moment then hurried after them. He was mystified

why Laurie was so interested in doing the autopsy. From his perspective

she would have done better to stay clear. Such politically charged cases

were always hot potatoes. You couldn’t win.

 

Laurie was moving quickly, and Jack didn’t catch up to her and Lou until

they were beyond communications. Laurie stopped abruptly to lean into

Janice Jaeger’s office. Janice was one of the forensic investigators,

also called physicians’ assistants or PAs. Janice ran the graveyard

shift and took her job very seriously. She always stayed late.

 

‘Will you be seeing Bart Arnold before you leave?’ Laurie asked Janice.

Bart Arnold was the chief of the PAs.

 

‘I usually do,’ Janice said. She was a tiny, dark-haired woman with

prominent circles under her eyes.

 

‘Do me a favor,’ Laurie said. ‘Ask him to call CNN and get a copy of the

video of Carlo Franconi’s assassination. I’d like to have it as soon as

possible.’

 

‘Will do,’ Janice said cheerfully.

 

Laurie and Lou continued on their way.

 

‘Hey, slow down, you two,’ Jack said. He had to run a couple of steps to

catch up to them.

 

‘We’ve got work to do,’ Laurie said without breaking stride.

 

‘I’ve never seen you so eager to do an autopsy,’ Jack said. He and Lou

flanked her as she hurried to the autopsy room. ‘What’s the attraction?’

 

‘A lot of things,’ Laurie said. She reached the elevator and pressed the

button.

 

‘Give me an example,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t mean to rain on your parade,

but this is a politically sensitive case. No matter what you do or say,

you’ll be irritating someone. I think Calvin was right. This one ought

to be done by the chief.’

 

‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ Laurie said. She hit the button

again. The back elevator was inordinately slow. ‘But I feel differently.

With the work I’ve been doing on the forensics of gunshot wounds, I’m

fascinated to have a case where there is a video of the event to

corroborate my reconstruction of what happened. I was planning on

writing a paper on gunshot wounds, and this could be the crowning case.’

 

‘Oh, dear,’ Jack moaned, raising his eyes heavenward. ‘And her

motivations were so noble.’ Then looking back at Laurie he said: ‘I

think you should reconsider! My intuition tells me you’re only going to

get yourself into a bureaucratic headache. And there’s still time to

avoid it. All you have to do is turn around and go back and tell Calvin

you’ve changed your mind. I’m warning you, you’re taking a risk.’

 

Laurie laughed. ‘You are the last person to advise me about risk.’ She

reached out and touched Jack on the end of his nose with her index

finger. ‘Everyone who knows you, me included, pleaded with you not to

get that new bike. You’re risking your life, not a headache.’

 

The elevator arrived, and Laurie and Lou boarded. Jack hesitated but

then squeezed through the doors just before they closed.

 

‘You are not going to talk me out of this,’ Laurie said. ‘So save your

breath.’

 

‘Okay,’ Jack said, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘I promise: no

more advice. Now, I’m just interested in watching this story unfold.

It’s a paper day for me today, so if you don’t mind, I’ll watch.’

 

‘You can do more than that if you want,’ Laurie said. ‘You can help.’

 

‘I’m sensitive about horning in on Lou.’ His double entendre was

intended.

 

Lou laughed, Laurie blushed, but the comment went unacknowledged.

 

‘You implied there were other reasons for your interest in this case,’

Jack said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, what are they?’

 

Laurie cast a quick glance at Lou that Jack saw but couldn’t interpret.

 

‘Hmmm,’ Jack said. ‘I’m getting the feeling there’s something going on

here that isn’t any of my business.’

 

‘Nothing like that,’ Lou volunteered. ‘It’s just an unusual connection.

The victim, Carlo Franconi, had taken the place of a midlevel crime

hoodlum named Pauli Cerino. Cerino’s position had become vacant after

Cerino was thrown in the slammer, mostly due to Laurie’s persistence and

hard work.’

 

‘And yours, too,’ Laurie added as the elevator jerked to a stop and the

doors opened.

 

‘Yeah, but mostly yours,’ Lou said.

 

The three got off on the basement level and headed in the direction of

the mortuary office.

 

‘Did the Cerino case involve that series of overdoses you’ve made

reference to?’ Jack asked Laurie.

 

‘I’m afraid so,’ Laurie said. ‘It was awful. The experience terrified

me, and the problem is some of the characters are still around,

including Cerino although he’s in jail.’

 

‘And not likely to be released for a long time,’ Lou added.

 

‘Or so I’d like to believe,’ Laurie said. ‘Anyway, I’m hoping that doing

the post on Franconi might provide me with some closure. I still have

nightmares occasionally.’

 

‘They sealed her in a pine coffin to abduct her from here,’ Lou said.

‘She was taken away in one of the mortuary vans.’

 

‘My god!’ Jack said to Laurie. ‘You never told me about that.’

 

‘I try not to think about it,’ Laurie said. Then without missing a beat

she added: ‘You guys wait out here.’

 

Laurie ducked into the mortuary office to get a copy of the list of

refrigerator compartments assigned to the cases that had come in the

previous night.

 

‘I can’t imagine getting closed in a coffin,’ Jack said. He shuddered.

Heights were his main phobia but tight, confining spaces came a close

second.

 

‘Nor can I,’ Lou agreed. ‘But she was able to recover remarkably. An

hour or so after being released she had the presence of mind to figure

out how to save us both. That was particularly humbling since I’d gone

there to save her.’

 

‘Jeez!’ Jack said with a shake of his head. ‘Up until this minute I

thought my getting handcuffed to a sink by a couple of killers who were

arguing over who was going to do me in was the worst-case scenario.’

 

Laurie came out of the office waving a sheet of paper. ‘Compartment one

eleven,’ she said. ‘And I was right. The body wasn’t X-rayed.’

 

Laurie took off like a power walker. Jack and Lou had to hustle to catch

up with her. She made a beeline for the proper compartment. Once there

she slipped the autopsy folder under her left arm and used her right

hand to release the latch. In one, smooth, practiced motion, she swung

open the door and slid out the tray on its ball bearings.

 

Laurie’s brow furrowed.

 

‘That’s odd!’ she remarked. The tray was empty save for a few blood

stains and hardened secretions.

 

Laurie slid the tray back in and closed the door. She rechecked the

number. There’d been no mistake. It was compartment one eleven.

 

After looking at the list once again to make certain she’d not misread

the number, she reopened the compartment door, shielded her eyes from

the glare of the overhead lights, and peered into the depths of the dark

interior. There was no doubt: the compartment did not contain Carlo

Franconi’s remains.

 

‘What the hell!’ Laurie complained. She slammed the insulated door. And

just to be sure there wasn’t some stupid logistic error, she opened up

all the neighboring compartments one after the other. In those which

contained bodies, she checked the names and accession numbers. But it

soon became obvious: Carlo Franconi was not among them.

 

‘I don’t believe this,’ Laurie said with angry frustration. ‘The damn

body is gone!’

 

A smile had appeared on Jack’s face from the moment compartment one

eleven had proved to be empty. Now, facing Laurie’s exasperated frown,

he couldn’t help himself. He laughed heartily. Unfortunately his

laughter further piqued Laurie.

 

‘I’m sorry,’ Jack managed. ‘My intuition told me this case was going to

give you a bureaucratic headache. I was wrong. It’s going to give the

bureaucracy a headache.’

 

CHAPTER 2

———

 

MARCH 4, 1997

 

1:30 P.M.

 

COGO, EQUATORIAL GUINEA

 

KEVIN Marshall put down his pencil and looked out the window above his

desk. In contrast to his inner turmoil, the weather outside was rather

pleasant with the first patches of blue sky that Kevin had seen for

months. The dry season had finally begun. Of course it wasn’t dry; it

just didn’t rain nearly as much as during the wet season. The downside

was that the more consistent sun made the temperature soar to ovenlike

levels. At the moment it hovered at one hundred and fifteen degrees in

the shade.

 

Kevin had not worked well that morning nor had he slept during the

night. The anxiety he’d felt the previous day at the commencement of the

surgery had not abated. In fact, it had gotten worse, especially after

the unexpected call from the GenSys CEO, Taylor Cabot. Kevin had only

spoken with the man on one previous occasion. Most people in the company

equated the experience with talking with God.

 

Adding to Kevin’s unease was seeing another wisp of smoke snaking its

way up into the sky from Isla Francesca. He’d noticed it when he’d first

arrived at the lab that morning. As near as he could tell it was coming

from the same location as the day before: the sheer side of the

limestone escarpment. The fact that the smoke was no longer apparent

failed to comfort him.

 

Giving up on any attempt at further work, Kevin peeled off his white lab

coat and draped it over his chair. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he

knew his housekeeper, Esmeralda, would have made lunch, so he felt

obliged to make an appearance.

 

Kevin descended the three flights of stairs in a preoccupied daze.

Several co-workers passed him and said hello, but it was as if Kevin did

not see them. He was too preoccupied. In the last twenty-four hours he’d

come to realize that he would have to take action. The problem wasn’t

going to pass as he’d hoped it would a week previously when he’d first

glimpsed the smoke.

 

Unfortunately, he had no idea what to do. He knew he was no hero; in

fact, over the years he’d come to think of himself as a coward of sorts.

He hated confrontation and avoided it. As a boy, he had even shunned

competition except for chess. He’d grown up pretty much a loner.

 

Kevin paused at the glass door to the exterior. Across the square he

could see the usual coterie of Equatoguinean soldiers beneath the arches

of the old town hall. They were up to their usual sedentary pursuits,

aimlessly passing the time of the day. Some were sitting in old rattan

furniture playing cards, others were leaning up against the building

arguing with each other in strident voices. Almost all of them were

smoking. Cigarettes were part of their wages. They were dressed in

soiled, jungle-camouflage fatigues with scuffed combat boots and red

berets. All of them had automatic assault rifles either slung over their

shoulders or within arm’s reach.

 

From the moment of Kevin’s arrival at Cogo five years previously, the

soldiers had scared him. Cameron McIvers, head of security, who had

initially shown Kevin around, told him that GenSys had hired a good

portion of the Equatoguinean army for protection. Later Cameron had

admitted that the army’s so-called employment was in reality an

additional payoff to the government as well as to the Minister of

Defense and the Minister of Territorial Administration.

 

From Kevin’s perspective the soldiers looked more like a bunch of

aimless teenagers than protectors. Their complexions were like burnished

ebony. Their blank expressions and arched eyebrows gave them a look of

superciliousness that reflected their boredom. Kevin always had the

uncomfortable sense they were itching to have an excuse to use their

weapons.

 

Kevin pushed through the door and walked across the square. He didn’t

look in the direction of the soldiers, but from past experience he knew

at least some of them were watching him, and it made his skin crawl.

Kevin didn’t know a word of Fang, the major local dialect, so he had no

idea what they were saying.

 

Once out of sight of the central square Kevin relaxed a degree and

slowed his pace. The combination of heat and hundred-percent humidity

was like a perpetual steam bath. Any activity caused a sweat. After only

a few minutes, Kevin could feel his shirt beginning to adhere to his

back.

 

Kevin’s house was situated a little more than halfway between the

hospital-lab complex and the waterfront, a distance of only three

blocks. The town was small but had obviously been charming in its day.

The buildings had been constructed primarily of brightly colored stucco

with red tile roofs. Now the colors had faded to pale pastels. The

shutters were the type that hinged at the top. Most were in a terrible

state of disrepair except for the ones on the renovated buildings. The

streets had been laid out in an unimaginative grid but had been paved

over the years with imported granite that had served as sailing ships’

ballast. In Spanish colonial times the town’s wealth had come from

agriculture, particularly cocoa and coffee production, and it had

graciously supported a population of several thousand people.

 

But the town’s history changed dramatically after 1959, the year of

Equatorial Guinea’s independence. The new president, Macias Nguema,

quickly metamorphosed from a popularly elected official to the

continent’s worst, sadistic dictator whose atrocities managed to

out-class even those of Idi Amin of Uganda and Jean-Bedel Bokassa of the

Central African Republic. The effect on the country was apocalyptic.

After fifty thousand people were murdered, a third of the population of

the entire country fled, including all the Spanish settlers. Most of the

country’s towns were decimated, particularly Cogo which had been

completely abandoned. The road connecting Cogo to the rest of the

country fell into ruin and quickly became impassable.

 

For a number of years, the town was fated to be a mere curiosity for the

occasional visitor arriving by small motorboat from the coastal town of

Acalayong. The jungle had begun to reclaim the land by the time a

representative of GenSys had happened upon it seven years previously.

This individual recognized Cogo’s isolation and its limitless

surrounding rain forest as the perfect spot for GenSys intended primate

facility. Returning to Malabo, the capital of Equatorial Guinea, the

GenSys official immediately commenced negotiations with the current

Equatoguinean government. Since the country was one of the poorest of

Africa and consequently desperate for foreign exchange, the new

president was eager and negotiations proceeded apace.

 

Kevin rounded the last corner and approached his house. It was three

stories like most of the other buildings in the town. It had been

tastefully renovated by GenSys to give it storybook appeal. In fact it

was one of the more desirable houses in the whole town and a source of

envy of a number of the other GenSys employees, particularly head of

security, Cameron McIvers. Only Siegfried Spallek, manager of the Zone,

and Bertram Edwards, chief veterinarian, had accommodations that were

equivalent. Kevin had attributed his good luck to intercession on his

behalf by Dr. Raymond Lyons, but he didn’t know for certain.

 

The house had been built in the mid-nineteenth century by a successful

import/exporter in traditional Spanish style. The first floor was arched

and arcaded like the town hall and had originally housed shops and

storage facilities. The second floor was the main living floor with

three bedrooms, three baths, a large through-and-through living room, a

dining room, a kitchen, and a tiny maid’s apartment. It was surrounded

by a veranda on all four sides. The third floor was an enormous open

room with wide-plank flooring illuminated with two huge, cast-iron

chandeliers. It was capable of holding a hundred people with ease and

had apparently been used for mass meetings.

 

Kevin entered and climbed a central stairway that led up to a narrow

hall. From there he went into the dining room. As he expected, the table

had been laid for lunch.

 

The house was too big for Kevin, especially since he didn’t have a

family. He’d said as much when he’d first been shown the property, but

Siegfried Spallek had told him the decision had been made in Boston and

warned Kevin not to complain. So Kevin accepted the assignment, but his

co-workers’ envy often made him feel uncomfortable.

 

As if by magic Esmeralda appeared. Kevin wondered how she did it so

consistently. It was as if she were always on the lookout for his

approaching the house. She was a pleasant woman of indeterminate age

with rounded features and sad eyes. She dressed in a shift of brightly

colored print fabric with a matching scarf wrapped tightly around her

head. Besides her native tongue, she spoke fluent Spanish and passable

English that improved on a daily basis.

 

Esmeralda lived in the maid’s quarters Monday through Friday. Over the

weekend she stayed with her family in a village that GenSys had

constructed to the east along the banks of the estuary to house the many

local workers employed in the Zone, as the area occupied by GenSys’s

Equatoguinean operation was called. She and her family had been moved

there from Bata, the main city on the Equatoguinean mainland. The

capital of the country, Malabo, was on an island called Bioko.

 

Kevin had encouraged Esmeralda to go home in the evenings during the

week if she so desired, but she declined. When Kevin persisted, she told

him she’d been ordered to remain in Cogo.

 

‘There is a phone message for you,’ Esmeralda said.

 

‘Oh,’ Kevin said nervously. His pulse quickened. Phone messages were

rare, and in his current state he did not need any more unexpected

events. The call in the middle of the night from Taylor Cabot had been

disturbing enough.

 

‘It was from Dr. Raymond Lyons in New York,’ Esmeralda said. ‘He wants

you to call him back.’

 

The fact that the call was from overseas did not surprise Kevin. With

the satellite communications GenSys had installed in the Zone, it was

far easier to call Europe or the U.S. than Bata, a mere sixty miles to

the north. Calls to Malabo were almost impossible.

 

Kevin started for the living room. The phone was on a desk in the

corner.

 

‘Will you be eating lunch?’ Esmeralda asked.

 

‘Yes,’ Kevin said. He still wasn’t hungry but he didn’t want to hurt

Esmeralda’s feelings.

 

Kevin sat down at his desk. With his hand on the phone he quickly

calculated it was about eight o’clock in the morning in New York. He

pondered what Dr. Lyons had called about but guessed it had something to

do with his brief conversation with Taylor Cabot. Kevin did not like the

idea of an autopsy on Carlo Franconi, and he didn’t imagine that Raymond

Lyons would either.

 

Kevin had first met Raymond six years previously. It was during a

meeting in New York of the American Association for the Advancement of

Science where Kevin presented a paper. Kevin hated giving papers and

rarely did, but on this occasion he’d been forced to do so by the chief

of his department at Harvard. Dating back to his Ph.D. thesis his

interest was the transposition of chromosomes: a process by which

chromosomes exchanged bits and pieces to enhance species adaption and

hence evolution. This phenomenon happened particularly frequently during

the generation of sex cells: a process known as meiosis.

 

By coincidence, during the same meeting and at the same time Kevin was

scheduled to present, James Watson and Francis Crick gave an immensely

popular talk on the anniversary of their discovery of the structure of

DNA. Consequently, very few people came to hear Kevin. One of the

attendees had been Raymond. It was after this talk that Raymond first

approached Kevin. The conversation resulted in Kevin’s leaving Harvard

and coming to work for GenSys.

 

With a slightly shaky hand Kevin picked up the receiver and dialed.

Raymond answered on the first ring, suggesting he’d been hovering over

the phone. The connection was crystal clear as if he were in the next

room.

 

‘I’ve got good news,’ Raymond said as soon as he knew it was Kevin.

‘There’s to be no autopsy.’

 

Kevin didn’t respond. His mind was a jumble.

 

‘Aren’t you relieved?’ Raymond asked. ‘I know Cabot called you last

night.’

 

‘I’m relieved to an extent,’ Kevin said. ‘But autopsy or no autopsy, I’m

having second thoughts about this whole operation.’

 

Now it was Raymond’s turn to be silent. No sooner had he solved one

potential problem than another was rearing its unwelcome head.

 

‘Maybe we’ve made a mistake,’ Kevin said. ‘What I mean is, maybe I’ve

made a mistake. My conscience is starting to bother me, and I’m getting

a little scared. I’m really a basic science person. This applied science

is not my thing.’

 

‘Oh, please!’ Raymond said irritably. ‘Don’t complicate things! Not now.

I mean, you’ve got that lab you’ve always wanted. I’ve beat my brains

out getting you every damn piece of equipment that you’ve asked for. And

on top of that, things are going so well, especially with my recruiting.

Hell, with all the stock options you’re amassing, you’ll be a rich man.’

 

‘I’ve never intended on being rich,’ Kevin said.

 

‘Worse things could happen,’ Raymond said. ‘Come on, Kevin! Don’t do

this to me.’

 

‘And what good is being rich when I have to be out here in the heart of

darkness?’ Kevin said. Unwittingly his mind conjured up the image of the

manager, Siegfried Spallek. Kevin shuddered. He was terrified of the

man.

 

‘It’s not forever,’ Raymond said. ‘You told me yourself, you’re almost

there, that the system is nearly perfect. When it is and you’ve trained

someone to take your place, you can come back here. With your money

you’ll be able to build the lab of your dreams.’

 

‘I’ve seen more smoke coming from the island,’ Kevin said. ‘Just like

last week.’

 

‘Forget the smoke!’ Raymond said. ‘You’re letting your imagination run

wild. Instead of working yourself up into a frenzy over nothing,

concentrate on your work so you can finish. If you’ve got some free

time, start fantasizing about the lab you’ll be building back here

state-side.’

 

Kevin nodded. Raymond had a point. Part of Kevin’s concern was that if

what he’d been involved with in Africa became common knowledge, he might

never be able to go back to academia. No one would hire him much less

give him tenure. But if he had his own lab and an independent income, he

wouldn’t have to worry.

 

‘Listen,’ Raymond said. ‘I’ll be coming to pick up the last patient when

he’s ready, which should be soon. We’ll talk again then. Meanwhile just

remember that we’re almost there and money is pouring into our offshore

coffers.’

 

‘All right,’ Kevin said reluctantly.

 

‘Just don’t do anything rash,’ Raymond said. ‘Promise me!’

 

‘All right,’ Kevin repeated with slightly more enthusiasm.

 

Kevin hung up the phone. Raymond was a persuasive person, and whenever

Kevin spoke to him, Kevin inevitably felt better.

 

Kevin pushed back from the desk and walked back to the dining room.

Following Raymond’s advice he tried to think of where he’d build his

lab. There were some strong arguments for Cambridge, Massachusetts,

because of the associations Kevin had with both Harvard and MIT. But

then again maybe it would be better to be out in the countryside like up

in New Hampshire.

 

Lunch was a white fish that Kevin didn’t recognize. When he inquired

about it, Esmeralda gave him only the name in Fang, which meant nothing

to Kevin. He surprised himself by eating more than he’d expected. The

conversation with Raymond had had a positive effect on his appetite. The

idea of having his own lab still held inordinate appeal.

 

After eating, Kevin changed his damp shirt for a clean, freshly ironed

one. He was eager to get back to work. As he was about to descend the

stairs, Esmeralda inquired when he wanted dinner. He told her seven, the

usual time.

 

While Kevin had been lunching a leaden group of gray lavender clouds had

rolled in from the ocean. By the time he emerged from his front door, it

was pouring, and the street in front of his house was a cascade as the

runoff raced down to the waterfront. Looking south over the Estuario del

Muni, Kevin could see a line of bright sunshine as well as the arch of a

complete rainbow. The weather in Gabon was still clear. Kevin was not

surprised. There had been times when it had rained on one side of the

street and not the other.

 

Guessing the rain would continue for at least the next hour, Kevin

skirted his house beneath the protection of the arcade and climbed into

his black Toyota utility vehicle. Although it was a ridiculously short

drive back to the hospital, Kevin felt it was better to ride than be wet

for the rest of the afternoon.

 

CHAPTER 3

———

 

MARCH 4, 1997

 

8:45 A.M.

 

NEW YORK CITY

 

‘WELL, what do you want to do?’ Franco Ponti asked while looking at his

boss, Vinnie Dominick, in the rearview mirror. They were in Vinnie’s

Lincoln Town-car. Vinnie was in the backseat, leaning forward with his

right hand holding onto the overhead strap. He was looking out at 126

East 64th Street. It was a brownstone built in a French rococo style

with high-arched, multipaned windows. The first-floor windows were

heavily barred for protection.

 

‘Looks like pretty posh digs,’ Vinnie said. ‘The good doctor is doing

okay for himself.’

 

‘Should I park?’ Franco asked. The car was in the middle of the street,

and the taxi behind them was honking insistently.

 

‘Park!’ Vinnie said.

 

Franco drove ahead until he came to a fire hydrant. He pulled to the

curb. The taxi went past, the driver frantically giving them the finger.

Angelo Facciolo shook his head and made a disparaging comment about

expatriate Russian taxi drivers. Angelo was sitting in the front

passenger seat.

 

Vinnie climbed out of the car. Franco and Angelo quickly followed suit.

All three men were impeccably dressed in long, Salvatore Ferragamo

overcoats in varying shades of gray.

 

‘You think the car will be okay?’ Franco asked.

 

‘I anticipate this will be a short meeting,’ Vinnie said. ‘But put the

Police Benevolent Association Commendation on the dash. Might as well

save fifty bucks.’

 

Vinnie walked back to number 126. Franco and Angelo trailed in their

perpetually vigilant style. Vinnie looked at the door intercom. ‘It’s a

duplex,’ Vinnie said. ‘I guess the doctor isn’t doing quite as well as I

thought.’ Vinnie pressed the button for Dr. Raymond Lyons and waited.

 

‘Hello?’ a feminine voice inquired.

 

‘I’m here to see the doctor,’ Vinnie said. ‘My name is Vinnie Dominick.’

 

There was a pause. Vinnie played with a bottle cap with the tip of his

Gucci loafer. Franco and Angelo looked up and down the street.

 

The intercom crackled back to life. ‘Hello, this is Dr. Lyons. Can I

help you?’

 

‘I believe so,’ Vinnie said. ‘I need about fifteen minutes of your

time.’

 

‘I’m not sure I know you, Mr. Dominick,’ Raymond said. ‘Could you tell

me what this is in reference to?’

 

‘It’s in reference to a favor I did for you last night,’ Vinnie said.

‘The request had come through a mutual acquaintance, Dr. Daniel Levitz.’

 

There was a pause.

 

‘I trust you are still there, Doctor,’ Vinnie said.

 

‘Yes, of course,’ Raymond said. A raucous buzzing sounded. Vinnie pushed

open the heavy door and entered. His minions followed.

 

‘I don’t think the good doctor is terribly excited to see us,’ Vinnie

quipped as they rode up in the small elevator. The three men were

pressed together like cigars in a triple pack.

 

Raymond met his visitors as they exited the lift. He was obviously

nervous as he shook hands with all three after the introductions. He

gestured for them to enter his apartment and then showed them into a

small, mahogany-paneled study.

 

‘Coffee anyone?’ Raymond asked.

 

Franco and Angelo looked at Vinnie.

 

‘I wouldn’t turn down an expresso if it’s not too much trouble,’ Vinnie

said. Franco and Angelo said they’d have the same.

 

Raymond used his desk phone to place the order.

 

Raymond’s worst fears had materialized the moment he’d caught sight of

his uninvited guests. From his perspective they appeared like

stereotypes from a grade-B movie. Vinnie was about five-ten, darkly

complected and handsome, with full features and slicked-back hair. He

was obviously the boss. The other two men were both over six feet and

gaunt. Their noses and lips were thin and their eyes were beady and

deeply set. They could have been brothers. The main difference in their

appearance was the condition of Angelo’s skin. Raymond thought it looked

like the far side of the moon.

 

‘Can I take your coats?’ Raymond asked.

 

‘We don’t intend on staying too long,’ Vinnie said.

 

‘At least sit down,’ Raymond said.

 

Vinnie relaxed into a leather armchair. Franco and Angelo sat stiffly on

a velvet-covered settee. Raymond sat behind his desk.