'Was there family money?'
'You mean like an inheritance?' She shrugged. 'I heard Aaron's father was an appliance repairman.'
Katzka sat back, thinking. He wasn't looking at her now, but was staring at his coffee cup. There was a depth of concentration to this man that intrigued her. He could drop out of a conversation just like that, leaving her feeling abandoned.
'Detective, how much wealth are we talking about?' He looked up at her. 'Three million dollars.' Stunned, Abby could only stare at him.
'After Mrs Levi vanished,' he said, 'I thought I should take a closer look at the family finances. So I spoke to their CPA. He told me that shortly after Dr. Levi died, Elaine discovered her husband had a Cayman Islands bank account. An account she'd known nothing about. She asked the CPA how to access the money. And then, without warning, she skipped town.' Katzka gave her a questioning look.
'I have no idea how Aaron got that much money,' she murmured. 'Neither does his accountant.'
They were silent a moment. Abby reached for her coffee and found it had gone cold. So had she.
She asked, softly: 'Do you know where Elaine is?'
'We have an idea.'
'Can you tell me?'
He shook his head. 'At the moment, Dr. DiMatteo,' he said, 'I don't think she wants to be found.'
Three million dollars. How had Aaron Levi accumulated three million dollars?
All the way home, she considered that question. She couldn't see how a cardiologist would be able to do it. Not with two kids in private universities and a wife with expensive taste in antiques. And why had he hidden his wealth?The Cayman Islands was where people stashed their money when they wanted it kept out of sight of the IRS. But even Elaine had not known about the account until after Aaron's death. What a shock it must have been to go through her dead husband's papers. To discover that he'd been hiding a fortune from her.
Three million dollars.
She pulled into the driveway. Found herself surveying the neighbourhood for a maroon van. It was getting to be a habit, that quick glance up and down the street.
She walked in the front door and stepped over the usual pile of afternoon mail. Most of it was professional journals, two of everything for the two doctors in the house. She gathered them all up and lugged them into the kitchen. On the table she began sorting everything into two piles. His junk, her junk. His life, her life. Nothing here worth a second glance.
It was four o'clock. Tonight, she decided, she'd cook a nice dinner. Serve it with candlelight and wine. Why not? She was now a lady of leisure. While Bayside took its sweet time deciding her future as a surgeon, she could stay busy fixing things up between her and Mark with romantic dinners and feminine coddling. Lose the career but keep the man.
Shit, DiMatteo. You're starting to sound desperate.
She scooped up her half of the junk mail, carried it to the trash can, and stepped on the pop-up lid pedal. Just as the mail was tumbling in, she glimpsed a large brown envelope stuffed at the bottom. The word yachts, printed in bold letters in the return address, caught her eye. She dug out the envelope and brushed off the coffee grounds and egg shells. At the top left was printed: East WindYachts Sales and Service Marblehead Marina It had been sent to Mark. But it was not addressed to their Brewster Street house. It had been sent to aPO Box.
She looked again at the words: Yacht Sales and Service.
She left the kitchen and went to Mark's desk in the living room.
The bottom drawer, where he kept his files, was locked, but she knew where the key was. She'd heard him plunk it into the pencil cup. She found the key and opened the drawer.
Inside were all his household files. Insurance papers, mortgage papers, car papers. She found a tab with BOAT written on it. There was a folder for Gimme Shelter, his J-35. There was also a second folder. It looked new. On the tab was written: H-48.
She pulled out the H-48 file. It was a sales contract from East Wind Marine. H-48 was an abbreviation for the boat's design. A Hinckley yacht, forty-eight feet long.
She sank into a chair, feeling sick. You kept it a secret, she thought. You told me you'd withdraw the offer. Then you bought it anyway. It's your money, all right. I guess this makes it perfectly clear.
Her gaze moved to the bottom of the page. To the terms of sale. Moments later, she walked out of the house.
'Cash for organs. Is it possible?'
In the midst of stirring cream into his coffee, Dr. Ivan Tarasoft stopped and glanced atVivian. 'Do you have any proof this is going on?'
'Not yet. We're just asking you if it's possible. And if so, how could it be done?'
Dr. Tarasoft sank back on the couch and sipped his coffee as he thought it over. It was four-forty-five, and except for the occasional scrubsuited resident passing through to the adjoining locker room, the Mass Gen surgeons' lounge was quiet. Tarasoft, who'd come out of the OR only twenty minutes ago, still had a dusting of glove talc on his hands and a surgical mask dangling around his neck. Watching him, Abby was comforted, once again, by the image of her grandfather. The gentle blue eyes, the silver hair. The quiet voice. The voice of ultimate authority, she thought, belongs to the man who never has to raise it.
'There're been rumours, of course,' saidTarasoff. 'Every time a celebrity gets an organ, people wonder if money was involved. But there's never been any proof. Only suspicions.'
'What rumours have you heard?'
'That one can buy a higher place on the waiting list. I myself have never seen it happen.'
'I have,' said Abby.
Tarasoft looked at her. 'When?'
'Two weeks ago. Mrs. Victor Voss. She was third on the waiting list and she got a heart. The two people at the top of the list later died.'
'UNOS wouldn't allow that. Or NEOB. They have strict guidelines.'
'NEOB didn't know about it. In fact they have no record of the donor in their system.'
Tarasoft shook his head. 'This is hard to believe. If the heart didn't come through UNOS or NEOB, where did it come from?'
'We think Voss paid to keep it out of the system. So it could go to his wife,' said Vivian.
'This is what we know so far,' said Abby. 'Hours before Mrs Voss's transplant, Bayside's transplant coordinator got a call from Wilcox Memorial in Burlington that they had a donor. The heart was harvested and flown to Boston. It arrived in our OR around 1 a.m., delivered by some doctor named Mapes. The donor papers came with it, but somehow they got misplaced. No one's seen them since. I looked up the name Mapes in the Directory of Medical Specialists. There's no such surgeon.'
'Then who did the harvest?'
'We think it was a surgeon named Tim Nicholls. His name is listed in the Directory, so we know he does exist. According to his CV, he trained a few years at Mass Gen. Do you remember him?'
'Nicholls,' murmured Tarasoft. He shook his head. 'When was he here?'
'Nineteen years ago.'
'I'd have to check the residency records.'
'We're thinking this is what happened,' said Vivian. 'Mrs Voss needed a heart, and her husband had the money to pay for it. Somehow the word went out. Grapevine, underground, I don't know how. Tim Nicholls happened to have a donor. So he funnelled the heart directly to Bayside, bypassing NEOB. And various people got paid off. Including some of the Bayside staff.'
Tarasoft looked horrified. 'It's possible,' he said. 'You're right, it could happen that way.'
The lounge door suddenly swung open and two residents walked in, laughing, as they headed for the coffee pot. They seemed to take forever as they fussed with the cream and sugar. At last they left the room.
Tarasoft was still looking stunned. 'I've referred patients to Bayside myself. We're talking about one of the top transplant centres in the country. Why would they go outside the registry? Risk getting into trouble with NEOB and UNOS?'
'The answer's obvious,' said Vivian. 'Money.'
Again they fell silent when another surgeon walked into the
