“Enough already,” she interrupted. “I get the point. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Sorry.” He stacked the files and pushed them away. “Nervous about tonight’s press conference?”
“Terrified. But I’m a lot more afraid of this disease.”
Max nodded. “Michael’s strong, Sara. Harvey will cure him.”
Harvey Riker picked up his private line. “Hello?”
“Hello, handsome,” Cassandra said. “I’d like to rip your clothes off.”
“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.”
“All the better,” she replied.
“How did your meeting go with Northeastern Air?”
“It’s not over yet. How’s your day been?”
He considered telling Cassandra about Michael’s condition but quickly dismissed the thought. It was not his place to say anything. “Not good. We lost a patient last night. Murdered, we think.”
“Another one?”
“Yes.”
Cassandra hesitated. “Do you really think that Reverend Sanders is connected to this?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“And my father?”
Harvey weighed his words carefully. “It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?”
Harvey’s intercom buzzed before she could answer. “Hold on a second, Cassandra.” He pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”
“Dr. Riker?”
“Yes,” Harvey replied.
“There’s a call for you on line seven.”
“I’m in the middle of something here. Is it important?”
There was a small pause. “It’s Dr. Raymond Markey.”
Harvey felt afraid. The Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services never called unless it was bad news. “Hold on a second.” He pressed a button. “I’ll call you back, Cassandra.” He pushed another button. “Dr. Markey?”
“Hello, Dr. Riker. How are you this morning?”
“Not very well.”
“Oh?”
“Another one of our patients died last night. He may have been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Markey repeated. “My God, Riker, how many does that make?”
Harvey caught himself just before saying the number four. “Uh, three.”
“What was the latest victim’s name?”
“Martino.”
“Martino, Martino… ah, here it is. Riccardo Martino? Intravenous drug abuser?”
“That’s him.”
“So let’s see. The other two were Trian and Whitherson. Both gay. Multiple stab wounds. The same with Martino?”
“No.”
“Then what killed him?”
“An injection of cyanide.”
“My God, how awful. Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it is. I’m really beginning to worry about the safety of my other patients.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. I’m sure this is all nothing more than a terrible coincidence.”
“Yes, but you’re forgetting one important factor: Bradley Jenkins, the senator’s son, was also found stabbed to death. According to the police, he was murdered by the same man who killed Trian and Whitherson — this so- called Gay Slasher. And Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic. I have your patient list right in front of me and his name is not on it.”
Harvey froze, trapped. For some reason he was sure that Raymond Markey was smiling on the other end of the phone. “Well, yes, but—”
“So there is nothing to worry about. Now, if Jenkins had been a patient at the clinic, well, then we’d have quite a problem on our hands. Your reports would be inaccurate. And if that were the case, then everything in the reports could be questioned. We’d have to assume other discrepancies exist. All your studies would have to be reexamined and all your findings would be considered tainted. You could lose your grant.”
Harvey felt something in his gut tighten. The show tonight. The report on the clinic, on the murders…
… on Bradley Jenkins.
Lieutenant Bernstein’s voice came back to him.
And Sara’s answer.
Raymond Markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words to float about, settle, and then burrow into the surroundings.
At last Raymond Markey broke the silence. “But of course,” he said, “we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic, so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. Good-bye, Dr. Riker.”
Raymond Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sanders sat smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all. What a mask it was. Incredible really — as incredible as the man himself. Markey knew Sanders’ history. Poor boy from the South. Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a drunk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way. He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of Washington’s most powerful circles.
“Done,” Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties. They had become something of a trademark over the years. Red ties and thick glasses.
“Good,” Sanders said. “Has your source come up with anything new?”
“Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush-hush.”
The reverend shook his head seriously. “Not a good sign. They might go public with Michael Silverman’s illness.”
“You don’t think my call will stop them?” Markey asked.
Sanders thought a moment. “I don’t think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins’ connection to the murders,” he said. “But if they’ve decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don’t see how your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them.”
“Maybe we should forget this whole thing,” Raymond said tentatively. “It may have gone too far already.”
Sanders looked at him with burning eyes. “Are you trying to back out, Raymond?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? You were the one who never
