Max smiled. “It’s a secret — hence the words
“From us?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t see why,” Eric continued. “Can’t we just improve security and leave them in here?”
“We could,” Harvey said, “but we both felt this was the better solution. It would be much too disruptive to have a ton of policemen all over the place and try to operate a first-class medical facility. And another thing. Martino was killed in this very building while I was still here. It would be impossible to guarantee their safety.”
“What about their medical treatment?” Eric asked.
“The lieutenant has assured me that he has a qualified man who will follow our very specific instructions. Right, Lieutenant?”
“Correct. We won’t touch them without your go ahead.”
“And for right now I have informed the lieutenant that the patients are not to be touched or handled in any manner.”
Eric said nothing.
Max cleared his throat. “Now that we have that settled, how many cured patients are still alive?”
“Three,” Harvey answered. “And to answer your other question, no, there would be no reason to hide Michael from the killer since he is not a cured patient. I might suggest, however, a few extra men at the entrances.”
“Okay,” Max agreed. “Where are the three patients?”
“They’re all here.”
“Good. Did you have a chance to go through Dr. Grey’s private files yet?”
Harvey nodded slowly.
“Do you have a list of Dr. Grey’s missing files?”
“Here.” Harvey handed Max a piece of paper and stepped back. Max glanced over the list of names. He shook his head, took the pencil out of his mouth, and scratched a line across three names:
“Let me guess,” Max said wearily. “The three surviving HIV negative patients are Krutzer, Leander, and Singer.”
Harvey nodded.
Max pocketed the list and headed for the door. “Then let’s start preparing them for the move to the safe house.”
“Fine. Eric, I’ll see you later.”
“Okay.”
After the two men left the room, Eric Blake walked toward his private file cabinet. He bent down, unlocked the bottom drawer, and reached way into the back. His fingers deftly lifted away loose papers, digging down to the bottom where they hit warm glass.
Eric quickly made sure that no one was looking before he pulled out a test tube filled with blood.
Police Sergeant Willie Monticelli was three years away from his pension. He was a twenty-seven-year veteran of the force, having worked homicide for more than a decade. Sounded like glamorous work to many but usually the job was about as exciting as watching paint dry. It consisted of running down useless leads, interviewing hostile people who knew nothing, writing up painstaking progress reports that were never read, and worst of all, surveillance.
Right now Willie Monticelli was on his second day of surveillance. The first day had produced the usual — nothing. Zippo. Subject X had not done one thing that could be labeled even slightly suspicious. Day 2, however, was another matter.
On Day 2, Subject X had flown to Washington, D.C.
Earlier in the morning Willie had followed Subject X to La Guardia Airport, where he purchased a ticket for American Airlines flight 105 to Washington. Willie did likewise. When Subject X landed at Dulles International Airport, he rented a car from Hertz. Willie did likewise. Now they were both driving down Rockville Pike. Destination — still unknown. Willie was not worried about losing the gray Chevy Camaro in front of him. He was the best tail man in the business. Willie could stick to a guy’s tail like sweaty thighs to a car seat.
He shook his head. Twitch Bernstein had done it again. The kid was stranger than a duck on bad acid, no question about it, but Willie reviewed his nearly three decades on the force and could think of no better man to lead a homicide investigation. The kid was more than just smart; hell, there were a lot of smart guys in homicide. No, Willie thought, it was Twitch’s very weirdness that raised him above the others. Twisted and warped realities were no problem for Bernstein. The kid understood the loony mind.
Subject X’s car turned, stopped in front of a guard’s post, and then continued forward. Willie stopped his car and looked at the sign.
NATIONAL INSTITUTES OF HEALTH
SARA undressed quickly, sat on the cold examining table and waited. She passed the time by reading Dr. Carol Simpson’s medical diplomas twice and counting the tiles on the floor. Ninety-four in all.
Carol Simpson arrived with an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a busy week.”
“I understand.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
Carol took in a deep breath, held it, and then let it go. “Look, Sara, there are two things I can do. I can dance around awkwardly and pretend I live in a vacuum and never heard about Michael’s condition or I can just come out and say I’m sorry. If there is anything I can do…”
“Just one thing,” Sara said. “Help me make Michael the father of a healthy baby.”
“I’ll do my best, but I have to be honest with you. This is not going to be an easy pregnancy. Normally, I would tell you to avoid stress, but I realize that would be impossible in your case. I can only urge you to minimize it as much as possible. Try to keep up with your regular routine.”
“I’ll be going back to work on the show tomorrow,” Sara said. “Now that the treatment is getting more intense, I won’t be staying overnight at the hospital anymore.”
“Good.”
“Dr. Simpson?”
“Carol.”
“Carol, what are the chances that I’ll carry to full term?”
Again, the doctor inhaled deeply, kept the air in her lungs and her puffed cheeks, and then released it slowly. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “The next month or two will be critical. If we can get past that, it should get easier. Now, why don’t you lie back and relax?”
Exhaustion emanated from every fiber of Harvey’s being.
He wished he could find a way to unwind, to forget this place for just a few minutes, to rejuice his flagging battery. But there was no escape, and in truth, it was because he accepted none. The clinic was just too important to diddle in the mundane or trivial.
He opened the door to his office. The room was dark. No lights on. No windows to offer illumination. He flicked the switch.
“Close the door,” a husky voice commanded.
Harvey’s stomach dropped to his knees as he stared at Cassandra. She was standing in front of his desk wearing a short white robe whose brightness contrasted beautifully with the dark Mediterranean tone of her upper thigh. Her long, black hair was slightly mussed, with a couple of tight curls reaching down and covering one eye. She smiled a wild, seductive, tantalizing smile that he could feel in his toes.
“I said, close the door.”
