Swallowing, Harvey obeyed.
She loosened the robe and let it open slightly, hinting at the delights that lay beneath.
Harvey swallowed again.
The robe slid off her shoulders and onto the floor. Underneath, she wore only a black garter belt and lace brassiere.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she purred.
With her torrid gaze never leaving his, Cassandra sat on his desk and slowly lowered herself into a prone position. She rolled back, stretching her hands above her head and arching her back. Then she turned her body to the side, her head leaning against her hand.
She renewed her smile.
Harvey’s eyes crawled over every inch of her, over every luscious curve. Her body was utterly fantastic. Milelong legs to a flat stomach, hourglass hips and waist, and then her bountiful, round breasts and smooth shoulders. Incredible. She was almost impossibly voluptuous.
He felt the familiar, unsettling stir building up inside of him. He tried to swallow yet again, but his mouth had gone completely dry.
“I thought we agreed to take this slow,” he managed.
She laughed, threw her head back, and beckoned him forward with both a look and a demanding finger. “The slower, the better.”
Max drove the rented station wagon across the George Washington Bridge and into New Jersey. In the backseat Theodore Krutzer, Paul Leander, and Arnold Singer sat quietly. They looked, Max thought, amazingly healthy and calm. All three men had been diagnosed with the AIDS virus two years ago, but Max would never have guessed it. He kept turning around and snatching glances at them. Their good health and spirits, in shocking contrast to the many friends and lovers Max had seen ravaged by the virus, were a fresh and constant reminder to him of the importance of solving this case.
As they reached New Jersey, Max’s beeper went off. He pulled into a Gulf station on Route 4 and parked next to a pay phone. “I have to make a call,” he said to the three men in the backseat. He got out of the car and dialed the precinct. “Max Bernstein,” he said.
“Yeah, Lieutenant, we have a call from Sergeant Monticelli. I’ll connect you.”
There was a clicking noise. “Twitch?”
“Yeah, Willie, it’s me. Where are you?”
“Bethesda, Maryland,” he said. “Guess what Southern-fried lab technician is visiting the National Institutes of Health.”
Max felt a strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach. “Winston O’Connor.”
“Bingo. So I checked his file real good. About his childhood in Alabama and all that crap. Everything is in order. No holes at all. Nothing suspicious. Absolutely clean. Perfect.”
“Too perfect?”
“Yup. The guy’s gotta be a plant.”
Max nodded to no one in particular. “Thanks, Willie. Come on home. No reason to follow him anymore.”
“Will do, Twitch.”
When Max reached the safe house, he took Dr. Zry, his best (and quietest) medical man, aside. “I have some very specific instructions for you.”
“Like?” Dr. Zry prompted.
“I want you to take some blood samples from the three patients,” Max said.
“But I thought the guys at the clinic said not to touch—”
“I know what they said,” Max interrupted. “That’s why I want it to remain our little secret.”
George entered the clinic’s basement at five o’clock in the afternoon. Despite the cops crawling all over the obvious entrances, George had had no problem getting into the building through a tunnel entrance in the basement. Getting out the same way would be no problem either. He had spent most of the day studying a blueprint of the building and had come up with a plan he was sure would not fail.
Michael Silverman was in a private room on the third floor, no more than ten yards from the stairwell and the elevator. George was not yet sure which he was going to use to make his escape, but he was leaning toward the elevator. No other patients were housed on the third floor, and after eight p.m., the floor should be abandoned unless someone was still in the lab down the other end of the hallway.
He took the blueprint out of his pocket and quietly unfolded it. His finger traced along the paper until it arrived at the third floor. He squinted. Michael’s room was over here, the lab was way down there, two empty rooms right there, the storage closet on the right, medical supplies locked over on the left. That was it. Nothing had been overlooked. He would just have to watch the nurse, wait until she left Michael’s room.
George refolded the blueprint and jammed it into his front pants pocket. He wondered if Michael Silverman was another faggot or if he had really gotten the disease from a blood transfusion. Probably another fruitcake. His marriage to Sara Lowell was for show.
He settled back against the brick wall and waited.
16
George checked his watch.
Seven forty-five p.m.
He was already on the third floor and ready to move. Just a few more minutes to go.
From his spot inside the lab doorway George watched Sara Lowell and Reece Porter leave Michael’s room. Perfect. Right on time. Ten minutes earlier Dr. Harvey Riker had made his exit. Now Michael Silverman was alone in his room, probably asleep.
George listened closely, but he heard no voices. Sara and Reece were waiting for the elevator in perfect silence. Nothing to be said, he guessed.
The familiar adrenaline rush was beginning to build inside of him, but George remained cool. No reason to rush. Rushing led to mistakes.
He knew he would have to wait a few more minutes until the nurse came by to check on Silverman. When she left his room, George would be able to waltz down the hallway and spend a little quality time with Michael. And what do you know? Lookie here. George would not have to be patient much longer.
The nurse was at Michael’s door already.
No more than two minutes after Reece and Sara had left, Janice Matley entered Michael’s room. Her ears were greeted by a mixture of the soothing strings of Mozart coming from the tape deck and the gentle sounds of slumber coming from Michael.
Out like a light, the nurse said to herself. Sleeping like a baby, the poor thing. Not enough he had to have this awful virus — he had to go through it while the whole world tried to watch. Damn shame, that was what it was. Nice young fella like that.
Damn shame.
She checked his chart. According to the file, Dr. Riker had given Michael an injection of SR1 less than an hour ago. That would mean he would not have to be wakened for another four hours. Good. Lord knew the boy could use some rest. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to eight. She would go downstairs until one a.m. Then she’d come back for his shot.
She pulled down the shade on his door window and left the room. She was just about to head down the stairs when something made her stop short. She could not say exactly what it was. There had been no sound, no voices, no rustling noises in the lab. There was only the steady hum of the fluorescent overhead lights. Damn lights made
