“Hello, Sara? It’s Jennifer Riker.”
“Hello, Jennifer. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.” Pause. “Sara, have you heard anything…?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“I wish there was something I could do.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I hope the package I sent Harvey will help.”
“What package?”
“Hasn’t Harvey called you?”
“He left a message for me on my machine, but I haven’t had a chance to call him back yet. What package, Jennifer?”
“Bruce mailed a package to his California P.O. box the same day he committed suicide. It probably means nothing—”
“What kind of package?”
“It had all kinds of medical files and blood samples in it. Anyway, Harvey should have received it today.”
“Thanks for calling, Jennifer. I hate to rush you off the line…”
“Say no more. Good luck, Sara.”
Sara hung up and quickly dialed the clinic. “Dr. Riker, please. This is Sara Lowell.”
“He is on rounds, Ms. Lowell. Would you like me to page him?”
“Just tell him I’m on my way over there.”
“Of course, Ms. Lowell. Good-bye, now.”
Sara grabbed her cane and headed for the door.
JFK Airport, New York.
Sergeant Willie Monticelli showed his ID, boarded the plane, and headed for the closed-off section in the back.
“Hey, Twitch.”
“Hi, Willie.”
“Got the ambulance for Silverman,” he said.
“The press know anything?” Max asked.
“Not yet. We can sneak him out on the tarmac. It’s dark as hell out there. No one will see him.”
“Have you located Sara yet?”
“She’s at the clinic.”
“Did you speak to her?”
Willie shook his head. “You said not to.”
Max began pacing. “Okay, good. I’ll go with Michael and the doctor.”
“Wouldn’t advise it, Twitch.”
“Why not?”
“I got a call from the county coroner’s office. Ralph Edmund said he had vital information you wanted on Riccardo Martino. He also said that you would
Max felt the familiar excitement rush through him. If his suspicions were right about Martino’s tests… “The doctor here can escort Michael to the hospital,” Max said hurriedly. “Willie, drive like a maniac to the morgue.”
Willie smiled. “I’m your man.”
“Here you go, lady.”
“Thank you.”
Susan Grey paid the driver. After a long (too long) hiatus, she and her son, Tommy, were finally home. Home. A city. Lots of people. Real life. Susan had missed them all, and that was why they were home two days early. Vegging out in the woods had been fun at first, beneficial even. But then it began to wear on them both. She and Tommy had reached the stage where they craved some good old-fashioned civilization. Yes, American civilization. Electricity. Hot water. Men without beards. Women who shaved their legs. A television set. An episode of
But the retreat had worked. With absolutely nothing else to do, she and Tommy had been forced to confront their problems, to discuss Bruce’s suicide, to try to make sense of their lives. Things were not yet perfect, but at least they were on the path to normalcy. Tommy no longer blamed her for the death of his father, and that was a good thing.
Tommy reached down and grabbed his mother’s suitcase. “I got it, Mom,” he said. His smile, so like his dead father’s, tweaked her heart.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Tommy carried the suitcase to the door and turned the knob.
Susan had already asked herself those questions a million times, and there had been no answer. She guessed that she would never know, that one day she would stop asking herself and move on with her life.
They entered the apartment.
“Jennifer?” Susan called out.
“Susan? Is that you?”
“We came home a little early,” Susan called back. “The woods were starting to get to us. Anything new in the civilized world?”
Jennifer did not answer. Instead, she came out of the kitchen and faced them both. Susan was taken aback by her sister’s appearance. Jennifer’s face was ashen, her eyes deep dark circles that looked as though they had not closed for weeks. Her body looked frail, her posture slumped.
In her left hand she held a white envelope.
“Jen…?”
Jennifer handed Susan the envelope. “This,” she began, “came for you.”
Susan took the note from her sister. She had to scream when she recognized the handwriting.
23
