He replied with squealing tires.
SATURDAY
1.
After only three hours sleep, Alicia was back in the hospital, this time in the Pediatric ICU. Little Hector Lopez had crashed last night—grand mal seizures and respiratory arrest. She and the house staff had pulled him through—just barely.
Will had hung around for hours downstairs in the waiting area. He didn't know Hector, had never laid eyes on him, yet he'd seemed genuinely concerned. Finally Alicia convinced him to go home.
He'd hugged her and wished her luck, and she'd watched him go, thinking this was someone special.
But now she was watching Hector, unconscious, a slim ribbed endotracheai tube snaking from his mouth to a larger tube, his bony chest rising and falling in time to the hissing rhythm of the ventilator at his bedside.
She heard a knock on the glass partition to her left and turned to see Harry Wolff gesturing to her from the other side. She'd called him in on consult regarding the seizure. He'd done a spinal tap. Hector's central nervous pressure had been up, and the fluid had looked hazy. Not good, not good…
Alicia stepped to the door and pulled her mask down to her chin. "Harry. What have you got?"
His expression was grim. "Candida in the CSF."
Alicia sighed. Damn. That explained the seizure. Although not a complete surprise, she'd been hoping the pediatric neurologist would find something easier to treat.
"Any more seizure activity?" he said.
"No. But there will be if I don't get this yeast under control. Trouble is, his immune system's in free fall."
"I'll keep looking in. Good luck."
"Thanks, Harry."
She turned and looked back at Hector. She was losing him. Damn it, this was her home field, this was the only place in her life these days where she called the shots. But she seemed to be losing here as well.
There had to be a way to turn this around. Had to be…
2.
Ramirez showed up a few minutes early, but Jack was ready and waiting at the town house, decked out in his green blazer, white shirt, striped tie, Dockers, loafers, and shit-eating grin.
He'd been here for an hour or so already, familiarizing himself with the place. The house itself didn't need any window dressing; it was in perfect shape. All the closets and dressers were filled with clothes. Whoever had inherited this from the late Dr. Gates hadn't removed a thing.
The only touch he added to the place was a photo he'd picked up in a secondhand shop—two men sitting side by side on a log. He left it in the master bedroom. Then he outfitted the sitting room off the front hall with a card table, and on that arranged manila folders, deposit receipt forms, Xeroxed from the original Hudak Realty form.
Ramirez wore a full-length black leather overcoat. A single, heavy gold chain gleamed through the open collar of his golf shirt. He had broad shoulders and a thick middle. He flashed Jack a bright, wide grin, showing off his caps, but his dark eyes were on the move, taking in every detail of the front hall—the etched glass in the front door, the crystal chandelier, the brass carpet rails on the steps leading up to the second floor.
Jack handed Ramirez a card—an exact copy of Dolores's except that the name had been changed to David Johns—and gave him the tour, regurgitating much of the patter he'd heard from Dolores on Thursday. He watched Ramirez run his hands over the fine wood of the antiques as they went from room to room.
As they returned to his makeshift office in the sitting room off the front hall, Jack mentioned that a condition of the sale was that the closing had to be in thirty days.
"Thirty days," Ramirez said. "Why does this owner wish such a quick closing?"
Jack paused, as if debating how much to say, then shrugged.
"All right, I'll tell you. He's looking for a quick sale because he needs the money."
"He is in financial trouble?" Ramirez said.
"No-no." Jack lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret that should go no further. "He's in the hospital now. The poor man needs the money for medical expenses."
"Really?" Ramirez's tone was properly sympathetic; the sudden gleam in his eye was anything but. "That is too bad."
Jack could almost see the wheels turning in Ramirez's head: in the hospital… medical expenses. . . the photo of two men in the bedroom…
He was making a diagnosis.
"And you say the sale price includes all of the furniture?"
"Yes. All fine, fine European antiques. At the asking price, I assure you, it is quite a bargain."
Ramirez shrugged. "I do not know. It is very old. Have you had much interest in the property?"
"Strangely enough, no. I don't understand it," Jack said slowly, then pretended to catch himself. "Not that there's been no interest. There's been good interest."
Ramirez smiled. "As I said, it is an old house. But I feel sorry for this poor sick man. I will take it off his hands. But not for the asking price, I am afraid."
Jack sniffed. "It's already underpriced."
"I must disagree," Ramirez said.
And then he made a low-ball offer, a good twenty percent under the asking price.
You bastard, Jack thought. Jorge had said he'd steal from a dying man, and Ramirez had just proved him right.
Jack had begun thinking of his imaginary client as a real person, so he didn't have to fake being indignant.
"Out of the question. My client would never consider such a price."
"You will call him and ask him?"
"No. It's an insult to the property."
"Well, if you have had a better offer," Ramirez said with a shrug, "then I will go away. But if you have not, I think it is your duty to consult your client."
"I'll do just that," Jack said.
He whipped out a cell phone and called Jorge's number.
When he answered, Jack said, "Mr. Gates's room, please." While he pretended to wait for a connection, he turned to Ramirez. "Even from his hospital bed, I'm sure Mr. Gates will muster some harsh words about your offer."
Another shrug from Ramirez. "I am only offering what I can afford."
Then Jack spoke into the phone. "Yes. Hello, Mr. Gates. This is David. I'm sorry to call you so early, but I've had an offer on the house." Pause. "Yes, well, I'm not so sure you'll say that after you hear it." He gave the figure and waited, as if listening. "But—" he said, then cut himself off, "But…"
Jack frowned, glanced at Ramirez, then turned his back and stepped away.
"But it's an insulting offer!" he said in a stage whisper. "You can't possibly consider it!"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ramirez's caps appearing behind a slow grin. Oh, yes, you bastard. This is your birthday on Christmas, isn't it—getting the deal of a lifetime and screwing some poor sick bastard in the process.
Jack said, "Yes… yes, I see… very well…" He sighed. "I'll tell him."
Jack hit the end button on the phone, took a dramatically deep breath, then turned to face Ramirez.
"Well," he said. "Mr. Gates has expressed some interest—limited interest—in your offer. But he has two conditions if he's going to sell for that price."
"Yes?" Ramirez was keeping a calm front, but Jack could tell he was ready to Macarena down the hall.
"You must close in fifteen days."
Ramirez was polishing his diamond ring against the sleeve of his blazer. "That is possible."
"And…" This was the biggee. This was where Jack knew he'd either reel Ramirez in or lose him completely. "He wants a twelve-thousand-dollar deposit in cash."