"I arranged a 'private' transplant surgeon some time ago. A man willing to help. He's out of Vancouver. He attempted to locate an unregistered donor heart but to date has been unsuccessful. He recommended I contact your associate. I understand you have found him a kidney from time to time. I must admit that I am not terribly comfortable turning to a veterinarian for a human heart. That is one of the reasons I wanted this meeting: to meet you." He paused as the crowd below erupted in cheers. "I make no promises," Tegg stated. "I have done my homework," the Asian said. "I would not be here had I not. As a veterinarian you have few equals."
"In a situation such as your wife's-one of life and death-time is the real enemy. Time forces certain decisions. I'm perfectly aware of that. How long does your wife have?" he asked, taking charge. But time wasn't Tegg's real enemy. Internally, a dialogue of a different sort began: Now that the opportunity had presented itself, how far would he go to erase a mistake he had made nearly twenty years earlier? Could he knowingly sacrifice a human being? "She will be strong enough to move in a few days."
"To Vancouver?"
"Yes. "Days?
"If I Put MY wife's life into your hands, I will expect results," he announced sternly. "if you can't help me, you must say so now. If it's a question of money ... " Tegg waved his hand to stop the man. He did not want Maybeck to hear the amount being offered. A heart was worth no less than five-hundred thousand. If Wong Kei had indeed done his homework, as he claimed, then he knew that much. "I'm sure you'll be generous," Tegg said. The money accounted for only a part of his stake in this. There was more to be gained here. "Are you interested?"
"Extremely."
"May I count on you?"
Tegg glanced briefly at Maybeck. The man looked frightened. You didn't fail a man of Wong Kei's reputation. The mobster was telling him that much by just the look in his eye. He wanted a commitment.
Tegg answered, "I will have to do my homework, hmm? We'll have to see what's available." He pointed to a file folder on a bale of hay. "Her records?" Seize controclass="underline" That's how you dealt with people like Wong Kei. The Asian passed him the folder. "We will begin looking for a donor immediately. How do I reach you?"
Wong Kei removed a business card, wrote a phone number on the back of it, and handed it to Tegg.
"you'll be hearing from me," Tegg said confidently.
They didn't shake hands. Wong Kei rose, crossed the darkened loft and disappeared down the stairs.
Maybeck sat in the shadow of a post. "We'll have to zoom the donor to get the heart. Am I right?" Maybeck asked.
Believing Maybeck was nervous about this, Tegg returned to a justification decided upon many months earlier: "If one human life is sacrificed to save many, then what harm is done? If not one, but four, five, six lives are saved, does this not balance the scales?"
Maybeck answered, "I just mean in terms of what we gotta do. We go zooming someone, this had better be big money."
Reading the file in the limited light, Tegg spoke without looking up, "Check the database for an AB-NEGATIVE. She'll have to be smalclass="underline" a hundred pounds tops. All you do is bring me the donor. You'll be rich after this. Fifty thousand for your part. That's what you want, isn't it?"
Through the cavity in the hayloft came the chorus of barking dogs. Among them, Tegg could hear Felix as clearly as if he alone were barking. Felix's superiority in the ring confirmed Tegg's brilliance. There would be more tests, of course; there always were. Life, it seemed, was one long test. Victory came not from a single win but from a series of accomplishments.
He stopped to take one last look at Donnie Maybeck, who still hadn't moved. Mention of that number had numbed him. just right.
As Tegg descended the stairs, he felt exhilarated. This was his chance to erase the slate, to prove something to himself, to give something back, He intended to make the most of it.
juggling his household chores and his role as Mr. Mom, Boldt visited two area blood banks Friday morning with his son Miles in tow. It was not until the second interview that he learned that the donation of whole blood was strictly voluntary. He had neglected to raise this question at the first location. Plasma centers paid, not blood banks.
Bloodlines Incorporated, Seattle's only plasma center, occupied the back half of the ground floor of a former First Avenue warehouse which had, years before, been converted into retail space, then a dry cleaner/laundromat. Boldt remembered them both. A uniform rental shop now occupied the half that fronted First Avenue. Mannequins dressed as nurses and security guards stood at inanimate mock attention in the display windows. The entrance to the plasma center was from the side street, up four cement steps, through a set of glass doors stenciled in blue with the name Bloodlines as well as a parent corporation, Lifeways Inc.-which in finer print turned out to be a subsidiary of The Atlanta Charter and Group Health Foundation. Boxes inside boxes, a reminder of Liz's banking world.
Reception held two orange-vinyl padded benches, each fronted by an oak-veneer coffee table stained with white rings and littered with thumb- worn, outdated copies of People Magazine. A pair of dusty-leafed silk ficus trees stood forlorn in opposing corners. The dirt bucket that held the closest one had been used as an ashtray. A large sign thanked you for not smoking. A Coke machine, its light burned out, hummed from across the expanse of institutional gray carpet. There were several doors leading from this room. The one most often used, Boldt saw-noticing the accumulated dirt around the doorknob-was to the left of reception, a high counter attended by a matronly woman wearing a nurse's uniform that had probably been rented from next door. Behind her were shelves filled with files, marked with colorful alphabetized index tabs. Her name tag read, Mildred Hatch. She looked tired, suspicious and unhappy. A couple of Gary Larson cartoons were taped up for everyone to see. "You been with us before?" she asked. She was apparently used to a regular clientele. Boldt's face didn't jog her memory. "I'd like to speak to someone in administration, if I may." Miles nearly got his hand on one of the cartoons. Boldt arranged himself to prevent another attempt. "Concerning?"
"One of your donors."
"Not possible. That's strictly confidential information. Can't help you.- She pointed out a paragraph on a photocopied flyer, a stack of which waited to the right of a computer terminal.
Boldt explained, "I'm not trying to find out who the person is.
I already know that. I just need a few questions answered.
Someone in administration, if You Please."
"I don't Please.
Not easily," she warned. She found a pen. "Your name?" He told her. "Your company?" Boldt said, "Seattle Police Department." It shocked her. She flushed. "Why didn't you say so?" she asked angrily. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to." "The baby threw me off," she explained. "You always lug her around?"
"Him," Boldt corrected.
She looked closely at Miles for the first time. Briefly, she softened. He knew in an instant that she didn't have any kids; and by her ring finger, no husband either. "Name of the donor?" she asked. "That's strictly confidential," Boldt said.
Her eyes flashed cold like green glass marbles. She had plucked her eyebrows thin and bleached the hair above her lip. A real beauty. She had missed with her eye shadow. "Cynthia Chapman," Boldt told her. "The donor's name is Cynthia Chapman." She consulted her terminal, striking the keyboard with blunt, stubby fingers. When she paused, there was something in her eyes that confirmed she had found the name. "She's in there?" Boldt asked, his heart racing.
The woman didn't answer. She picked up the phone and spoke too softly for Boldt to hear. By the time she started her third call he said, "Today, if possible."
A street person entered, a bum in his mid-fifties, although a quick glance and the clothes might have fooled you. Not quite pressed but not all that wrinkled. Not exactly clean-shaven but not disgusting by any means. It was his worn-heeled, unpolished shoes that gave him away. That and the pungent scent of a cheap after-shave which attempted to cover a week without a shower. Boldt watched as this man located the clipboard and ran the attached pen through the multiple-choice boxes with the practiced efficiency of a regular. The man knew the routine. He signed it, handed it to Miss Mildred Hatch, and headed for the Coke machine. Blood sugar, Boldt thought. They drink the pops to keep from getting light-headed. He seemed a man more accustomed to Muscatel. He headed over to the orange seats and a back issue of People.