He then searched for Jared Ralston. There was only one — born in Richmond, Virginia. That sounded right The age was right. His residence was listed as “George Town, Cayman Islands — Out of State.” Hmm. And his license status was “Inactive — Expired.” What in the world was he doing if his license was expired?
At the bottom of the screen Ryan saw, peeking up from the final section, “Formal action exists.” He frantically spun the wheel of his mouse to reveal three separate entries. The first was from November five months before his parents died: “CITATION — PRESCRIPTION OF MEDICATION OUTSIDE OF STATE AND OUTSIDE THE SCOPE OF A TRAINING LICENSE, THE FACTS UNDERLYING WHICH INVOLVED HIS PRESCRIPTION OF INSULIN TO AN ACQUAINTANCE, WHOM HE HAD NEVER TREATED, CALLED FROM CLEVELAND, OHIO TO A PHARMACY IN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON ON OCTOBER 30.”
The next entry read, “BOARD ORDER: PROBATIONARY TERMS, CONDITIONS, AND LIMITATIONS FOR AT LEAST SIX MONTHS ESTABLISHED. ORDER MAILED 11/15. EFFECTIVE 11/16.”
The final entry was from six months later and indicated that the doctor’s request for lifting the probationary period had been granted by the state board. Just in time for him to move to Boston, Ryan thought, shaking his head and gritting his teeth.
He grabbed his phone and slammed his finger down on Weinstien’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
“Mr. Weinstien, I’ve got one other thing for you to look into,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I want you to look into the official cause of death — and any unusual circumstances surrounding my grandfather’s death. He died on October 31st in Seattle, Washington, within five months of my parents. I’ve got a strong suspicion Avillage might have had something to do with that too.”
CHAPTER 13
“What do you want for her?” Dillon asked, salivating over the poorly-maintained olive-green ‘72 Chevy Impala, tucked away in the back corner of Jerry’s Affordable Pre-Owned Auto Lot in South Boston. The body of the car was pocked with hundreds of rust spots, some neglected for long enough to have chewed actual holes through the metal frame, and its threadbare white-wall tires looked as though they may spontaneously pop at any moment. Microbubbles pervaded the amateur purplish-black tint job on the side and back windows, rendering them nearly opaque, and the tail pipe hung precariously, halfway between the chassis and the ground.
“If you’re willing to take her as is… seven hundred bucks?” Jerry probed almost apologetically, with every intention of taking half of that to rid himself of what was probably the most dilapidated clunker in a lot full of them.
“Sold!” an uncharacteristically ebullient Dillon shouted to the dealer’s surprise, peeling off seven one-hundred dollar travelers cheques from his money clip. He wanted the sale to be trackable.
Jerry slapped his clueless customer on the back and heartily congratulated him on his new car.
After a few papers were signed, Dillon slung his backpack into the passenger seat, sputtered off the lot, and set a course for the I-95 New Hampshire rest area. He’d probably be about fifteen minutes late, which didn’t give him a moment’s pause. That scumbag could wait.
After just under an hour’s drive, he pulled off the interstate and parked his car illegally at the curb right outside the entrance to the travel plaza. As he rounded the back bumper on his way into the building, he stooped down to affix a generous amount of duct tape to the loosely hanging tailpipe. Then he strutted confidently into the food court to find Bradford hunched over a half-drunk cup of coffee at a remote table in the back of the seating area.
Bradford looked up from the table to see him approaching and made no effort to mute his expression. He nearly laughed out loud, watching Dillon walk in with some kind of king-of-the-computer-lab bravado. The intensifying glare that fronted Dillon’s 110-pound frame only made the scene more delightfully ludicrous.
That’s right, shitface. Go ahead and enjoy it — while you still can, Dillon thought.
He tossed his backpack into the booth and took the seat facing Bradford, who could barely contain himself. “You’re the one who’s been snooping around our intranet for the past four or five years?” he taunted. “What? Did you get into hacking when you were six?”
“If you’d taken ten seconds to learn anything about me, you’d know I was taken away from my dad when I was 12,” Dillon fumed. “But you wouldn’t give a shit anyway.”
Completely unfazed, Bradford continued to stare right back at him with bemused disdain. “I’m sorry. This is just unbelievable to me.”
Dillon struggled to tone down his glare and leaned back in his seat. “I know about J’Quarius Jones’s medical exam before he died,” he said, trying his best to project a confident even keel. “And I know about Annamaria Olivera’s surgery when she was 13 years old.”
Bradford’s grin faded just slightly. “And? So what? I mean, is that supposed to scare me? A lot of people know about those things. I had nothing to do with the surgery, and I’ve been exonerated in J’s untimely death.”
“J’Quarius!” Dillon snapped. “Don’t you dare refer to him as a ticker symbol!”
“Look, kid,” Bradford fired back. “You’re in no position to be making demands of me! I’ve got hard evidence against you. You got greedy with your Avillage trades. Frankly, I can’t believe the SEC wasn’t already on to you. You’ve got some serious federal charges coming your way.
“The only reason I’m even giving you a chance to try to wriggle your way out of this is that you’re one of ours, D — I — L — N.”
Dillon leaned in to study Bradford’s expression. “I also know about the murder of Ryan Tyler’s parents,” he whispered.
This time he saw something. It was subtle. But unmistakable in its abruptness. Bradford immediately tried to recreate his previous smug expression, but he fell just short in his attempt. His smirk was still there, but it seemed strained now. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” he said, shaking his head incredulously, but briefly breaking eye contact for the first time. “I’ve never had anything to do with his account, and his parents were killed in a head-on collision. I certainly wasn’t the one driving the car that hit them.”
“That’s a pretty good memory for something that happened over ten years ago to ‘an account’ you had nothing to do with,” Dillon said. Now he was the one wearing the contented smirk.
Bradford’s eyes narrowed. “I came here to give you an opportunity to defend yourself…”
“You came here for extortion!” Dillon yelled, drawing a few glances from the neighboring tables.
“Stupid little shit,” Bradford muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You’re making a grave mistake.” He grabbed his coffee, shimmied out of the booth, and stood up to glare one last time at Dillon. “You’ll be hearing from the FBI. Soon!”
“Oh, I know,” Dillon said, reaching into his backpack. “But it’s not gonna be on your timetable.”
The color instantly drained from Bradford’s expressionless face, as he stared down thunderstruck at the muzzle of a .22-caliber pistol aimed right between his eyes.
“You were right,” Weinstien said just as Ryan’s phone reached his ear, not giving him a chance to say hello. “There were unusual circumstances surrounding your parents’ car accident.