Chapter20
NINE THE NEXT MORNING, I was in the office of Dr. Victor Medved, a pleasant, smallish man with a narrow, chiseled face, who, with a trace of an Eastern European accent, scared the hell out of me. "Negli's is a killer," he stated evenly. "It robs the body of its ability to transport oxygen. "In the beginning, the symptoms are listlessness, a weakening of the immune system, and some light-headedness. Ultimately, you may experience similar brain dysfunction to a stroke and begin to lose mental capacity as well." He got up, walked over to me, cradled my face in his gentle hands. He stared at me through thick glasses. "You're already peaked," he said, pressing my cheeks with his thumbs. "Always takes me a while for the blood to get hopping in the mornings," I said with a smile, trying to mask the fear in my heart. "Well, in three months," Dr. Medved said, "unless we re verse it, you will look like a ghost. A pretty ghost, but a ghost all the same." He went back to his desk and picked up my chart. "I see you are a police detective." "Homicide," I told him. "Then there should be no reason to go forward under any delusions. I don't mean to upset you. Aplastic anemia can be reversed. Up to thirty percent of patients respond to a regimen of biweekly transfusions of packed red blood cells. Of those who do not respond, a similar percentage can be ultimately treated through a bone marrow transplant. But this involves a painful process of chemotherapy first in order to boost up the white cells." I stiffened. Orenthaler's nightmarish predictions were coming true. "Is there any way to know who responds to the treatment?" Medved clasped his palms together and shook his head. "The only way is to begin. Then we see." "I'm on an important case. Dr. Orenthaler said I could continue to work." Medved pursed his lips skeptically. "You may continue as long as you feel the strength." I meted out a slow, painful breath. How long could I hide this? Who could I tell? "If it works, how long before we see improvement?" I asked with some hope. He frowned. "This is not like popping aspirin for a headache. I'm afraid we're in this for the long haul." The long haul. I thought of Roth's likely response. My chances at lieutenant. This is it, Lindsay. This is the greatest challenge of your life. "And if it doesn't work, how long… before things start to…" "Start to get worse? Let us attack this with optimism and hope. We'll discuss that as we go along." Everything was thrown open now. The case, my career, all the goals of my life. The stakes had changed. I was walking around with a time bomb ticking in my chest, tightly wound, incendiary. And the slow, disappearing fuse was all that I thought I might be. I asked quietly, "When do we start?" He scribbled out the location of an office in the same building. Third floor. Moffett Outpatient Services. There was no date. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to start right now."
Chapter 21
THE STORY ABOUT GERALD BRANDT'S business deal with the Russians had broken. It was on every newsstand: bold headline reading, "groom's father may have triggered russian wrath." The Chronicle reported that the FBI was seriously looking into the matter. Great. Two half-liter bags of hemoglobin-enriched blood were pumping through me as I finally reached my desk at about ten thirty. It took everything I had to push from my mind the image of the thick, crimson blood slowly dripping into my vein. Roth called my name- the usual disgruntled glower was all over his face. "Chronicle says its the Russians. The FBI seems to agree," he said as he leaned over my desk. He pushed a copy of the morning's paper at me. "I saw it. Don't let the FBI in on this," I said. "This is our case." I told him about last night, my going back to the crime scene. How I was pretty sure the sexual assault on the corpse, the bloody jacket, the missing rings, added up to a single, obsessed killer. "It's not some Russian professional. He put his fist inside her," I reminded him. "He did this on her wedding night." "You want me to tell the Feds to back off," Roth said, "because you have strong feelings about the case?" "This is a murder case. A kinky, very nasty sex crime, not some international conspiracy." "Maybe the Russian killer needed proof. Or maybe he was a sex maniac." "Proof of what? Every paper and TV station in the country carried the story. Anyway don't the Russki hitters usually cut off a finger, too?" Roth rattled a frustrated sigh. His face showed more than its usual tic of agitation. "I've got to run," I said. I shot my fist in the air and hoped that Roth got the joke. Gerald Brandt was still at the Hyatt, waiting for his son's body to be released. I went to his suite and found him there alone. "You see the papers?" I asked him as we sat at the umbrellaed table on the terrace. "The papers, Bloomberg, some woman reporter from the Chronicle calling all night. What they're suggesting is total madness," he said. "Your son's death was an act of madness, Mr. Brandt. You want me to be straight with you when it comes to the investigation?" "What do you mean, Detective?" "You were asked the other day if you knew anyone who might want to cause you harm-" "And I told your detective, not in this way." "You don't think certain factions in Russia might be a little angry at you for pulling out of their deal?" "We don't deal with factions, Ms. Boxer. Kolya's shareholders include some of the most powerful men in this country. Anyway, you make me seem like I'm a suspect. It was business. Negotiations, In what we do, we deal with this sort of thing every week. David's death has nothing to do with Kolya." "Mr. Brandt, how can you be so sure? Your son and his wife are dead." "Because negotiations never broke off, Detective. That was a ruse we used for the media. We closed on the deal last night." He stood up, and I knew my interview was over. My next call was to Claire. I ached to talk to her anyway. I craved my daily Claire fix. I also needed help on the case. Her secretary said she was in the middle of a conference call when my call came in. She told me to hold on. "Forensic specialists," Claire grumbled as she came on the line. "Listen to this… Some guy's driving sixty in a thirty five zone, rams into an elderly man in his Lexus, double parked, waiting for his wife. DOA. Now the driver's tying up the guy's estate with a suit that the victim was illegally parked. All each side wants is to grab a piece of the estate, experts included. Righetti's pushing me in 'cause the case's being written up in an AAFS journal. Some of these bastards, you give them a penny for their thoughts, you know what you get?" "Change," I answered with a smile. Claire was funny. "You got it. I've got about thirty-one seconds. How you doing?" she inquired. "I love you, sweetheart. I miss you. What do you want, Lindsay?" I hesitated, part of me wishing I could let the whole thing burst out, but all I asked was if the Brandts were wearing any wedding bands when they were brought in. "To my knowledge, no," she replied. "We inventoried earrings and a diamond as large as an eyeball. But no wedding bands. I noticed that myself. In fact, that's why I was calling you last night." "Great minds think alike," I said. "Busy minds, at least," she countered. "How's your grisly, godawful case coming?" 1 sighed. "I don't know. Next thing we have to do is go through three hundred guests to see if any might've been carrying any special grudges. You saw how this is being played up in the press. Russian revenge. The FBI's creeping around, and Chief Mercer's barking in Roth's ear to put a real detective on it. Speaking of which, I have Jacobi out trying to trace down the jacket. Other than that, the case is moving along smoothly." Claire laughed. "Stick with it, sweetie. If anyone can solve these murders, it's you." "I wish it were only that…" I let my voice drop. "Is everything all right?" Claire came back. "You don't sound your usual chatty, irreverent self." "Actually, I need to talk with you. Maybe we can get together Saturday?" "Sure," Claire said. "Oh, damn… we've got Reggie's graduation party. Can it keep a day? I could drive in for brunch on Sunday." "Of course it can hold," I said, swallowing my disappointment. "Sunday would be great. I'd like that." I hung up with a smile. For a moment, I actually felt better about things. Just making the date with Claire made it seem as if weights had been lifted off my shoulders. Sunday would give me some time to prepare. About how I was going to deal with the treatment, and my job. Raleigh wandered up. "You want to grab a coffee?" I thought he was needling me about what time I'd come in. He must have sensed my resentment. He wagged a legal-size manila envelope in my face and shrugged. "It's the Brandts' wedding guest list. I thought you'd want to see who made the cut."