Bloodline (15 page)

Jack pressed the doorbell and waited. A few seconds later he saw Dr. Levy peek out through one of the sidelights, then duck back. The door didn't open right away, so Jack reached for the knocker. The door retracted a few inches just as his fingers touched the brass.

"What are you doing here?" Levy said in a hushed tone.

"We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say."

After the way Levy had clammed up last night, Jack had expected resistance tonight. He'd decided during the trip up that the best approach might be to fire his big gun immediately and see if it hit something.

"Not even about Jeremy Bolton?"

Levy's expression didn't change. He didn't even blink. But the color in his cheeks faded half a shade toward white.

"Doctor-patient privilege prevents me from discussing anyone incarcerated at Creighton."

Jack locked eyes with him. "What if we're talking about a Jeremy Bolton who's
not
incarcerated?"

Now
he blinked. And shook his head.

"You don't want to go there. You may think you do, but really, you don't."

"You're probably right. Answer a few questions for me and I might decide to disappear."

"Sorry, no."

He went to close the door but Jack jammed the steel toe of his work boot into the opening first.

"You
owe
me."

"Yes, I do. But you're asking too much."

"Aaron?" said a woman's voice from somewhere in the house. "Is someone at the door?"

"Your wife might think you're being ungrateful. Why don't we ask her?"

"You leave her out of this!" he hissed.

Jack saw an opening and pressed his advantage.

"You mean you didn't tell her about your ride in the trunk of the family car last night? About the stranger who took it upon himself to save your ass? She'll probably have a lot of questions for you after she hears. I'm sure she'll be especially interested in why you didn't tell
her
. Or anyone else, for that matter—not even the police."

Levy's shoulders slumped. He pulled the door open.

"All right. But just for a few minutes." He turned and called up the stairs. "Business, Marie. Papers to be signed. I'll take him to the office."

He ushered Jack into a room off the front foyer—medical texts lining the shelves, a computer and a brass banker's lamp on a cluttered mahogany desk. He shut the door and pulled out a set of keys as he went to his desk.

As Levy unlocked a lower drawer and reached in, Jack pulled his Glock. Levy rose from his stoop with something in his hand—and found the muzzle of Jack's pistol an inch from the bridge of his nose.

He froze.

"What's this?"

"This is a Glock twenty-one. You saw it the other night." Jack gestured to the gizmo in Levy's hand. "What's
that
?"

"An RF detector."

"You think I'm wired?"

"Never can tell. Just let me turn it on and check. Otherwise, I don't say another word."

"Fine with me."

As he watched Levy fire up his little meter he wondered what kind of guy kept an RF detector in his desk drawer. With a start he realized: a guy like me. Jack owned a different model of the same thing. But he didn't keep it within such easy reach. He wasn't that crazy.

The readout indicated background levels, and no increase when Levy moved it closer to Jack.

Okay," he said as he slipped it back into the drawer. "One question. I'll answer
one
question."

Jack intended to ask more, but figured he'd go with the Big One again.

"Why is Jeremy Bohon out of jail?"

Levy seemed prepared for it. His face was as expressionless as a DMV photo, and half as happy.

"Who told you he's out?"

"Your face did a few moments ago."

"Sorry. I'm not responding to that."

"You said you'd answer one question."

"And I will. But I didn't say
any
question."

"If you want to play word games—"

"I hope you're not going to threaten me, because you'll be asking for a world of trouble."

Jack sat down—figured it was time for Levy to start getting used to the fact he was going to be here awhile.

"Really?"

"I did a little background on you, John Robertson, private detective." He flashed a mirthless smile. "You look awfully good for a dead man."

Uh-oh.

Jack smiled. "That happens all the time. There's another detective with the same name…"

Levy was shaking his head. "Someone is paying the dead man's annual license fee. And that would be you. So let's have you answer a question for me: Who are you?"

"The man who saved your life."

Levy looked annoyed as he dropped into the chair behind his desk.

"Do you have to keep bringing that up?"

"I will till it works. Now spill: Why's Bolton running free and nobody knows about it? Check that: I know about it. And I know he's posing as Jerry Bethlehem."

Levy raised his hands. "For the love of God, keep that to yourself. I don't know who you are, but I do feel a debt to you. So unless you want your life turned into a living hell, forget what you know."

The genuine distress in Levy's voice disturbed Jack.

"Who's going to bring the hell? Bolton?"

He shook his head. "No. Look, this is big—bigger than you can imagine. You're dealing with a powerful government agency with roots in the Pentagon, congress, and ultimately the White House. This is important to them. You interfere with their plans and they'll comb through your life for every little—"

"Got to find me first."

"Oh, they'll find you. You may think you're hiding behind this John Robertson persona, but they'll rip through that like tissue paper. Everybody leaves tracks. They'll find yours and follow them and make you wish you'd never been born."

Jack's stomach turned sour. Yeah, he'd gone to elaborate lengths to insulate himself from scrutiny, but a motivated organization with enough manpower, access to all sorts of databases, the power to twist arms… he wouldn't stand a chance. They'd haul him up from underground and hold him to the light. And have a field day with what they'd find.

But he couldn't let Levy see that he'd touched a nerve.

"So that's why you didn't want to call the cops."

He nodded. "I'm not immune from their wrath. Nobody is."

"What if I've got nothing to hide?"

Right.

"Everybody's got something to hide. But just in case you're that rara avis with a spotless life, it won't remain spotless for long. If they can't find something, they'll manufacture it."

Jack knew in his case they—whoever
they
were—wouldn't have to manufacture a thing.

Still, he had to know.

"Heard and understood. Now, back to square one: What's he doing running around free?"

Levy stared at him. "Are you insane?"

"It's sort of the general consensus."

Another long stare, followed by a sigh. "All right then. It's all legal—legal in that the agency in charge of Creighton has designed a closely monitored, special-circumstances release."

"Whoever's in charge of the monitoring sure as hell dropped the ball. Where was his monitor when he drowned Gerhard? Or shoved you into your trunk?"

"Not that kind of monitoring. Nobody's got binoculars on him all the time. And besides, who says he killed Gerhard? When did it happen?"

Jack could only guess. "Tuesday night I'd guess."

Levy gave a quick, nervous smile. "There you go. All day Tuesday—day and night—he was at Creighton for testing. It's his blood we monitor."

"I don't get it."

Levy hesitated, then said, "Considering what you already know, I can't see what difference it makes to tell you. This release program is a clinical trial of sorts. We're testing a special medical therapy developed for a certain subset of violent criminals."

"What kind of therapy?"

"That is off-limits. All I can say is that it is designed to suppress violent tendencies. The subject shows up for a weekly injection and blood tests to monitor the level of the drug in his system."

"Got a medical bulletin for you: It's not working."

"It's a clinical trial. We don't know the proper dose yet. We expect a setback or two in the early—"

"
Setback
? Torture and murder—"

"I can assure you he did not lay a finger on Gerhard."

Jack would need more than just Levy's word.

"What about kidnapping? Just a 'setback'?"

"You keep blaming him without proof. And he has an alibi. The attempted abduction was… unfortunate. But it doesn't mean the trial is a failure, it simply means we need to adjust the dosage. Which we have. I'm sure nothing like that will ever happen again."

Jack stared at him. "You're not sure at all."

Levy looked away—confirmation enough.

"We'll make you the same offer we made Gerhard."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Why…" He seemed flustered for a second. "Why, Creighton, of course. We'll pay you whatever you might have received from Mrs. Pickering and—"

"Gerhard took your offer?"

A nod.

Crook.

"And true to his word, he said nothing to the Pickering woman. So you can see there was no need for Jeremy to even talk to him, let alone kill him."

"Speaking of Mrs. Pickering, what's the story with Bolton and her daughter?"

"Well, he's a hetero male, she's a female the same age he was when he was locked up. What more story do you need?"

Keeping in character, Jack said, "Yeah, I suppose the first thing I'd do once I got out of stir was hook up with some poontang."

"Well, it wasn't the first thing. The very first thing he did was get himself tattooed." He held up his hand and pointed to the web between his thumb and forefinger. "Right here, of all places."

Jack remembered the Kicker in the bookstore yesterday.

"Tattoo of what?"

"Some ridiculous little stick figure."

Jack felt a chill ripple across his back.

"With a diamond-shaped head?"

"Why, yes. How did you know? You've never been that close to Bolton." His eyes narrowed. "Or have you?"

Jack didn't answer immediately. His brain was too wrapped up in all the unfolding connections. Connections… not coincidences.

Jeremy Bolton was a Kicker.

"Excuse me?" Levy said, waving a hand. "Are you there? How did you know?"

Jack shook himself. "That figure is all over Manhattan. Followers of a book called
Kick
."

Levy snapped his fingers. "Right. Bolton once had a book with that figure on its cover. What's it mean?" He grimaced. "Working at Creighton tends to insulate you from the Zeitgeist."

Jack wished he could escape the Zeitgeist. He didn't know what the figure meant, but knew he had to find the connection.

"The author, Hank Thompson—"

"Did you say Hank Thompson? That's the author who's been interviewing Bolton."

Jack felt as if he'd been kicked.

"What? Why? How?"

"Research. His next book is going to be on the Atlanta abortionist killings."

Funny… just a few hours ago he'd said he hadn't decided yet. But he might simply be keeping the topic under wraps.

That didn't bother Jack anywhere near as much as the way two supposedly separate parts of his present-day life were intersecting.

"I'm kind of surprised you let anyone get near Bolton."

"The last thing we wanted, believe me. We turned him away but Thompson threatened to take us to court. We feared he might win—freedom of the press and all that crap—so we granted him access. But we've limited it as much as possible."

"How limited?"

"Thompson had one hour access a week."

"He did time at Creighton back in the nineties, you know."

"Of course I know. Our security had him fully vetted before we let him in. Unfortunately he turned out to be just what he said he was: a former inmate and a bestselling author." He smiled. "I never knew he was the author of
Kick
. I'll have to read it sometime."

"Their stays at Creighton overlapped. Any chance they could have met there?"

He shook his head. "Highly unlikely. Prisoners in the maximum security wing have no contact with the other residents. He told us it was the Creighton connection that inspired him to write Bolton's story."