Book of Nathan (33 page)

“Almost any medical student could peg what would be wrong,
Mr. Bullock. Even back then, it wasn’t much of a challenge.”

“Really?”

“The patient in question was admitted in nineteen seventy,
as I recall. So, the problem was far more apparent in those days.”

“Those days?”

“Yes. Before the Roe vs. Wade case. When illegal abortions
were common.”

“So, Ruth—so, the patient had a botched abortion.”

“Not at all unusual,” the doctor stated. “Not back then, at
least.”

“Would the medical records and cause of death certificate
say anything about abortion?”

“Not specifically. But anyone with a basic medical
background could look at those records and make an educated guess.”

“Did—did Arthur Silverstein know?”

The doctor glanced at his wife who was busy stuffing Davey’s
hat into a plastic bag. I could see a flash of concern in his eyes and I could
read the question running through his well-educated head: what’s the point of
doling out more answers since I’ve already snagged an autographed cap?

“Yes,” Dr. Meseck said softly. “I told him.”

“Yet he never went public with what actually happened. He
let the world think his daughter died of a drug overdose.”

“Her blood work was positive for cocaine.”

“But cocaine didn’t kill her.”

A spark of trepidation lit up Meseck’s eyes. “There was no
autopsy.”

I didn’t want the doctor thinking this was some kind of
American Medical Association sting. So, I tried lessening his concern. “The
medical records were sealed except for the copy passed along to Arthur.”

“And a copy that apparently found its way to the trust
files.”

“Yes,” I concurred without really knowing if that were true
or whether Doug had managed to pilfer the records some other way. “But this was
all kept confidential and that’s not going to change. It’s just curious Arthur
wouldn’t counter the impression his child died of an overdose.”

“Actually, Mr. Silverstein never commented openly about his
daughter’s death. I remember talking to him when he was sitting shiva. He said
it was best to say as little as possible about how and why Ruth died. And he
asked me to be discreet about what happened to her.”

I wondered if Silverstein used the word “discreet” at the
same time he pushed a few thousand bucks into Dr. Meseck’s pocket. “But when
you talked to the press, you inferred Ruth OD’d.”

“I didn’t infer. I just didn’t contradict the media
speculation. It was common knowledge Ruth was a drug user. She had a couple of
arrests. So, it was a logical assumption that Ruth couldn’t handle her habit.”

Logical assumptions and the truth didn’t always line up. Ask
Miklos Zeusenoerdorf. The logical assumption was that he used a wooden cross to
beat Benjamin Kurios to death.

“Arthur Silverstein knew what actually happened,” I said to
Meseck. “Somebody ripped open his kid in a back alley. He doesn’t seem to be
the kind of man who would forgo tracking down whoever killed his daughter.”

“People like Arthur forgo very little,” Meseck said with a
shrug that told me he had more information at his disposal. “Anyway, Ruth’s
death turned Arthur into an avid pro-choice supporter. It’s common knowledge he
puts a lot of money and time into making sure abortions don’t revert back to
coat hangers and lye douches.”

“Do you know which organizations he—?”

He stood abruptly. “I’m afraid we must be on our way.”

I thanked the Mesecks and fired a few more questions as they
folded themselves into their Jaguar XK. “Do you remember Mr. Silverstein’s
reaction when you explained Ruth’s cause of death?”

Surprisingly, Meseck was forthcoming. “Indeed. Arthur’s wife
had been institutionalized a couple of years earlier—”

“Yes, that’s well documented.”

“So he was pretty much on his own when his daughter was
brought into the E.R.”

“It must have been very difficult for him.”

“Very. His money meant nothing that night. It was blood, not
dollars, we needed to save his daughter.”

I didn’t hide my puzzlement. “Blood?”

“Ruth had a rare blood type. I’m not sure she would have
pulled through even if we could have found a compatible donor. Anyway, we just
didn’t have time to—”

“What about her father?” I broke in.

“Arthur wasn’t a match. And his other child was an
infant—too young to be a donor.”

I hadn’t expected Meseck to deliver any jaw-dropping
surprises—only to confirm the suspicions I had about Silverstein and his
daughter. This news was a lightning bolt.
 

“Other child?” I asked through the driver’s-side window of
the Jag. “I’ve read and heard a lot about Arthur Silverstein. I thought he had
only one child.”

Meseck gave me a look that told me the wrong information had
just leaked out. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” he said.

“But you did. There’s another child?

“It was a product of—shall we say—an indiscretion,” he said.
“And this is not something you ever heard from me. Do we understand each
other?”

“We do. I assume Silverstein never openly acknowledged that
he had two children.”

“I was told by a third party that Arthur paid the boy’s
mother a handsome sum for child support and more money for her silence.”

“Do you know the boy’s name? Any information about where he
was brought up?”

“No,” Meseck said, “And frankly, I gave you much more
information than was warranted even if you did sign my grandson’s cap.”

Chapter 23

Saturday
was as close to nirvana as New Jersey ever gets. No smog. Seventy-two degrees.
Low humidity. All signs pointed to ideal conditions for Douglas Kool’s Ellis
Island nighttime extravaganza.

After breakfast, I dialed Yigal’s cell. No answer. Figuring
the lawyer was once again cross-examining Twyla, I distracted myself with
Gateway office work until noon. Then I drove Doc and Maurice to Hinkle’s Black
Tie in Edison, dropped them off, and circled back to the office.
 

I took a few minutes to pull up the
Quia Vita
Web site and memorize the faces of the two Visio Dei members who would be
picking up the
Book of Nathan
disk from the mysterious Osman Seleucus. They were the last photos on a Web
page titled
Tributes and
Recognition
subtitled
For Meritorious Service.
 

At four o’clock, I was straightening my black bow tie,
adjusting a new two-color cummerbund, and picking the lint off my tux jacket. I
knew Doc and Maurice had returned to the Gateway—Hinkle had reluctantly agreed
to drive the pair back to New Brunswick, after dressing them in donated formal
wear. I told my assistant to track them down while I navigated my Buick to the
Gateway’s front entrance. Five minutes later, Doc and Maurice appeared looking
like Ralph Lauren’s worst nightmare.

“What the hell—”

“Get what you pay for,” the professor noted with a shrug.

“Good God.”

“Hinkle has problems with your United Way friend,” Doc
explained. “Said he was ambushed into donating the tuxedos but he’d be
goddamned if he was going to fork over labor costs for alternations.”

Doc’s pants were too short and his coat at least a size too
large. He wore a blue and silver paisley vest that hung over his pot belly like
a skirt. Maurice’s white wing tip shirt gaped open just below his bright
red-striped bowtie. Both men wore scuffed brown loafers and tan socks.
 

What I was looking at was beyond bad taste. My boys were
going to send Doug into shock. I checked my watch—four fifteen. Too late to
make any clothing adjustments since the ferry to Ellis Island was leaving at
five thirty.

I drove through light traffic on the turnpike to exit 14B
and followed signs to Liberty State Park. While the State of New Jersey and the
feds put a boatload of money into revitalizing the waterfront near Ellis Island
and the Statue of Liberty, they spent nothing on upgrading the convoluted
roadway that led to the park. We jostled over potholes and torn-up cobblestones
before reaching a cordoned-off stretch of road near the ferry terminal that
served as the reserve parking area for those with invitations to the United Way
dinner.

“Over there—that’s Figgy’s car!” Maurice pointed to a Ford
Taurus that had stopped short of the guarded entryway to the VIP parking lot.

One of the side effects of using mind-altering drugs is an
occasional hallucination. When Maurice says he sees things, it’s usually
because he’s slipped into momentary delirium. So, if he claims he spotted
Alicia Keys driving a sanitation truck in New Brunswick or Barack Obama selling
chickpea falafels in Manhattan, you learn to take these things skeptically.
Since it was impossible that Yigal Rosenblatt was within a thousand miles of
Liberty State Park, I didn’t even think about cranking my head to check the car
Maurice was looking at.

“It is
Figgy,”
Maurice repeated.

“You know, I think he’s right,” Doc said.

The starched collar on my After Six tuxedo shirt suddenly
became tight. I braked my Buick and my eyes followed Maurice’s index finger
that was aimed dead center at the Taurus.

I did a U-turn and navigated my way to Yigal’s car.

“Yigal. I screamed. “What—”

The lawyer opened the door and flapped his arms. “I had to
come back. No choice. No choice at all.”

“But why? Why?”

Twyla scrambled out of the passenger side. “It was
something, Bullet,” she said excitedly. “And if it wasn’t for Yiggy—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I could practically
feel Manny Maglio’s garlic breath on the back of my neck.

“Followed us to the house,” Yigal chattered. “They broke
in.”

“Who
broke
in?”

“Two men. Don’t know who they were.” Yigal massaged a lump
on his forehead with his right hand.

This made no sense. Maglio had eliminated the two Hispanic
hit men as a threat. Besides, even when they were still breathing, the pair had
no interest in Yigal and Twyla—just Doc Waters. Even Arita Almiras wasn’t a
likely suspect. Ida Kyzwoski had sounded a warning about the Almiras Society and
how it had enlisted more than just her late husband to keep tabs on me. But I
was the target, not Zeusenoerdorf’s lawyer and the niece of a mob boss. “What
did they want?” I asked Yigal, suspicion oozing through the question.

“Told me to back off, is what they said.”

“Back off? Back off from what?”

“Kurios case. Said Zeus was guilty and I should let things
be.”

Twyla jumped in. “Thank God for Yiggy, Bullet. Those two
guys might of killed us both.”

“You saw them?” I asked.

“It happened outside the house,” she explained. “I never saw
nobody, but as soon as Yiggy came inside, he told me to pack my suitcase. We
took off and didn’t stop once on the way here except for going to the bathroom
and to buy mascara.”

The fishy odor of Yigal’s story was getting stronger, but
there wasn’t time to probe. “Why didn’t you call?” I asked the lawyer. “You
were supposed to call
.
Remember?”

“Smashed my cell phone, is what they did,” Yigal claimed,
“Totally destroyed it.”

“Did you ever hear of a pay phone?”

“Had to get here as soon as we could. Orlando’s not safe.
Nowhere’s safe.” Yigal’s yarmulke flew off. Twyla retrieved the cap from the
pavement and handed it to the attorney with a starry-eyed look reserved only
for those who are gaga in love.

I pulled Yigal to one side and pressed hard on his
shoulders. His vibrating stopped long enough for me to look him in the eyes.
“You listen to me. I don’t know what’s happening here, but you put me in a
really bad place. The first thing in the morning, you’re flying back to Orlando
with Twyla. Then you’re going to live up to your promise to get her to
Universal Studios by nine a.m. on Monday. Understood?”