Do Not Go Gentle (12 page)

Jamie opened the car door and plopped down. “So you're going this alone?”

“No, I've got a rookie with me. You just get your ass better. I'll call you tonight and fill you in.”

“Okay. Good luck, man.”

As Jamie looked at her, Eileen said, “You look terrible. You're not going to go out on a case, Séamus Edward Griffin, and that's that. I won't permit it.”

Jamie slumped back against the seat. “Yeah, neither will my father, Eileen. I'm benched. Let's go home.” He stared silently at the gray rain, his headache and fatigue warring with his sense of shame.

By the end of most Septembers, Jamie was running full throttle. Autumn was his favorite season. Summers often got too hot and humid, and winters often too cold for his liking. While the weather was usually getting nicer in springtime, it seemed just a little too cold or a little too hot, depending on the vagaries of Mother Nature. Autumns, most times, were a different story: the air cooled down from the summer heat, and most days were comfortably warm, followed by chilly nights. The leaves were turning and his beloved Fighting Irish were well underway, as were the Pats. The Red Sox were wrapping up their season. Still ahead was the promise of more glory for the Boston Celtics. For Jamie, autumn was close to a perfect time of year.

This year found Jamie's autumn overshadowed and overwhelmed by his illness. In the past two weeks, he had seen a variety of specialists and been subjected to uncounted tests. His expanded blood tests were negative for everything, including histoplasmosis, toxoplasmosis, HIV, mononucleosis, West Nile disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, and Lyme disease—plus, his ANA, SED and Rheumatoid Factor all came back normal, and none of a variety of nasty sounding viral or bacterial diseases had tested positive. His chest x-rays had been negative, as had the new MRI and the MRA. He was not diabetic, and his thyroid function was okay. Jamie had undergone an overnight sleep study and learned that, despite recent trouble falling asleep, he had no problems with his sleeping. A full set of cardiovascular tests had shown healthy results. An otolaryngologist had found no ear problems. To top it all off, the lumbar puncture, which had provided him with a new definition of pain, revealed nothing.

If anything,
Jamie thought angrily,
I'm feeling worse, and none of these gobshite doctors can find a feckin' thing wrong with me.
Jamie was sitting alone on the front porch of the house, watching an almost perfect late September morning unfold, but was unable to appreciate it. Eileen and the girls were gone to their busy days, and Jamie was relegated to sitting with Finn MacCool and drinking coffee. The day was already warm, and Jamie sat in an ND T-Shirt and long jogging shorts. Jamie felt remorse at his behavior at yesterday's appointment with Doctor Jasinski. After spending half an hour in the waiting room plus another half an hour in the exam room waiting, Jamie had been in a foul mood.

When Jasinski had entered the room, apologizing for running late, Jamie replied bitingly, “No problem, Jerry. I've got nothing better to do.” His response had taken both the doctor and his wife aback, but Jamie plowed ahead. “No offense, but I'm getting sick of seeing you—I've seen you more this month than in all the time I've been your patient, and I've seen more doctors this past week than in the rest of my life combined. What do we have to show for this? Not a feckin' thing.”

When he had finished ranting, Jasinski had reached out and put a hand on Jamie's shoulder. Then he looked him in the eyes and replied, “Jamie. I've been your doctor for a long time. I like to think of you as a friend as well as a patient. I know this is difficult for you, but you need to realize two things. One, I don't for a second believe that there's nothing wrong with you. I think, despite all the tests we've run, that we just haven't found our answer yet. Secondly, we aren't out of options yet for testing. I promise you, we'll keep working until we find an answer.”

Jamie exhaled in frustration. “I know. I'm sorry. You're right—it's just so goddamned hard right now. I feel like I'm letting everyone down.”

“Really?” Jasinski had replied. “So you decided to go out and get sick, did you? Thought sitting around on your ass might be fun?” He laughed. “C'mon, Jamie. Everyone knows better than that.”

“Amen,” muttered Eileen.

Jamie rubbed his face a couple of times, and then he ran his hands back over the top of his head. “I'm sorry—I know, but I can't help how I feel—like I'm letting everyone down.”

“So you just have to work through that.”

“Okay. You said we weren't out of options for testing yet. How can that be? I feel like I've been poked and prodded more than any man should have to endure. What else is there?”

Jasinski shrugged. “We may be out of options here, but while I'm pretty good and Mass General is great, we have some world-renowned resources in the region. I'd like to refer you to some top flight specialists at Johns Hopkins.”

“Johns Hopkins?” Jamie exclaimed. “Sweet Jaysus, Jerry, do you think we're made of money? That place must cost a fortune.”

Jerry nodded as he replied. “Indeed it does, but I had Alice review your records this year. After all the tests and visits you just had, combined with your family's other visits this year, you've reached your maximum annual out-of-pocket expenses. So anything we do from here on out is one hundred percent paid for by your insurance company, as long as we play by the rules for referrals.”

Jamie looked at Eileen who had made a “See?” face back at him, but he refrained from commenting. “Alright, so it won't cost us anything. All well and good, but what can they do there that you haven't been able to order up here?”

Jasinski had laughed. “Oh Jamie, while I appreciate your opinion of my medical skills, I'm just a plain old family doctor, and Mass General would be the first to admit that they don't have all the toys that Hopkins has. I can't tell you what tests they might want to run, but I am pretty familiar with one of their neurologists, Brian Fitzpatrick. Top of his class in medical school, he served with me in the military before heading to Hopkins. I can call Brian and get you in to see him at his earliest opening.”

Jamie looked from his doctor to his wife, then back to his doctor, knowing that he wasn't going to win. “Fine. Set it up.”

Now, looking out at neighbors who passed by wondering why he was home, Jamie felt even worse somehow about the tests scheduled for next week in Baltimore. Next Monday, he and Eileen would fly down and stay at a hotel near Johns Hopkins until they were done poking and prodding him. Eileen would have two of her part-time instructors running the shop and covering her classes. Jamie felt that he was causing everyone a great deal of trouble, when he should just be able to get past this. His mind kept playing over his last meeting with his father.
They hadn't spoken since then, although Nuala had stopped by once and proclaimed them both “rock-headed idjits.” However, neither man had made any overtures to the other.

Jamie was kicking around the idea of calling his father when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Jamie? How are you doing?” a familiar voice asked.

“Hey, Sully. Eh, unfortunately, about the same. What's up?”

“Just checking in. You're not feeling any better? Any good news from the doctors?”

“No, just lots of needles and tests but nothing to show for it. I'm scheduled to head down to Baltimore next week and get a whole new series of tests at Johns Hopkins.”

“Man,” exclaimed Sully, “and they can't find any answers?”

Jamie felt implicit questioning in his commander's voice.
Easy does it, boyo. You can't read too much into what anyone says unless they come right out and slap you in the face with it.
“Nope. Let me tell you, I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

“Well…” Sully paused. “I can't have you going out with Cal any more on any of your cases, Jamie. HQ would have my ass in a sling if they found out. I've put the new guy, Ramirez, with Cushing in your absence, and they're handling everything now. Until you find some answers, Jamie, you have to stay away from your cases.” Jamie could hear steel creeping into Sully's normally easy-going voice.

Jamie swallowed his initial angry response, and after pausing for a few seconds he said, “I understand, Sully. No more official involvement with cases.”

“Now, Griffin, don't go trying to split hairs on me….”

“Sully, I'm promising you not to be officially involved until I'm better, but I'm not going to promise not talk with Cal or meet him somewhere to discuss a case. I'm just not.”

A moment of silence lingered. “Jamie, you do what you have to do, but I'll do what I have to do. I'm not going to let Cushing risk his career, and I'm sure as hell not going to let you risk my career by being a cowboy. If I find out you're directly involved in a case, I'm going to have to report it up the line.”

“You do that,” retorted Jamie, “and while you're at it, tell my Da that if he wants to put me on the bench, he needs to man up and tell me himself.”

“Now, Jamie,” began Sully.

“Now nothing. This whole god-damned situation sucks, and you know it. I appreciate the call, Cap.” Jamie punched the end button on the phone much harder than needed to disconnect.

Hmph.
Jamie thought, distraught at his conversation with Sully, his lingering anger at his father, and his general dissatisfaction with life. Then he got up to head downtown.

* * * *

“Griffin,” came a shout from behind Jamie. He turned to see Cal and Mario Ramirez walking toward him. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Jamie stood in front of a brick building on Hull Street near where they had visited Rufus Choate. The trees in Copps Hill Burying Ground were starting to transition into brilliant shades of red and gold. Jamie waited until the two men reached him, Cal with his hands spread in supplication. Ramirez, a much younger man, was uncomfortable, a rookie between two decorated veterans of the force. “I'm just here as an interested party, Cushing. Not in any official capacity.”

Cal grabbed Jamie by a shoulder. “Listen, Sully read us the riot act about not letting you be involved. You're benched, and I'm not going to get my ass in a sling because you won't sit this out.”

Jamie scowled. “Listen, Cushing, Eileen and Sully have both read me the riot act too. Hell, even the in-laws called and tried to ‘reason' with me.”

“Since when have you ever been reasonable?” retorted Cal.

Jamie laughed and changed the subject. “Ramirez, you have some kind of identity crisis or something? How the hell did you end up with an Italian first name with a Hispanic last name?”

Ramirez glanced sideways at Cushing, then back to Jamie as he replied. “Not my fault, man. Mom's family is Italian and since Dad had the surname, she insisted on the first and middle names. It coulda been worse.”

“How?” asked Jamie.

“My brother is named is Anastagio Dominico Victoriano Ramirez.”

“Holy crap,” said Cal. “You gonna share your middle names?”

“Not on a dare,” replied Ramirez.

“Listen,” said Cal, returning to Jamie, “you've got to back off. Everyone at the station is wondering what the hell is going on with you, and Sully is getting big-time heat from the brass to keep you out.”

Jamie snorted. “Not the brass. One person is behind this and we both know who.”

“I don't care—your father swings a damned big hammer in the department. Are you really going to put
our
careers on the line so you can play cowboy?”

Jamie got angry. “I'm not playing cowboy. I'm going to back off on all my cases except this one. There's too much going on here, and I can help out at home most of the time without getting you guys into trouble.
I
helped you identify the person at the top of this group.
I
interviewed ibn Ezra and Choate with you. So,
I
need to be face to face with the woman behind all this, and you need me to be face to face with her as well.”

Cushing exhaled a deep breath. In the weeks since their interview with Choate, their leads had dried up. They couldn't find any illegal or even suspicious activities on the part of the Disciples of Endor or Samuel Properties. Nor were they having any luck in putting names or faces to the criminal gang known as the Mazzimah.

The most recent murder, a young Boston U student, had allowed them to keep the case active, but they needed to find something more or it wouldn't stay active much longer. Then Jamie, working at home scouring the Internet, had stumbled upon an interesting tidbit involving Samuel Properties, located just down the street from the building before them now. Jamie had cross-referenced the building address with property tax records showing the name of one Sedecla Aba as owner.

Jamie had become suspicious when he could locate almost no paper trail for this person, and he only discovered that it was a female by one of the salutations in the scant documentation online. Apparently, Sedecla Aba did not have a driver's license, which was not unusual in Boston because of the great public transportation. However, Jamie could not find a Social Security Number for her, nor could he find any tax returns in her name. From what he could find, a shell corporation named Malkuthakh Enterprises owned everything. “Malkuthakh” was an Aramaic word for “kingdom.” Malkuthakh Enterprises owned both Samuel Properties and all of the assets attributed to the Disciples. It had taken Jamie quite some time to contact someone connected with Malkuthakh Enterprises, and even after he did and had requested an interview with Aba, he hadn't received an answer for several days. Then he was informed that she would see him today at ten. “This is
my
lead,” finished Jamie vehemently, “and the appointment is with
me
, not you, not Ramirez, not Sully, and not my damned father.”