Fatal Care (36 page)

Nancy thought back and then slowly shook her head. “I don’t remember anything like that. But, of course, all deliveries are made at the back of the plant.”

“You mean, the deliveries are made on the side of the building.”

“No,” Nancy said at once. “At the back where they have a large loading dock.”

“I see,” Joanna said, recalling the side entrance where the delivery van had pulled up. There was no road leading to it and no loading dock.

Nancy lowered her voice to a whisper. “Was he really working with human fetuses?”

“We have our suspicions,” Joanna said vaguely.

“I’m glad I’m getting the hell out of there.” Nancy glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening in. “Human fetuses, for chrissakes!”

Joanna gave her a long look. “What we talk about here remains confidential. You understand that. Right?”

“Of course.”

They came to the ladies shoe section. A big sale was on. A sign read 50% OFF. The shoes were stacked up on a table in no particular order. A group of women were busily rummaging through them.

“Did you do any work with viruses out at Bio-Med?” Joanna asked quietly.

“Some.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We were taking adenoviruses and modifying them so they wouldn’t cause disease.” Nancy explained how the modified virus was then used as a vector to carry genetic information into a cell. “So you take a piece of DNA and hook it onto the virus, and then you take that and mix it with the cells. The virus penetrates the cells and carries the DNA in with it. The end result is that new genetic material has been transferred into the cell.”

“So, you’re talking about gene transfer.”

“Exactly.”

“What kind of genes were you transferring?”

“One that might induce the stem cells to produce heparin, which, of course, is a widely used anticoagulant.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” Nancy replied. “It was a complete bust.”

“And I take it that everything was done in vitro?”

Nancy nodded. “No animals were used.”

“Is there any way those modified viruses could have found their way into the lipolytic enzyme preparation?” Joanna asked.

Nancy thought about the question at length before answering. “I don’t see how.”

“Were you the only one working with viruses?”

“Just me.”

“What about Mirren?”

“Him, too. But I did most of the hands-on work.”

Joanna carefully worded her next question. “If he had to, could Mirren have modified the virus by himself?”

“Probably not,” Nancy said. Then she looked over at Joanna and studied her for a moment. “Why all the interest in viruses?”

“Because we found viral particles in the tumors of the three patients who developed cancer after receiving the enzyme preparation.”

Nancy’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that the viruses were present in the lipolytic enzyme preparation the patients received?”

“It almost had to be,” Joanna told her. “There’s no other way to explain the presence of the virus in the three tumors and in the tissues around them.”

“And you think that the virus is somehow associated with the development of the cancers?”

“It seems that way.”

Nancy’s face paled. “Don’t tell me they injected my virus into three patients and caused them to come down with cancer.”

“We can’t prove that.”

“But you think so.”

Joanna nodded. “I think so.”

Nancy swallowed hard, obviously shaken. “I had no idea they were going to do this.”

“I know,” Joanna said softly.

Nancy turned away and stared out into space. “You try to do good research and help people. And along comes a bastard like Mirren who . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What use could that virus have had in the enzyme preparation?” Joanna asked. “Why was it there?”

Nancy shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“We’ve got to find out,” Joanna said, lowering her voice as a group of shoppers passed by. “If we knew what they were doing out at Bio-Med, it might give us a clue on how to deal with patients who have already been injected.”

“It would all be in Mirren’s laboratory data books.”

“And where are they?”

“Probably in his office. Or maybe in the back lab.”

Joanna sighed hopelessly. “And we’ll never get in there without knowing the code that opens the door.”

“I think I know it,” Nancy whispered.

Joanna moved in closer. “How did you get it?”

“As bright as Mirren was, he had a terrible memory for numbers,” Nancy said. “So he wrote down things like telephone numbers on his sleeve. The other day I passed by the place at Bio-Med where Mirren hung his laboratory coat. It had two sets of numbers written on the sleeve. I knew one of them. It was the code to the front door. I’ll bet my last dollar that the second set was the code to the hot zone lab.”

“Did you write down the second code?” Joanna asked quickly.

Nancy smiled mischievously. “I just might have.”

“So you could get in there any time you wanted, couldn’t you?”

“Not during the day,” Nancy answered. “They watch me like hawks.”

“What about the night?”

“I guess it’s possible,” Nancy said hesitantly. “But it would still be risky.” She took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to make up her mind. “It’d be really risky.”

“What if I came with you?” Joanna coaxed.

“There’s so much security,” Nancy said uneasily.

“There are ways around that,” Joanna pressed on.

“It’s going to take a lot of planning,” Nancy cautioned. “And a lot of luck to pull it off.”

“This is really important,” Joanna emphasized. “People’s lives might be at stake here.”

Nancy looked Joanna squarely in the eyes. “You’d really go in there with me?”

“Absolutely.”

Nancy smiled faintly. “You’re braver than I am.”

“Or maybe not as smart.”

Nancy took Joanna’s arm. “Let’s go up to the café on the second floor. We can get some coffee and talk more.”

As they rode the escalator up, they heard a medley of Gershwin tunes being played on a nearby piano. Neither woman noticed the man following them.

Sara was ten minutes late for her meeting with Scottie and his cement truck. She sped up as she took the Mulholland Drive exit off the freeway and drove westward along the winding road. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw a dark Chevrolet a dozen car lengths behind her. It wasn’t the car that she thought might have been following her, but to make sure she pulled over to the side of the road and pretended to be studying a map. The car behind her passed and disappeared around a curve ahead.

Sara continued on, watching for the off-road rest area that was 1.8 miles from the freeway exit. She checked the rearview mirror again. No one was behind her. The road was clear. She lit a cigarette, less tense now.
Only one more thing to do
, Sara thought,
and I’m out of here. I whack Joanna Blalock, get my forty grand, and scoot
.

Everything else had been taken care of. She had gotten back into her condominium unseen, collected some personal things and downloaded her computer. And she’d done it all in under twenty minutes. Her only possessions were in the overnight bag on the seat beside her. Again she glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing. Her odometer showed she’d traveled 1.6 miles from the freeway exit.

Sara rounded a sharp curve—then another and another. Up ahead she saw the off-road rest area. A huge cement truck was parked there, and next to it was a new Cadillac. Something about the setup made Sara feel uneasy. Why a car and a cement truck? Two vehicles meant two people. She was supposed to meet only
one
man called Scottie. Sara reached into her purse and made certain the safety on the weapon was in the off position.

She pulled off the road and stopped in the rest area. Slowly she got out of the car, her open purse in her hand.

A big, heavyset man with dark hair and a barrel chest came over. He was wearing blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket. “I’m Scottie. And you’re late. Where the hell you been?”

“I thought somebody might be following me,” Sara explained. “So I got off and on the freeway a couple of times to make certain nobody was on my tail.”

Scottie was instantly on guard, his senses sharpened. Quickly he peered down the winding road and saw no cars or lights. “You sure nobody was there?”

“If he was, I lost him.”

Sara glanced around the deserted area and then up at the cement truck. A man was behind the steering wheel, but Sara couldn’t make out his face in the twilight. “Why is the truck here?”

Scottie looked at her strangely. “You expect me to park a big-ass cement truck outside a ritzy condominium complex in Brentwood?”

“I guess not,” Sara said.

“All right. Let’s go through the numbers here.” Scottie took out an unfiltered cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. He blew smoke into the cool evening air. “This is David’s plan. We follow it to the letter. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“We’ve checked out this Blalock broad and she never gets back to her condo until after eight every night. Her parking space is on the outside of the building near a side gate. There’s a light there, but I fixed it so it ain’t working now.”

Sara asked, “Are there any units or windows close by?”

“Nothing but a brick wall,” Scottie answered. “I’ll park in a space for guests that’s a few rows back. You’ll be right next to her in a handicapped parking space.” He reached into his back pocket and handed her a handicapped-parking permit. “You put this in your window. If anybody gives you any shit, you tell them you’re waiting for your mother who’s walking on crutches.”

Sara nodded, now understanding why Scottie had brought a car along with the cement truck. “When do I make the hit?”

“All right, all right,” Scottie said, moving his hands as if he were talking with them. “The Blalock broad gets out of her car and I start my car. I turn the lights on bright so she’s sure to look around. That’s when you jump out and whack her. Two shots to the head. And don’t stand around to admire your work. Get in your car and leave. Don’t drive fast. Just go nice and slow. I’ll take care of all the rest.”

Sara thought through the plan, searching for risks and flaws. “What if somebody else is nearby? You know, a jogger or somebody walking their dog?”

“I’ll handle it,” Scottie said.

Sara glanced up at the man in the cement truck. “And what does he do?”

“He stays here until I come back with Blalock in a body bag,” Scottie replied, taking a final drag on his cigarette before crushing it out on the ground. “Then we drive to a real lonely spot and make the body disappear.”

“Good,” Sara said, nodding her approval and wondering where she would pick up her forty-thousand-dollar fee. She didn’t want to leave Los Angeles without it. Sara didn’t believe in IOUs. “Did David leave any instructions for me?”

“A bunch,” Scottie said as headlights appeared in the distance. He took Sara’s arm and guided her behind the cement truck. “If somebody stops and gets nosy, you just stay put. Let Louie up in the cab take care of it.”

“Suppose it’s a highway cop?” Sara asked worriedly.

Scottie shrugged. “We’ll put him in cement, too.”

The headlights came closer and closer—then sped past without slowing down.

Sara breathed easier. “You were saying David left some instructions for me?”

“A whole bunch. So listen up, because I don’t want to go through all this shit again.” Scottie lit another cigarette and spat a piece of tobacco from his lip. “You make the hit and you drive away nice and slow. You take the San Diego Freeway to the airport and get off at the Century Boulevard exit. A couple of blocks down you’ll see a big neon sign that says Safety Valet Parking. You got that?”

“Safety Valet Parking,” Sara repeated.

“You give your keys to a guy named José, and he’ll give you a small suitcase that you can carry on the plane. When you open it, it’ll be empty except for your new passport. Throw all your personal stuff in there. The lining in the suitcase will be kind of thick because that’s where David left the money he owes you. Any questions so far?”

Sara thought for a moment and then asked, “What do I do with my gun? I can’t carry it with me because it’ll set off the metal detector at the airport.”

“Leave it in the glove compartment,” Scottie told her. “José will lose it for you.”

“What happens to my car?”

“We’ve already sold it to some guy in Tijuana,” Scottie said. “It’ll be across the border before dawn.”

“Nice,” Sara said, thinking that David was good at details and planning. That’s why he’s never been arrested, much less caught committing a crime.

“Your cut from the sale of the car is also in the lining of the suitcase,” Scottie went on. “We didn’t get as much as we usually do because we had to unload it real quick. You picked up an extra two grand.”

Sara smiled to herself.
Good old David
. He had been a real friend to her, and she would always be indebted to him for that. Sara wondered if they’d ever see each other again.

“So, José will put you on one of those airport buses,” Scottie continued. “And you’ll get off at the Delta counter.”

“My ticket is on United.”

“Tear it up. The Delta ticket matches the name on your passport.”

Scottie studied the indecision on her face, suspecting that she was thinking about cashing in the United ticket. “Tear the damn thing up! That’s what David said to do.”

“Okay,” Sara agreed, but the ticket to New York had cost nearly two thousand dollars because she had to make the reservation on such short notice. She’d cash it in. “Is my new ticket to New York?”

Scottie shook his head. “To Miami. David said for you to stay there for a while, then think about taking a trip to Costa Rica.”

That was a secret message from David. Costa Rica had excellent plastic surgeons who charged only a fraction of what their American counterparts charged. She and David had talked several times about what to do if either of them was on the run and in real trouble. Go to Costa Rica and get a face job and a new passport photo to match. Then come back to the United States with a new identity. “Costa Rica, huh?”