Miracle Cure (11 page)

"It's him," Willie exclaimed, pointing to the photograph.

"It's Bradley Jenkins."

"Correct."

"Not much resemblance now. Maybe a little around the ears."

"Very funny."

"God, I hate these big cases," Willie said.

"Mayor'll be calling all the time. Everybody wanting answers."

"We might as well get started then. I want you to check the neighborhood. See if anybody saw anything."

"Sure thing. Someone must have heard something screams or a struggle or something."

Bernstein shook his head.

"I don't think the murder took place here."

"What do you mean?" "Take a look at the corpse," he continued.

"Bradley Jenkins has been dead since last night, right?"

"Looks like it."

"But at night this alley is packed with patrons of the Black Magic."

"Patrons. Is that what they call them now?"

Bernstein greeted the remark with a hint of a smile, oh, Willie, if you only knew... "Someone would have seen the murder if it happened back here last night. And there's blood only on the body none in the area.

If he had been stabbed a zillion times back here, the alley would have been sprayed with blood. No, I think Jenkins was killed somewhere else and his body was dumped here. That's where the M.O. is different. The body was moved this time."

Willie followed his young lieutenant's pacing, his head shifting back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match.

"Makes no sense, Twitch. There's a lot of places less risky to get rid of a body. Why here?"

"Don't know."

"You want me to find out if Bradley was gay?"

Max felt a powerful headache coming on and began to massage his temples with his fingertips. The son of a prominent, conservative senator found with multiple knife wounds behind a gay bar Tylenol wouldn't put a dent in this one.

"No need," Bernstein said. "I'll get the personal info from Sara."

"Send my condolences."

"Will do. I want the lab over every inch of this alley and I want this neighborhood canvassed. Ask if they saw anything out of the ordinary last night or this morning."

"Gotcha. Oh, one more thing."

"What?"

"Good luck with the press, those bastards. Next thing you know well have every loony in the area confessing or copy catting the son of a bitch."

Max nodded and clenched his teeth. The pencil in his mouth snapped into two jagged pieces, nearly cutting his gums.

It was going to be a bad week.

"How are you feeling?" Sara asked Michael for the twentieth time.

"Fine," he replied.

"Ask again and I'm going to scream."

"I'm just concerned."

"Then do something constructive," Michael said.

"Liker

"Like lock the door and get naked."

"I stepped into that one, didn't I?"

Michael nodded.

A woman's voice from behind them said, "Hello, Sara."

They both looked toward the entranceway where Dr. Carol Simpson now stood. Chopin's Concerto in D minor played from the small CD player beside Michael's bed. Reece, of all people, had fetched it from the Knick locker room at Madison Square Garden and brought it to the hospital, claiming, "This shit makes me sick, but it might be just what of' Mikey needs." "Michael," Sara said, "this is Dr. Simpson, the obstetrician I was telling you about." "Nice to meet you, Michael," Carol Simpson said.

"Nice meeting you." "I heard you'd been rushed in," she continued.

"How are you feeling?" "Better, thanks," he said.

"Good," she replied.

"Since I knew you were both here, I thought I'd stop by personally to deliver the news."

Michael sat up. His lips felt dry. He tried to wet them with his tongue, but there was no moisture there either.

"News?" he asked.

"Yes. I have the results of Sara's test."

"And?" Sara prompted.

Carol Simpson stuck out her hand.

"Congratulations. You're pregnant."

Sara's hands fluttered toward her mouth. "You're sure?"

"Positive. About two months, I'd say."

Sara turned toward Michael.

"Did you hear that, hon?"

Michael nodded, not yet able to speak.

"Forgive me, Doctor," he managed.

"It's just..."

"No need to apologize. It's nice to see."

Sara wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, smothering him against her chest.

"Well," Dr. Simpson said, "I have to be going back. Sara, want you to stop by and see me tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay."

Michael pulled away.

"Thanks, Doc."

"Take care of yourself, Michael. Congratulations again."

She left them alone.

Michael smiled.

"Do I have to start calling you Mommy soon?"

She nodded.

"And I get to call you Dad."

"Even in bed?"

"No. There I can still call you by your name."

"Hung Stallion?"

"Dream on."

"God, I can't believe it. We're going to be parents, Sara. You, me, and baby makes three."

They kissed.

"I love you, Michael."

"I love you too," he said, rubbing her still-firm stomach.

"Both of you."

As they kissed again, the phone rang. Michael reluctantly reached over, picked up the receiver, and said hello. After a brief pause he handed it to Sara.

"It's for you," he said.

"Who is it?"

He shrugged.

"Don't know."

Sara put the phone to her ear. A nasal, female voice said, "Please hold while I connect you."

There was one ring before the phone was picked up.

"Sara?"

"Max?"

"Jeez, you weren't easy to find. Took me over an hour to track you down. How Ve you been?"

"Never better."

"Glad to hear it."

She could almost see him chewing on his nails as he spoke.

"This isn't a social call, is it, Max?"

"No, it's not."

"So what's up?"

Max Bernstein let go a long breath.

"Bradley Jenkins was murdered. I need to talk to you right away."

They met half an hour later in a quiet corner in the hospital cafeteria. After a quick greeting Max said, "Everything we say here is confidential and off the record, okay?"

"Okay."

"Let me ask you something right off the top." "Go ahead," Sara said.

"Was Bradley Jenkins gay?"

"Yes."

Max had expected that answer. He nodded, his curly dark hair swaying with the movement. He put a fresh pencil into his mouth and began to chew. Then he crossed his right leg over his left, ran his hand through his curls, put his feet back on the floor, and then crossed his left leg over his right.

Bernstein was thirty-two years old, but he looked a good five years younger. Sara knew the police department for that matter the world at large considered Twitch Bernstein a bit of an enigma. Despite being homicide's number one lieutenant, he had no love of danger. He hated carrying a gun and had never used one in the line of duty. He was barely adequate with his fists, did not consider himself particularly brave, and tried to avoid violence whenever possible.

What he did like, however, was solving puzzles the bigger, the better.

And he was good at it. Damn good. No one knew for sure just how he did it, but Bernstein had the rare ability to plod and putter and shift and unnerve and fidget his way to the answer.

"My turn to ask a question," Sara said.

"What happened to Bradley and why did you want to know if he was gay?"

"That's two questions."

"Max..." "Just trying to keep things light," Bernstein said.

"We found his body this morning behind a gay bar in the Village."

"Jesus."

"The autopsy is not in yet, but we're sure he died from multiple stab wounds. We think... Sara, are you all right?"

Sara's eyes were wide, her face shockingly pale.

"Have there been other murders?" she uttered.

"What makes you say that?"

"Don't play with me, Max."

"We may have a serial killer on our hands," he said.

"I wasn't involved in the investigation of the first two cases, but two other men were killed in the same grisly way. We suspect that the same person committed all three murders."

"And why did you ask if Bradley was gay?"

"Because the other two victims were. The killer may be targeting the gay community. Now it's my turn. How did you know that there were other victims?"

"I assume you've met Dr. Harvey Riker," she began.

"Sure."

"You know that he is operating an AIDS clinic in here?"

He shrugged.

"So?"

"The first two victims what were their names?"

"Bill Whitherson and Scott Trian."

"Right. They were part of a select group of AIDS patients who were being treated in this clinic. It should be in your files."

Bernstein's leg began to shake.

"To be honest I haven't had a chance to go through them thoroughly yet.

I just got the case an hour ago." "Anyway, Harvey told me about it last night. That's how I knew."

"An obvious question was Bradley being treated here too?"

Sara lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a sip.

"I don't know," she said.

"You'll have to ask Harvey."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"Just what I said."

"Did Bradley have AIDS?"

"It can't leave this room," Sara said.

"It won't."

"The answer is yes."

"Was he being treated for it?"

"Yes, but I don't know where. It was a big secret, and I didn't want him to tell me."

"Why not?" he asked.

"You know who his father is, of course."

"Of course."

"The senator beat the crap out of Bradley when he found out that I knew about his AIDS. Bradley's father was terrified that the truth would be exposed."

"Because it would ruin him."

"Exactly. So we tried not to talk about it."

"I see." Max stopped, looked up toward the sky, scratched his neck where it met the top of his chest.

"Wouldn't Dr. Riker have said something to you if he was treating Bradley?"

"No way. The clinic is cloaked in secrecy. I do not know the names of any patients being treated at the clinic."

"Interesting." Max looked away for a moment, his hand moving up now to rub his face.

"So why did Dr. Riker speak to you about the two murders last night?"

She hesitated.

"I think you better ask Harvey that."

"Sara, you're not going to pull that 'can't reveal my source' crap on me, are you?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to for right now. But speak to Harvey. He can enlighten you better than I can anyway."

Max shrugged.

"Okay. Let's find him."

After passing two security checkpoints, Max and Sara found Harvey in his office in the Sidney Pavilion. He looked up from his paper-cluttered desk, his eyes red and weary.

"what's up?" he asked.

"Harvey, you remember Lieutenant Bernstein."

"Of course. Hello, Lieutenant."

"How's it going, Doc?"

"Fine, thanks," Harvey replied.

"Sara, I just finished talking to Michael. As we suspected, the abdominal ultrasound showed swelling in Michael's liver." "What does that mean?" Sara asked.

"It could mean a dozen things, but Dr. Sagarel, Eric, and I still agree that it is probably hepatitis. We should have the results of the blood test in another day or two. Chances are he'll need a couple of weeks here and at least a month of bed rest."

"And basketball?"

"Not this season, Sara. There's an outside chance he'll be able to play in the play-offs."

"He knows?" "I told him. His reaction was a little strange."

"Meaning?" "It didn't really bother him all that much. He told me the good news about your pregnancy. Hell, it was all he'd talk about." "Pregnancy?" Max.

"You didn't tell me."

"Hardly seemed the time." "Congratulations," Max said.

"Thank you. Harvey, Lieutenant Bernstein needs to talk to you."

Harvey stood and moved in front of his desk.

"Is this about what we discussed last night?"

"Might be," Max interjected, trying to sound professional but coming across like a bad actor in an old private-eye movie. He had never been good at the tough-guy bit.

"Is Bradley Jenkins a patient of yours?"

Harvey's face twisted into a look of confusion and annoyance.

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Bernstein cleared his throat.

"Mind answering the question?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." His line of vision swung over to Sara.

"What's going on here?"

Sara looked over to Max, who nodded for her to go ahead.

"Bradley Jenkins was found murdered this morning," she said.

"What?"

"Multiple stab wounds," Bernstein said.

"We suspect that his death is related to the murders of two patients at your clinic, a Bill Whitherson and a Scott Trian."

"Jesus Christ."

"Now would you mind answering my question? Was Bradley Jenkins a patient at the clinic?"

Harvey moved tentatively back toward his chair like a man who had taken too many blows. He sat down and lowered his head into his hands.

"Sara," he asked after a few moments had passed, "can he be trusted?"

"Yes."

His eyes tried to lock onto Bernstein's, but the lieutenant's were busy dancing about the small office.

"Swear you won't let the media get it."

"Swear."

"Yes, Bradley Jenkins was a patient of mine a very confidential patient."

"How long had Bradley been receiving treatment here?"

"Not long. Four months maybe."

"And the other two Whitherson and Trian?"

"They were both here from almost the beginning."

"How long ago was that?"

"More than two years."

Max nodded. He finally took out his pad and used the pencil to write on it.

"Now why don't you tell me about last night's conversation with Miss. Lowell?"

Harvey looked over to Sara.

"You can trust him," she said.

Hesitantly, Harvey began by telling Max his suspicions that the murders were related to the clinic. Then he explained that they were close, painfully close, to finding a treatment for AIDS.

Max nodded vigorously, jotting pages of notes and listening without comment.

When Harvey stopped speaking, Bernstein said, "You said 'we' might have found a cure. Who is 'we'?"

"Mostly myself and my late partner, Dr. Bruce Grey and a new member of the team, Dr. Eric Blake."

"Blake's a friend of Michael's, isn't he?"

"Yes," Sara replied.

Max's eyes narrowed in thought. The pencil found its way back into his mouth.

"Dr. Bruce Grey... isn't he the guy who swan-dived through a hotel window a couple of weeks back?"

Harvey glanced toward Sara and then nodded.

"Interesting," Max said again.

"So what do you make of his suicide, Dr. Riker?"

"I'm not sure I make anything out of it," Harvey replied.

"Bruce committed suicide, I guess. That's what the police insist anyway. The rest of what I told Sara must have been some wild fabrications my overtired mind and overactive imagination invented.

It's crazy."

Max moved toward the chair in front of the desk and sat down.

"I enjoy crazy."

Cassandra tiptoed down the staircase. She was still a bit hung over from last night's festivities, but her headache was not nearly as bad as usual. She tried to put the pieces of the previous evening back together. She recalled some heavy-duty conversation with Michael. She vaguely remembered screwing Senator Jenkins in the cabana. She had some recollection of drinking too much.

But the part she remembered with startling clarity came toward the end of the party. Cassandra had made her way to the bar for one last shot before she called it a night. While waiting for the bartender to fill her glass, she started a conversation with a man who also seemed a bit inebriated. She knew who the man was, had met him a few times, but she had never paid him much (or any) attention. But no one else was around, and Cassandra was feeling particularly charitable.

When the guests began to leave over an hour later, Cassandra realized that she was still talking with the same man. Talking.

Not flirting, not hitting on, not being hit upon, not fucking. Just talking. And shit, she had to be seriously intoxicated. Under normal, more sober circumstances she would not waste a good spit on this guy.

But the man had been a perfect gentleman. He listened to her, to what she had to say. Oh she had seen men feign interest in order to get in her pants, but somehow she knew that this guy was actually interested in what she had to say.