Murder, She Wrote: Prescription for Murder (12 page)

O
nce settled in Seth’s hotel room, I plugged in my laptop and inserted the first of three thumb drives, and we settled back to read the words on the screen. One of the first files we opened simply contained a short list of names. Carlos Cespedes was among them.

“Do you suppose these are the others who invested in Dr. Vasquez’s research without Bernie Peters’s knowledge?”

“Mebbe.” Seth’s expression was worried. He wrote down the names on a lined legal pad.

There were numerous separate documents, most of them containing a lot of long medical and scientific terms that I didn’t understand but knew that Seth did. We read in silence; Seth made an occasional note on his pad.

After a half hour he said, “Stop it there, Jessica.”

He rubbed his eyes and paced the room.

“Have you learned anything so far?” I asked.

“Not much, except that one of Al’s earlier experiments didn’t pan out the way he’d expected.”

“It must be frustrating doing medical research,” I said. “I imagine there are lots of dead ends.”

“That’s for sure. Hungry?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Let’s order up,” he said.

I consulted the room service menu and read off items to Seth, who opted for onion soup and a Crab Louie salad. I was in a mood where making choices was difficult and simply ordered the same.

“I can’t make sense out of this,” Seth said as he sat on a small couch and massaged his temples. “It doesn’t compute for me that Al would sell a stake in his research to someone like Cespedes. How could he do that? Bernie Peters is the one who bankrolled the research once Al came to the States. I’d understand it if Bernie approved having Cespedes provide additional funding, but to do it in secret?”

I had been thinking a great deal about what Seth had said in the car, that maybe his friend wasn’t as honest and straightforward as he’d thought—as he’d
hoped
. I didn’t want to rub it in by reinforcing that possibility, but Seth spared my having to mention it.

“How could Al do such a thing? Sounds to me like he was selling Bernie out from under.” Seth brought his fist down hard on the couch’s armrest. “There’s got to be a reasonable answer to this, Jessica, because I will not accept that Al was conning people.”

“Mr. Cespedes willingly and blindly entered into a business deal with Vasquez that wiped out what savings he’d accumulated from the sale of his building,” I said. “He wouldn’t be the first person to have been enticed to invest in something fraudulent.”

“Well,” Seth said, “Al was . . .” His words trailed off.

I knew what he was about to say.

Alvaro Vasquez had defected from Cuba amid much fanfare. His reputation in Cuba was that of a pioneering medical researcher who was on the verge of conquering a particularly devastating disease. He’d settled in Tampa, Florida, and opened a laboratory in which he could continue his much ballyhooed work. It didn’t surprise me that Cespedes, and others like him, would have succumbed not only to Vasquez’s reputation, but to the Cuban physician’s personal charisma as well.

One of many questions I had was whether Vasquez had approached Cespedes, or Cespedes had approached him seeking to invest in his research. And would it have made any difference? The great showman P. T. Barnum once said, “There’s a sucker born every minute and one to take him.” The movie
The Producers
also came to mind. Zero Mostel plays a shady theatrical producer who sells fifty percent shares in a play to multiple wealthy widows, convinced that the play would flop and none of the duped investors would have to be accounted to.

Had Vasquez played that same con game, selling pieces of his research in the hope that . . . what? What could he have hoped for?

I told Seth what had occurred to me.

His silence said that his thinking was along the same lines.

Our dinners arrived and we watched the news as we ate. It was toward the end of the newscast that a local anchor reported:

Breaking news in the death of Dr. Alvaro Vasquez. A credible but anonymous source in Tampa law enforcement has told this station that the police are now treating the esteemed physician’s death as a possible homicide, based upon a report they received from the Tampa medical examiner. Dr. Vasquez, who was originally thought to have been struck by lightning, was a prominent medical researcher who’d defected from his native Cuba and settled in Tampa. The
investigation is ongoing.

“Detective Machado was certainly right about there being leaks from the ME’s office and his own department,” I commented after we’d turned off the television.

“Seems that way,” said Seth. “Let’s get back to seeing what was on the laptop.”

We spent hours more reading Vasquez’s entries, and I had to fight to maintain interest. The words became a blur at times, and I excused myself now and then to go splash cold water on my face. When the final entry had been read, and Seth had finished making notes, he sat back, rubbed his eyes, and said flatly and wearily, “He failed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Al failed, Jessica. According to what he’s written—and he’s written plenty, as you can see—every effort he made to find a breakthrough in definitively linking sugar and insulin resistance to Alzheimer’s was unsuccessful. He outlines several more research pathways to follow up on, but to date, he’s got nothing.”

I didn’t know what I had expected to learn from reading Vasquez’s notes, but it certainly wasn’t what Seth had just announced.

“You’re sure?” I asked. I was well aware that Seth was highly knowledgeable when it came to medicine, but maybe—just maybe—there were aspects of Vasquez’s research that were beyond his expertise.

He nodded glumly. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, “unless there were trials he ran that aren’t represented on these thumb drives. But I don’t think so. His last entry was the day before he died.”

“He knew that his research had failed when he hosted the party at his house and wrote you that letter. But it sounded from what he wrote that he still felt that what he had achieved might be worthwhile in the hands of others.”

“Ayuh, he did indicate that, Jessica. And it’s not unreasonable. Knowing what blind alleys a researcher has gone down can save other researchers a lot of pointless planning, not to mention time and money. But that’s not what’s on my mind at the moment.”

“What is?”

“Whoever killed him—and I’m assuming that the ME and the police are right in considering his death a homicide—did that person know that Al was engaged in these financial shenanigans, and even more important, did that person know that Al’s research didn’t pan out?”

“You mean, if someone like Cespedes suspected the money he gave Al was squandered, and that he wasn’t going to share in the profits from the lab’s research, that would give him a strong motive for murder?”

“It’s something to think about,” Seth said.

“Well, Cespedes may have had an inkling something was wrong, but evidently he didn’t know for sure,” I said. “He was hoping to learn more information from you. We should look up the other people on that list we found in the file and find out if any of them will admit to giving Al money on the side.”

“I have their names,” Seth said, drawing a circle around them on his legal pad. “But there’s another scenario to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“We may be the
only
ones who know that Al was unsuccessful. Maybe the person who killed him thought the key to a cure was in here.” He bounced one of the thumb drives up and down on his palm. “That person could have wanted Al out of the way, in order to benefit from the research.”

“Bernie Peters?” I blurted out.

“Maybe. All I know is that I’m not leaving Tampa until I find out the answer.”

I looked at my friend of many years. He looked weary. His color was gray, and his voice had lost some energy. But I also saw in his eyes a steely determination.

I didn’t know what was in store for me over the coming days in Tampa, but I was sure that it would be nothing like the idyllic life I usually led back in Cabot Cove. And I also knew that I’d be there for Seth no matter where his investigations led us.

That’s what friends are for.

“S
leep well?” I asked Seth the following morning when we met for breakfast.

“You always did have a sense of humor, Jessica,” he said in a voice deepened by a lack of sleep.

“I withdraw the question,” I said. “I didn’t sleep well either.”

“No reason you should if I didn’t. Seen this?”

He handed me that morning’s edition of the
Tampa Tribune
, opened to an inside page. I read the headline: “Intrigue on Davis Island: Dr. Alvaro Vasquez a Murder Victim? Police Think So.”

The article took up the full page and was accompanied by a photograph of Vasquez.

It was written by Peggy Lohman, the reporter who’d come to our table at the hotel a few days earlier.

“No need to read it,” Seth said. “Nothing new in it, plenty of background on Al’s career and his defection from Cuba, lots of quotes from anonymous sources in the police department. She did interview Sardina.”

“So he’s back,” I said. “What did he have to say?”

“Not much. The reporter asked him how Al’s research was going, and Sardina said that it was going fine but that he wasn’t in a position to discuss it.”

“Spoken like a politician,” I said. “Did he say anything else?”

“Only that Al was a wonderful man and mentor and that he missed him and expressed his condolences to the family.”

“Not exactly what he told us.”

“We weren’t the press.”

“I’m concerned about these leaks from the police. Have you heard more from Dr. San Martín?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. Had a strange call from him first thing this morning. He wants to meet with us today.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, but he doesn’t want us to come to his office. We’re meeting him at some restaurant outside of downtown called the West Tampa Sandwich Shop. One o’clock. I have the directions.”

“That
is
strange,” I said.

“Everything about Al’s death is strange. I’m concerned about the set of thumb drives that I gave to Detective Machado. Seems like the police department is a sieve. Nothing’s secure. Maybe I shouldn’t have left them with him.”

“You didn’t have any choice once he read about them in the letter.”

Seth grunted his agreement.

“So,” I said, “what’s on our schedule today?”

“I called Al’s house. We’re going there at ten.”

“Why so soon again?”

“I want to talk with Ivelisse, see if she knows anything helpful.”

“Whom did you speak with?”

“Al’s son, Xavier. He just returned from Key West.”

“How did he sound?”

“Fine. I thought he might balk at having us come by. He actually sounded pleased. Hard to read him.”

I glanced at my watch; eight o’clock.

“Feel up to a walk after breakfast?” I asked. “I need a little exercise.”

“’Fraid not, Jessica. Between my aching back and bad knee, I’d be lucky to make it a block, especially with the pace you like to set. Zach Shippee tells me I’m his annuity.” Shippee was Seth’s chiropractor in Cabot Cove.

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Nothing to laugh at, Jessica. You’ll get there one day, too.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you, Seth. It’s just that what Zach said was—”

“Might be funny to you, but not to me. Eat your breakfast and take your walk. We’ll meet up in the lobby at nine thirty.”

I didn’t make any further mention of Seth’s aches and pains. He was clearly not in one of his better moods, and I’d learned years ago to back off when that was the case. We finished breakfast in relative silence. He headed for his room, and I winced as I saw him walk in obvious pain across the restaurant.

I ventured outside and took some deep breaths. It was a lovely beginning to the day in Tampa, sunny, a clear blue sky, and a refreshing breeze setting the palm trees in motion. I wondered what the weather was like back in Cabot Cove and reminded myself to place a few calls to catch up with friends.

I had forty-five minutes before I’d need to meet Seth and chose to take a short stroll through a wooded wetland adjacent to the hotel. I found a narrow dirt path leading into the undeveloped land and hesitated. While the wooded area was appealing, I wasn’t sure whether it was wise to venture into unfamiliar territory. Were the paths all marked? How large was this plot of land anyway? Naturally, I thought of alligators—you can’t be in Florida and
not
think about them. What was the possibility of coming across one? Highly unlikely, I decided. Alligators liked to be around bodies of water, and from what I could see from my vantage point, there didn’t seem to be any ponds or lakes in this densely packed patch of land.

I progressed slowly, stopping every now and then to admire the variety of palm trees that lined my path, and clumps of flowers that would suddenly appear from behind a tree, vivid splashes of color in what was otherwise a monochromatic landscape. I moved through an area of trees on which someone had affixed a handwritten sign—
gumbo limbo
—which I assumed was to identify the species of those particular trees, their smooth bark peeling off in broad sheets to reveal red trunks beneath. Beyond was a swath of tall grass that looked like hay. It intruded on both sides of the path, narrowing my passage, and as I walked past it, my bare leg brushed against some of the strands. “Ouch,” I said as I looked down to see a thin red line on my calf. I examined the grass more closely and saw that the strands had sawlike teeth, sharp enough to have broken the skin.

My leg stung, and a single, tiny drop of blood appeared at the end of the scratch. I considered returning to the hotel but noticed up ahead a clearing in which a wooden bench was situated next to a small pond.
Perfect,
I thought as I approached the clearing. I sat on the bench and used a tissue from my purse to blot the drop of blood.

A shaft of sunlight through the palm fronds reached where I sat, and I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to catch the warm rays. I was enjoying this moment of peace when I heard what sounded like muffled footsteps. I opened my eyes and looked back at the path I’d just taken. The sounds stopped. I glanced at the pond, hoping I hadn’t awakened a sleeping alligator. I was wondering if climbing on top of the bench would provide any protection when I heard the sounds again. This time, I stood, straightened my skirt, and tensed. A moment later the source of the footsteps appeared—Karl Westerkoch. I was both surprised to see him and relieved that it was a familiar face.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Communing with nature this morning?” he said in his pinched, British-tinged voice.

“I guess I am. The vegetation in Florida is so different from what we have in Maine.”

“A very different climate.”

“Yes. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Oh? Did you consider this your private domain?”

The man was seemingly incapable of being pleasant.

“I wasn’t suggesting that it was,” I said.

He came to the bench, sat, crossed his long legs, and looked up into the sun coming through the trees. “In the interest of full disclosure,” he said, “I came because I saw you walk in here.”

“You followed me?”

“You might say that, although it does sound terribly cloak-and-dagger, doesn’t it?”

“To you, perhaps.”

“Come, sit,” he said, patting the bench beside him. “I’m really quite harmless.”

“Mr. Westerkoch,” I said, “since you’ve admitted to following me into this lovely grove of trees, I’d like to know why.”

He ran his fingers over the crease in his slacks, moved them to his neck to adjust a tie that wasn’t there, and said, “Please, sit down. I have a crick in my neck this morning and it’s painful to have to look up at you while we talk.”

My first inclination was to bid him a good day and walk away—he was that disagreeable—but of course I was curious as to what he had to say. I’d suggested to Seth that we take every opportunity to speak with anyone involved in Alvaro Vasquez’s life, and Karl Westerkoch fell into that category, although I had no idea in what way they’d been connected. His name had not appeared on the possible list of investors Seth had copied from Al’s file. I took a seat on the bench, leaving as much space as possible between us, and waited for him to explain his presence. When he did, what he said surprised me.

“You and your companion, the good Dr. Hazlitt, have ended up involved in a rather nasty business.”

“‘Nasty business’? I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think that you do, madam. I can’t imagine that someone whose brain is fertile enough to craft murder mysteries—and I understand that you’ve done quite well with your novels—would miss what’s been going on over the past few days.”

“If you mean Dr. Vasquez’s death, I’m well aware of it. Dr. Hazlitt and I were there when he died, as were you. Remember?”

“How could I ever forget? But you see, dear lady, there is more to it than his unfortunate passing. There is, as you also know, the fruits of his efforts in the laboratory.”

Where is he going with this?
I wondered, and decided to offer nothing. Let him set the agenda for this unexpected conversation in an equally unexpected setting.

“You’ve spoken with Oona,” he said flatly, a statement, not a question. He pulled a long, slender cigar from his sport jacket—or is it called a cigarillo?—lit it, blew the smoke up in the air so it curled over my head, and looked at me while waiting for an answer.

I didn’t provide him with one.

“And I’m sure that Oona made it clear to you that Dr. Vasquez’s untimely demise has potential ramifications far beyond the death of one individual,” he continued.

I thought back to my meeting with Oona and tried to recollect what she’d said. “She did indicate that there was interest on the part of the government in seeing that Dr. Vasquez’s research not fall into Cuban hands.”

“And she was absolutely correct,” he said. “Oona has a way of being direct, much to her credit.”

“That’s always an admirable trait,” I said, “and I would appreciate it if you would exhibit the same directness.”

Westerkoch gave me a crooked smile before taking puffs and exhaling the smoke into the air, a satisfied expression on his gaunt face. I checked my watch.

“Oh, yes,” he said as though his wandering mind had suddenly been brought back to the present moment, “being direct. Frankly, I thought I was.”

“How about this for a starting point, Mr. Westerkoch? Seth Hazlitt and I have nothing to do with Dr. Vasquez’s research. He and Seth had struck up a friendship, nothing more than that. I was in Florida on a book tour and decided to extend my stay and spend time with Seth here in Tampa. I certainly understand why the government would be interested in where Dr. Vasquez’s research ends up, in whose hands it falls, but that has nothing to do with Dr. Hazlitt or me.”

“Under ordinary circumstances I would agree with you, Mrs. Fletcher, just a small-town physician and his mystery-writing friend enjoying the good weather here in Tampa. But you see, there is a complication.”

“I’d like to know what that is,” I said, even though I suspected he was about to bring up Vasquez’s missing laptop.

He was.

“Dr. Vasquez’s approach to medical research was unusual at best. He built an outsized reputation in his native Cuba, which traveled with him to Florida, where he established himself as an important citizen, albeit a controversial one.”

“Controversial? Why?”

“Because of the way he conducted his research. Don’t you find it strange that he worked in almost total secrecy, only one assistant, with progress reports on his work nonexistent? That’s hardly the protocol one expects from a medical researcher whose work promises—and I stress ‘promises’—such great results.”

He was right. I had found Vasquez’s methods to be strange, and I had voiced that to Seth. Then again, I could claim to know nothing of how medical research worked, which would have been the truth. Because Seth had become such an unabashed champion of Vasquez’s work, it served to temper any doubts I had, at least initially.

“Of course,” he said, “his methods aren’t the most important thing.” He cackled. “The mad scientist at work, hey? No, his methods aren’t at issue here, Mrs. Fletcher. What
does
interest the government is what he managed to achieve in his laboratory.”

“Again, what does that have to do with Dr. Hazlitt and me?”

“You asked me to be direct, and I will be. But I expect the same from you. No one seems to know what he achieved through his research, and we would like to know.”

“Just who is ‘we’?” I responded. “You? The government? I’d like to know what role you play in all of this, Mr. Westerkoch.”

“Let me just say that I have a vested interest.”

“A financial interest?”
Perhaps that list we’d found was incomplete,
I thought.

“Do I strike you as being that crass, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Protecting one’s financial interests isn’t crass unless the gains are ill-gotten.”

It was obvious that Vasquez’s missing laptop was at the core of Westerkoch’s interest, and that posed a dilemma for me. As far as I was aware, only Seth and I knew what had been on that laptop. Unless, of course, Detective Machado had attempted to decipher the material on the thumb drives we’d turned over to him. My hunch was that the detective had probably dumped them in an evidence locker until he could find an expert to interpret them. Nevertheless, before releasing them, Seth and I had transferred every word from the drives to my computer and then put them on the three new thumb drives, which now rested in the safe in Seth’s hotel room. Then again, the information was still on the hard drive of the computer in my room, which was sitting out in plain sight. I had a sudden urge to return to the hotel.

“I have to be getting back,” I said.

“To meet with your Dr. Hazlitt?”

“I don’t see how that’s your concern.”

“Plans for the day?”

“I would say it was nice to see you again, Mr. Westerkoch, but I’m not sure that’s true,” I said, standing.

“A word of advice, Mrs. Fletcher?”