Informed Consent (4 page)

L
eo looked
around Hank Richards’ makeshift office. As befit the director of a secretive, shadow agency, Hank had no permanent office. The government rented space for him on an as-needed basis through a series of boring-sounding covers. For instance, anyone sufficiently curious about who was leasing the six hundred square feet on the ground floor of the Grant Street building to do any research into the matter would learn that the lessee was the dry-sounding Assistant Secretary for Administration and Management for the Department of Labor. At that point, Leo was sure, the intrepid researcher would move on to a more interesting pastime—say, watching paint dry or clipping his or her toenails.

“Nice digs.”

Hank smirked. “It gets the job done. You try accomplishing anything with six kids roaming through the house.”

“I can only imagine.” Finn and Fiona weren’t even mobile yet, and he couldn’t see how he’d plan any effective, shady covert operations with them around.

“Speaking of kids, where are they?”

“Sasha’s mom’s watching them. They don’t care much for meetings.”

Hank nodded sagely. “Smart kids. I don’t care much for them either.” He gestured toward an industrial-looking metal chair. “Make yourself comfortable, to the extent you can. And tell me what’s going on.”

Leo lowered himself into the hard chair and got right to the point. “I need a favor.”

“I’m listening.” Hank rested his forearms on the desk and leaned forward.

“Can you run a name for me?” Leo opened a manila envelope. He removed the sheet of paper bearing Doug Wynn’s name and address and passed it across the desk to Hank.

Hank held the paper by its edges and peered down at it. “Who’s Doug Wynn?”

“That’s what I want to know. I can access some of the records myself, but what I really need is a complete, exhaustive search that includes all the databases I don’t even know about.”

Leo had worked for the government in enough unofficial capacities to suspect that there were databases so secret even he didn’t have clearance to access them. Hank’s chuckle confirmed his guess.

“Wanna tell me why? You don’t have to.”

Leo met Hank’s clear, brown eyes with a level gaze. “He may have information about my father.” He could tell by the way Hank jerked his head back that he hadn’t expected that response.

“Your dad?”

“Maybe.”

Hank examined his fingernails for a moment before squinting at Leo. “You know we ran all the available information about your father through all the databases, including the ones that may or may not exist, before we ever hired you?”

“I know.”

“And you probably know I’ve updated that search from time to time, seeing as how you’re one of my contractors.”

“I assumed as much.”

“And the combined forces of the United States government know diddly squat about your father.”

“I know that, too.” His jaw tensed involuntarily, and he reached up with one hand and turned his chin until he heard a satisfying
crack.

Hank winced. “I thought Sasha told you to stop doing that. She’d be mad as a wet hen if she knew you were still cracking your jaw.”

“Then don’t tell her.” He grinned at Hank for a moment and then got serious. “I know you hit a dead end with my dad. So did I. So did the Vietnamese Orphan DNA Registry.”

“So what’s this all about?”

“That’s what I need to know. Some guy showed up at my house yesterday, handed me an envelope that had this piece of paper in it, and told me this Wynn guy has information about my dad.” He felt his jaw clench again but resisted the urge to release it manually. “Anyway, I need to know if there’s anything to it—or if it’s a shakedown or what. Oh, and maybe run that for prints, if you can?”

Hank shook his head slowly. “Gee, I never would have thought of that, ace. But seriously, I don’t like this. How’d this guy find you? Who was this messenger?”

“No clue. The twins were sleeping. He gave me the note and bolted from the porch. I couldn’t go after him, but I don’t think he knew anything. He was young, nervous. An Asian guy.”

Hank quirked an eyebrow at that. “Vietnamese?”

“I don’t think so. Chinese, if I had to guess.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I don’t know how this Wynn guy tracked me down, and I don’t like that at all. Sasha’s got Naya working that angle. I need to find out everything I can about Wynn in the next week.”

Hank’s head snapped up. “You aren’t really thinking about going up to Maine? That’s foolhardy.”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. I guess it depends on what you find out.”

Hank sighed heavily, like a man used to having weight on his shoulders, which is what he was. “Do you still have the envelope?”

Leo took it from his jacket pocket and handed it to Hank, who grasped the edge of the envelope with two fingers. “My prints are all over it. I tried to be more careful with the note.”

“It’ll take a few days, but I’ll find out everything I can about your Mr. Wynn.” He stood and gave Leo a reassuring look.

Leo opened his mouth to thank his friend and sometimes employer and was surprised to find his words caught in his throat. He coughed. “I appreciate it, Hank.”

Hank clasped a big hand on Leo’s shoulder. “No thanks needed, son.”

Leo nodded and stared at Hank. He wanted to say something more, something about how he considered Hank a mentor, almost a father, but the lump in his throat made it impossible to get the words out.

Hank gave Leo a look that seemed to say he knew what Leo was thinking. Then he shooed him out of the dreary office.

“
C
an you do me a favor
?” Sasha asked, popping her head into Naya’s office on her way back from her mid-morning visit to the coffee shop.

Naya marked her spot on the documents she was reviewing with one finger and glanced up. “Depends on the favor.”

“Fair enough. I need to find out how someone could track down Connelly.”

She was careful to keep her tone light and casual, but Naya wasn’t fooled. She narrowed her almond-shaped eyes and gave Sasha a close look. “Track him down how?”

Sasha stepped into the room and pulled the door shut behind her before answering. “I know property records are searchable, but given, uh, our history, we set up a trust to buy the new house. So, anyone searching tax records or the sales database should have found Java and Mocha Trust, LLC as the buyer.”

“You named your trust after your pets?” Naya cracked.

“Don’t judge. And focus, please.”

Naya shook her head but said, “Okay, go on.”

“Now, I know I’m listed as the seller of my condo, but that wouldn’t give anyone a trail to find my new address, right? And, we’re obviously not listed in the phone book. So, how would someone—a stranger—show up on my front porch looking for Connelly?”

Naya scrunched her face up into an expression of consternation. “What kind of stranger?”

“No clue. He said he was a messenger on behalf of a guy who has information about Connelly’s father.”

The legal assistant’s eyebrows rocketed up her forehead. “Leo’s dad?”

“I know, right? This could be great. Or …”

“It could be a trap.” Naya filled in the words that Sasha was loath to say.

“Right.”

Naya thought for a long moment. “I don’t know. I can poke around some in the publicly available databases, see if I can put together a bread crumb trail that leads to Leo. But if this guy has connections, he could have access to government databases or something that I don’t.”

Sasha chewed on her lower lip while she considered her course of action. “I can give you the guy’s name. See what you can find out about him. But be really careful, please. If he
is
connected—either to friends or enemies of ours—he might find out you’re looking and get spooked.”

Naya waved away her concern. “Don’t worry. I’m always careful. I assume Hank’s also going to run him down?”

Sasha nodded. “He is. Connelly went to talk to him today. So, focus on figuring out how this guy, whoever he is, found us. But if you want to check him out too, the name is Doug Wynn. W-Y-N-N. And he apparently lives on Great Cranberry Island in Maine. I did some basic searches myself, but nothing popped.”

“Well, now the experts are involved. Let me and Hank take care of it.” Naya shot her a grin.

“Thanks, Nancy Drew.” Sasha reached behind her for the door and then paused. “Oh, one more thing. This one’s actually billable work. I’m heading over to Golden Village tomorrow morning to meet with the administrative director about Dr. Kayser’s concerns. Want to come along?”

“Sure.”

“Great. He’s expecting us at ten o’clock.”

“What should I do to prepare?” She pawed through the papers on her desk and unearthed a legal pad and pen.

“Get familiar with the federal regulations governing medical research and informed consent, but other than that, there’s not much to do. I told Dr. Kayser I’d try a low-key approach and see if we can resolve this mess informally, so don’t spend a ton of time on it until we know it’s going to turn into something.”

“You think this director is going to admit the research team screwed up and promise to make them stop?”

Naya’s tone left no doubt as to her view of the likelihood of that outcome, but Sasha shrugged. “It could happen.”

“When did you become such a pie-eyed optimist?”

“When I learned that I can, in fact, function on three hours of interrupted sleep each night. Anything’s possible. The sky’s the limit!” she trilled in an overly enthusiastic voice as she raised her coffee mug in a salute.

“You need a nap,” Naya told her. Then she turned back to her reading.

W
ynn watched
from the big bay window in his dining room while the kid dug a hole four feet deep and six feet long in the woods between the house and the coast. The young man whistled and sweated from the effort of breaking up the rocky Maine soil.

He pushed himself up from the chair. The hole was done. He pulled on his overcoat, fastened it to his chin, and then eased his hands into his leather gloves.

When he stepped out onto the back patio and shut the door, the kid twisted to look up at him from deep within the hole. “How’s it look, Mr. Wynn?” he asked, flashing a proud, toothy smile.

Wynn shuffled closer and pretended to inspect the kid’s handiwork. He gave a slow nod of approval. “It’ll do. Thank you, son.”

“You really gonna kill that Leonard Connelly dude, like you said, sir?”

That was the problem with these young kids. They couldn’t just dig a grave because you told them to. They had to know what it was for. “As I said, it’s a grave.” He extended his hand, gesturing for the shovel.

The kid handed it over, and Wynn dropped it to the ground.

“Hey, give me a hand out of here, and I can put that back in your shed if you want.”

“I’ll take care of it. Oh, did you tell anyone about your trip to Pennsylvania?” He kept his voice mild, hoping he struck a note of idle curiosity.

The kid stroked his chin in thought. “No. I mean, nobody other than Mr. Tran.”

Wynn wasn’t worried about Stevey. He assumed Stevey had predicted the messenger’s fate and had assigned the job to someone he considered to be expendable. And if he hadn’t, well, that was Stevey’s problem.

“Good.”

The kid—Wynn realized he’d already forgotten his name—raised his right arm, waiting for Wynn to reach down and pull him out of the hole. “If you ever need anything else, Mr. Wynn, I’d be happy to help.”

Wynn reached into his pocket and retrieved his handgun. He aimed for the heart and fired twice. The kid crumpled into the grave he’d dug himself. Wynn put the third and final bullet between the messenger’s eyes.

“Nothing personal,” he said as the light dimmed from the kid’s eyes.

He waited a long moment to make sure the guy was dead before he bent and rifled through the corpse’s pockets. He removed the keys to the Honda, the guy’s wallet, and the roll of cash he’d handed over earlier in payment for services rendered. He stuffed the money into his pocket. He was breathing heavily from exertion and adrenaline but he still had work to do.

He’d made the kid dig his own grave--not out of cruelty, as he once would have, but out of sheer necessity.
But had he really needed to kill him?
The question snuck up on him.

Of course he had
, he chided himself.

The fact that he even gave the matter a second thought was evidence that he was getting soft. And getting soft was an excellent way to get caught. No, eliminating the messenger was unavoidable. The kid could tie him to Leonard Connelly. And while reaching out to his son was a risk Wynn had had no choice but to take, there was no reason to be reckless about it.

It took him nearly an hour to shovel dirt over the dead man and fill the hole. He paused every few minutes to catch his breath, leaning heavily against the shovel. By the time he finished, the weak autumn sun was setting and he was wet with perspiration and chilled from the cool evening air.

Wynn wanted nothing more than to hobble into the house and crawl into his bed. But there was work still to be done. Thanks to the kid’s laziness, he needed to drive the Civic that he’d stolen from the ferry parking lot into the tractor shed, away from curious eyes. He needed to start a fire and burn the wallet and its contents. He needed to take his medications and eat a meal.

The familiar rush that invariably came with taking a life had already dissipated, leaving him drained and weary. He sighed and trudged toward the car, cursing the fact that his messenger hadn’t wanted to walk up the hill. Now he had to figure out how to deal with the stolen car.

“
R
eally
?” Naya eyed Sasha as if she thought the suggestion to walk to the retirement center was an elaborate joke.

“Yes, really. Come on—it’s not even a mile. It’ll be good for both of us. And the weather’s perfect for a brisk fall walk.”

That was true—it was one of those glorious autumn days with abundant sunshine, crisp air, and not a cloud in sight.

Naya shifted her gaze to the large window behind her desk and shrugged. “It does look like a nice day,” she conceded.

Sasha beamed at her. “Great. Grab your coat.” She wrapped her scarf around her throat and hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder then followed Naya out of the office and down the stairs with a small smile. By the time Naya realized their route took them straight up Forbes, and the steep hill that was the bane of every high school cross-country runner in the city, it would be too late for her to dig in her heels. It would be an onward and upward situation.

As they stepped out onto the pavement, Naya turned and smirked at Sasha over her shoulder. “I know about the hill, Mac.”

A bubble of laughter rose in Sasha’s throat. “Oh. I’m glad to know you’re undaunted.”

“Of course I’m undaunted.” Naya’s gaze landed on Sasha’s feet. “I’m not the one wearing ridiculous shoes.”

“You’re pronouncing adorable wrong,” Sasha informed her as she turned her foot to show off the stacked four-inch heel. “Aren’t these cute?”

Naya changed the subject. “Hey, I think I know how that Wynn guy found Leo.”

Sasha stopped at the corner and pressed the button to activate the ‘Walk’ sign. “Really? Already?”

“Yep. Well, I think so, at least.” She paused to let the suspense build.

The light changed, and Sasha stepped out into the street. “Tell me already.”

“Well, here’s my thinking. If this Wynn guy knows Leo’s dad, the most he would know about Leo is his mom’s name and his approximate age, right?”

Sasha shifted the bag on her arm and considered the premise. “Probably.”

“So I started by searching for information about her.”

“Her? Leo’s mother?”

“Right.”

They started their trek up the sharp incline, and Sasha hustled to match Naya’s long stride and drive home the point that she was in no way hobbled by her choice of fashionable footwear. “What did you find out?”

“Not a ton. You know, she’s been dead for a long time. But, she left a digital trail of places they lived, hospitals where she worked, that sort of thing.”

She nodded. Leo’s mother had been a traveling nurse. She imagined her globetrotting had created a decent footprint. “And?”

“Well, her obituary’s available online, and it says that she was survived by one son, Leonard Connelly. At that time, he was identified as living in Washington, D.C.”

“So anyone who knew her name could find out his name.”

“Right. But, I’m sure it comes as no shock that the trail kind of goes cold at Leo. I mean, his name pops up in newspaper articles about your, uh, adventures. But he’s usually just listed as ‘federal agent Leo Connelly’ or something equally vague. No precise job title or department, let alone a personal residence. And he moved around a lot himself when he was with Homeland Security.”

Naya was breathing harder now, which gratified Sasha just a bit because her feet were
killing
her. They were silent for a moment as they mounted the steepest part of the hill.

When they crested the top, Sasha said, “How’s that get us to today?”

Naya gnawed on her lower lip.

“What?” Sasha pressed.

Naya stopped walking and faced Sasha squarely. “Your mom.”

“My mom?” What could Valentina possibly have to do with any of this?

Naya gave a wry nod. “Yeah. When the twins were born, she donated altar flowers to her church in their honor.”

That sounded like something her mother would do. “Okay? So?”

“So, in the September newsletter, St. Mark’s listed Finn and Fiona’s birthdate, your name and Leo’s, and your current address in case anyone wanted to drop off a casserole or something.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Did you get a lot of casseroles?”

“As a matter of fact, we did.”

“Right. The newsletter for every month is archived on the church website as a PDF. It’s the only place I found your current address and Leo’s name. But it’s not hard to find. I mean, if someone was searching for him, they could connect those dots.”

They could and, apparently, did. Sasha was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

“It’s an honest mistake, Mac.”

Sasha jerked her head up and met Naya’s eyes. “You mean my mom sharing our address? I know. I’m sure it seemed harmless to her.”

Her mother didn’t fully understand the fact that there were more than a few dangerous people who would love to know where Sasha and Connelly lived. She did understand a community coming together to support new parents, though. It was simply a function of her frame of reference.

“You could call the church and ask them to delete it.”

She could and likely would. But the horse had already left the barn. Closing the door wasn’t going to change anything. “Good idea. Thanks for running it down. Did you find out anything about this Wynn character?”

Naya shook her head forcefully. “Uh-uh. No. That guy is a cipher. Maybe Hank’ll have better luck.”

“Maybe.”

They reached the wrought-iron gate that surrounded the manicured lawns of Golden Village and paused to look up at the building.

“It looks like some kind of fancy New England prep school,” Naya observed.

It did. The rolling lawns, the elaborate landscaping, and the gracious, if imposing, brick structure combined to create a feeling of understated elegance and old money. If it hadn’t been for the discreet brass sign that read ‘Golden Village Assisted Living Center,’ Sasha would have assumed the building was a private mansion and walked right past it.

She and Naya skirted the parking lot and circled around to the front of the building. Stairs led to a wide, shaded porch that was dotted with cushioned seating arrangements. Not one of the chairs or gliders was occupied.

They stopped in front of the leaded glass doors and smoothed their jackets and hair into place.

“Ready?” Sasha asked, her finger hovering an inch away from the doorbell.

“Let’s do it,” Naya answered.

Before they’d finished announcing themselves to the receptionist, Athena Ray, the administrative director of Golden Village, materialized to whisk them along a gleaming hallway.

“Please, sit.” She ushered them into her office and gestured toward an old-fashioned couch with scrolled legs, a curved back, and a tapestry-like pattern. “Can I offer you a drink? Tea? Water? Coffee?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Sasha said as she lowered herself onto the couch and looked around the office. It was stuffed with antiques—gilded picture frames, blue-and-white ceramic vases, even a bronze statue of a boy and a horse in the corner behind the executive desk.

“I’m fine, too,” Naya added.

The director blinked at them from behind her oversized glasses and arranged herself in a Queen Anne chair across from the couch. “Well, do let me know if you change your mind,” she said with a wide smile.

Sasha smiled back at her. “Thanks for agreeing to talk with us, Ms. Ray—”

“Please, call me Athena. And it’s my pleasure. We take our guests’ concerns very seriously. So if there’s an issue with any of the research studies we participate in, I certainly want to know.”

Naya cocked her head. “Your guests?”

Athena nodded. “Yes, guests. The residents who live in the independent apartments are called, well, residents, but we refer to those who move into our assisted living and nursing care units as guests. Patients sounds so clinical and unpleasant. In any case, I understood from Ms. McCandless-Connelly that there’s some issue as to whether certain guests in our dementia care unit had consented to research that was performed on them posthumously. Do I have that right?”

Sasha nodded. “You do. Although I believe the, uh, guests in question signed up to participate in Dr. Allstrom’s study when they were living independently—either as residents or possibly before they moved into the facility.”

“Center,” the director corrected her.

“Pardon?”

“We don’t refer to Golden Village as a ‘facility.’ That sounds so cold, doesn’t it?”

Sasha bit her tongue. She didn’t want to spend her entire morning playing semantic games with this woman, so she just nodded and ignored the quiet muttering of Naya beside her. “Center, then.”

Athena beamed her approval as if she were an elementary school teacher and Sasha a diligent, if not very bright, student. “Very good. Now, did you say Dr. Allstrom’s running the study that Dr. Kayser is concerned about?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I can assure you that Greta Allstrom is one of the most well-regarded genetic researchers in the city, perhaps the country. I’m certain that she wouldn’t allow anyone on her team to cut corners, particularly not with regard to consent procedures.” The woman’s matronly teacher persona evaporated and she transformed into the consummate bureaucrat. She pitched forward, leaning in toward the couch. “As you no doubt know, grant funding is tied to compliance with federal regulations. Dr. Allstrom would
never
do anything to jeopardize her funding.”

Sasha felt her eyebrow arching toward her hairline and smoothed her expression. Interesting that the faux-personalized luxury resort schtick went out the window so quickly. Forget about any ethical responsibility to the
guests
, the researchers were worried about their
funding.

Beside her, Naya shifted on the couch, as if she, too, were uncomfortable with the woman’s sudden change in demeanor.

Sasha held up a hand, palm facing the administrator. “Be that as it may, Athena, Dr. Kayser knows of at least four pat—er, guests—who enrolled in Dr. Allstrom’s study and consented to regular blood draws but who did not consent to donate brain tissue after their deaths. All four individuals were housed in Golden Village’s dementia care unit when they passed away. All four individuals were autopsied; in all four cases, brain tissue was removed and forwarded to Dr. Allstrom. And before you ask, no, in none of the cases was the next of kin either asked or informed about the brain tissue removal.” She nestled herself against the back of the couch and waited.

Athena blinked rapidly and the color drained from her face. She shook her head. “That’s not possible.”

“And yet, here we are,” Sasha responded. Naya coughed into her fist to cover a laugh.

“No. This can’t be right.” The woman seemed to be speaking more to herself than to Sasha and Naya.

She continued shaking her head as she stood and walked over to her desk to pick up the telephone. “Charles, is Dr. Allstrom in the building this morning?” she asked. After a pause, she said, “Yes, please. Tell her it’s urgent.” She replaced the receiver and looked over at Sasha. “Dr. Allstrom happens to be here today. I’m sure she can clear up this misunderstanding.”

It seemed to Sasha that the woman was anything but sure, but she just smiled back at her. “Great.”

Athena returned to her conversation area, and the three of them sat in awkward silence for several minutes. Sasha glanced down at her watch and then surveyed the oil paintings on the walls.

Finally, Naya cleared her throat. “How many people live here?” she asked.

Athena brightened, obviously relieved to be back on familiar footing. “We have forty individuals living in one-bedroom apartments and seven married couples, who live in suites in the carriage houses. Collectively, we call those residences the cottages. Our stepped-up care unit is housed in this building and serves up to thirty guests at any given time. The dementia care unit is also in the building. At the moment, I believe we have eight guests in that unit, although there are twelve beds.”

“The apartments and carriage houses are on the grounds, too?” Sasha asked. She craned her neck toward the window. She hadn’t spotted any other structures, but the property looked like it extended as far she could see.

“Yes. We own three acres, which, as you can appreciate, is quite an expansive footprint for an urban location.”

“Three
acres?
” Naya repeated as if she must have misheard.

“Yes,” Athena said, an unmistakable note of pride in her voice. “We own the entire block. The original property contained this main house, separate servants’ quarters, and two carriage houses. In between, there are magnificent English gardens. We restored the buildings, taking care to keep period-appropriate touches, and then renovated the buildings to serve our residents’ and guests’ unique needs. Golden Village prides itself on blending modern medical technology with elegant, old-world charm.” She finished her spiel with an expansive gesture toward the window.

Naya raised her eyebrows and asked, “So what’s that cost for your guests and residents? I mean, ballpark.”

“Costs vary depending on the individual’s situation, but we view aging in place in comfort and dignity as an investment in oneself.”

In other words, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Sasha was about to ask about the staff-to-resident ratio when a muffled knock sounded on the office door.

“Ah, that’ll be Dr. Allstrom,” Athena said as she practically ran to open the door.

G
reta couldn’t imagine
why she’d been summoned to Athena Ray’s office, but then again, she wasn’t overly concerned. Her relationship with the director of Golden Village was good, had always been good. In part, because Athena was more of a cruise director than a penny-pinching facilities manager. Her focus was on the residents’ comfort and happiness and not on whether the research teams used too many paper towels or remembered to turn off the lights when they left a patient’s room—which made Athena an anomaly in Greta’s experience.

Her researchers were always glad to be assigned to Golden Village, and not simply because it was so close to the university. Golden Village was a genuinely pleasant place. Greta wouldn’t mind ending up here herself when the time came.