Diagnosis Murder 6 - The Dead Letter (25 page)

"What's the treatment?" Mannering brushed his cards, signaling the dealer that he wanted another card. She gave him a nine. Twenty-two. He'd busted out. She swept his chips away.

"Aggressive chemotherapy," Dr. Ross said. "But before we can begin, you're going to need a compatible bone marrow donor."

"Why?" Mannering bet two thousand dollars. The dealer began dealing the cards.

"The chemo will completely wipe out your bone marrow. You could easily die from bleeding or from infection."

She dealt him fourteen and had an ace showing.

"Insurance." the dealer asked.

"Where am I supposed to find this donor?" Mannering asked Dr. Ross.

"It has to be a blood relative."

Mannering's hands began to tremble again. He put them in his lap. "And if I don't do the chemo?"

"You'll die."

He never took the insurance bet. This time he did. He put some chips on the table. The dealer turned over her other card. A queen, giving her blackjack. He won the bet. His insurance paid off.

And at that moment, he realized he'd made another insurance bet nearly two decades ago for another terrible hand he'd been dealt today.

He would win that bet, too. Lady Luck was whispering sweet nothings in his ear again. She was unfaithful, but he still loved her.

"If I find a donor," Mannering asked, "can you handle the transplant?"

"I'm going to be here only for a few more days," the doctor said. "But it's not that complex. There are many doctors in Las Vegas who can do it. You could contact the local hospital and—"

"I want you," Mannering said. "And I want to do it here."

"At the Côte d'Azur?"

"Is there a reason why I can't?"

"No," Dr. Ross said, "but it's not really set up for that kind of treatment."

"I'll pay for whatever equipment is necessary," Mannering said.

"It's not me you'll have to convince," Dr. Ross said. "I am merely a guest here."

Mannering got up slowly, his anger and determination overcoming his weakness. "I'll handle Standiford. You just tell him what you need."

"Wouldn't it be easier for you to go to a fully equipped hospital?"

"Wouldn't it be easier for your patients to use a doctor here rather than drag you with them all over the world?"

"That's different," Dr. Ross said.

"Not to me. I hate hospitals, and as you once told me, they aren't very secure with their information," Mannering said. "There are business rivals who would take advantage of me if they knew I had a potentially terminal illness. I can't afford to have anyone know how sick I am."

"I would need to bring in medical personnel to assist me," the doctor said.

"I'm sure that if they're people you've used before with your other patients, I can trust them, too," Mannering said, though he didn't entirely believe it himself. But he had no choice.

"How soon can you bring in a donor for me to test for compatibility?" Dr. Ross asked.

"Give me a day," Mannering said. "Maybe two."

He dug into his pocket for Dr. Ross's winnings and set them on the table in front of the doctor.

"You're a winner," Mannering said. "Try to stay that way."

In the elevator up to Standiford's office, Mannering's mind raced through all the possible scenarios and their potential risks. But none of those risks matched the dire consequences he faced if he didn't act fast and decisively.

There was only one person who could save his life. He hadn't seen or heard about her in five years. But she shouldn't be hard to find. She had no reason to hide.

The first thing he had to do was convince Standiford to let him do his chemotherapy and his bone marrow transplant at the Côte d'Azur. And more important than that, he had to make sure the facility was locked down and that the donor never knew who was getting her marrow.

Standiford greeted Mannering outside the elevator, embracing him like they were old, dear friends, and led him into his office.

"This is the first time you've come up to see me, isn't it?" Standiford said.

"Usually you come to me," Mannering said.

"Isn't that the way you like it?" Standiford asked, motiomng Mannering to take a seat.

"I'm in a delicate situation," Mannering sat down in one of the guest chairs. "Discretion is essential."

"I'll certainly do my best to help." Standiford sat beside him, putting them on equal footing. It was a gesture Mannering appreciated.

"I've been in to see your friend Dr. Ross. I haven't been feeling well and I'm afraid the diagnosis isn't good," Mannering said. "I have leukemia."

"I'm so sorry."

Mannering waved the sentiment away. He hadn't come here for pity or understanding. "What I need is Dr. Ross and your medical center."

Standiford cocked an eyebrow. "It's not really a medical center. It's a specialty surgical hospital for coronary and orthopedic surgeries and the occasional nip and tuck. We aren't really set up for chemotherapy and that sort of thing."

"So I'll set it up and pay for everything," Mannering said. "I'll need a private room, no paperwork, and total isolation from the other patients and staff. We're talking cash on the table—or under it, if you prefer."

Standiford frowned. "I feel for you, I truly do, but you're asking an awful lot. We could lose our medical license."

"I built that damn hospital with what I've forked over to this casino," Mannering said. "If I die, you lose a long-term revenue stream. I've been good to you and this hotel and I can continue to be. You're in the business of serving the unique needs of your privileged clientele. This is how you can serve me, and it costs you nothing. I'm paying for every thing and a bit more for your consideration."

"It's not just about your comfort and security, is it?"

"I'm going to be bringing in a bone marrow donor who can't know who I am or where I am," Mannering said. "To do so may require extraordinary measures. I'll need Nate Grumbo's assistance once the donor arrives on the property."

Standiford studied Mannering for a long time. "It will cost you a flat fee of one million in cash."

Mannering rose from his seat. "Done."

Henderson is a suburban community outside of Las Vegas, about as far away socially, economically, and geographically as Mannering could get from his house within the hour and not be standing in the middle of the desert.

He found a strip mall under the McCarran flight path and parked in front of a pay phone.

This was the first time he'd been to this pay phone, but not the first time he'd made this call. When Mannering had heard that Nick Stryker was asking paper-money collectors about recent auctions he'd been involved with, he'd known the PI was onto him.

So he called the number he'd been given many years ago by a drunken movie star client who liked to brag about his underworld connections.

"Jimmy, you ever get in trouble, you call the Do-er," the star had said.

"What's he do?" Jimmy asked.

"Whoever you want," the star said.

Mannering called the number and wired the funds where the voice on the other end of the line told him to. Half on commencement, half on completion, the Do-er said, or the next person I do is you.

The deal went beautifully.

They both kept their anonymity and they were both satisfied with the transaction. Mannering had hoped he'd never have to use the number again. Certainly not so soon.

This was much trickier than the other assignment he'd given the Do-er. He would have to arrange this so the Do-er didn't find out who he was doing the job for and why. It wouldn't be too difficult as long as he had Nate Grumbo's assistance.

For a million bucks, he'd get whatever assistance he needed.

Mannering got out of the car, went to the phone, and dialed. The Do-er answered on the first ring. He had a voice like milk chocolate.

"Yes," the Do-er said.

"I have another job for you," Mannering said.

"Who dies?"

"No one," Mannering said.

"Where's the fun in that?"

"It pays the same," Mannering said.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find and abduct a teenage girl," Mannering said.

'That's fun," the Do-er said. "Do I get to pick her?"

"I already have," Mannering said. "Her name is Serena Cale."

"Is this a kidnapping for ransom?" the Do-er asked. "Because I don't do that."

"No, it's not. You will have to find her quickly and bring her unharmed to Las Vegas," Mannering said. "I'll get what I need from her and give her back to you."

"What am I supposed to do with a teenage girl?"

"Whatever your heart desires," Mannering said.

There was a long pause. Mannering could almost hear the Do-er's grin.

"I can do that," the Do-er said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Victor Gischler, known as the Do-er to the underworld of gun monkeys and casual readers of the classifieds in
Soldier of Fortune
magazine, drove his growling '68 Mercury Cougar up to the Monterey Bay area from his home base in Fontana, California, where he liked to hang out with his fellow members of the John Birch Society, the Aryan Brotherhood, and the Boy Scouts of America.

It took him longer to make the drive than it did to find Serena Cale. He found out all about her from the Web in about fifteen minutes and even managed to pull her picture off another kid's Web site.

Randi Turner was the other kid, and she had a photo page on her site devoted to her and her friends at beach parties, school games, and hanging out. They were hanging out, all right, mostly in the skimpiest of bikinis.

Serena was one of Randi's chums. They were both hot babes, and as Victor made the eight-hour drive, hyped up on X, he entertained himself by imagining the two girls were very, very good friends. It got him so excited that he was toying with the idea of coming back for Randi later, depending on how things worked out with Serena. He would show them both the glorious American eagle tattooed on his belly, its talons clinging to his hairy navel, and they would be overcome by patriotism and lust. They might even fight with each other over who got to have him first.

He drove all night, stopping a couple of times along the way for hamburgers and beers and visits to the bathroom, where he liked to scrawl the phone numbers of ex-girlfriends on the wall. The ones he was kind enough to leave breathing and unmaimed, that is.

Victor didn't look much like an ex-Marine, mainly be cause he wasn't one, even though he told everybody that he was. He stood five feet five, with a hairline that had receded clear back to the middle of his bullet head. The Do-er compensated by letting what hair he had grow down to his shoulders, where it tangled with the man fur on his back and chest that spilled out around his collar.

All that body hair gave Victor a unique odor that complicated the more intimate aspects of his profession. On those occasions when he couldn't kill from afar using the rifle in his trunk, his victims usually smelled him before he could get close. If he tried to mask the smell with aftershave or de odorant, it only made things worse. This required Victor to hone his garroting and knifing skills to favor speed over accuracy or stealth.

He got the close-up work done, but often left an unfortunate mess, which was why he preferred the sniper jobs.

This gig, snatching a buxom beach babe, was a new challenge for him. And when he wasn't fantasizing about Serena and Randi together, he gave some thought to how he was going to make the grab.

He settled on the old-fashioned way—soaking a rag with chloroform, following her to a secluded spot, and covering her face with the rag until she passed out. That was how he got most of his dates in the sack anyhow. Roofies were too much trouble and too expensive, especially once he factored in the drinks he had to buy, and all the effort he had to put into witty conversation, in order to drug the object of his affections.

Serena Cale would probably catch a whiff of him before he got close, but he didn't expect that to be much trouble. The client wanted her unconscious most of the time anyway, particularly on arrival at the destination, because he didn't want her knowing where she'd been, in case Victor decided to leave her among the living.

The client didn't have to worry about that. Once the client was done with her, she'd do some partying with the Do-er, then a quick tour of the Grand Canyon, from the top to the bottom.

Victor arrived in Capitola a little after dawn. He parked the car, went out on the beach, and scoped out the place where the kid lived. He found her car, an old Toyota Corolla, parked near the pier and made a note of the Cabrillo College parking tag hanging from the rearview mirror.

No one was up and about, and the only available restroom was at the gas station by the highway, so he urinated on her tire, like a dog marking his territory. This wasn't going to be a good spot to take her. He zipped up his fly, walked back down to the beach, and trudged across the sand to his car.

Since he didn't know her schedule, he'd have to follow her and wait for the right moment. if worst came to worst, he would know where she parked at school. He could hide in the parking structure and take her when she came back from class.

She made it easy for him.

At eight thirty she emerged from the villa in shorts and a T-shirt and went out for a jog that took her through town, along the river, and under the train trestle.

That was where he waited for her, in the dark of the tall wooden pilings that held up the aging structure. He backed his car up nearby, so he could heave her inert body into the trunk

Victor the Do-er saw Serena Cale coming towards him, running up the dirt path between the ramshackle old houses and the riverbank. He soaked the rag in chloroform, moved behind the post, and waited to make his move.

He could hear the steady, rhythmic clip-clop of her feet hitting the ground as she neared him. He felt his pulse quicken, as if to match the rhythm of her run.

The timing had to be perfect.

When she was close enough for him to hear her heavy breathing, he stepped forward. She passed the post, and in the split second that she registered movement out of the corner of her eye, he reached out to cup her face from behind with the rag and drag her away.