Endorphin Conspiracy, The (22 page)

Chapter 39

As Geoff ran up the steps to Kapinsky’s apartment, his anger gave way to determination. He entered the building, paused, looked around. No one seemed to pay any attention to him or the ubiquitous sirens. New Yorkers were used to sirens and emergency lights, especially near a hospital. He thought he’d be safe here for a little while longer. All he needed was an hour to plan and regroup. But pretty soon the police, or worse the group from the Sigma Project, would come looking here. Then he’d have nowhere to go.

Geoff carefully opened the apartment door a crack, peering through the opening to make sure no one was waiting for him.

It appeared empty. Things were just as he had left them earlier. No movement. No sounds. Once again he looked over his shoulder, then slithered inside and double-locked the door. He leaned his sweat-soaked back against the wall, took a long deep breath, removed the digital recorder from his pocket, placed it on the coffee table along with the pocketknife. He slumped down on the couch and rested his head in his hands. The tight knot in his stomach confirmed this wasn’t just a bad dream.

Balassi was finished. Geoff had gotten the entire conversation on disk. But who could he trust with the evidence? He had to think things through clearly. He must have one ally in the midst of this hornets’ nest, but who? Was Suzanne the only one? There had to be a back-up. There just had to be!

Geoff realized his next move would be the most important one of his life. It was like diffusing a time bomb without instructions or training. Two wires—one red, one black. Pull the right one and the trigger is deactivated. The other blows you to hell in a thousand pieces. Still, he had to be decisive and act quickly.

Faces popped in and out of his mind’s eye. If Balassi and Pederson were in on it, then no one at the Medical Center could be trusted. How about Spiros, Director of the ER? A man who had dedicated his life to patient care. It was hard to fathom, but he had to be in on it too. Who else could have directed the patients to Pederson and Balassi for their studies? The Medical Center had to be permeated and controlled by agents of the Sigma Project. Zelenkov and his group of international scientists, Trauma Center orderlies, nurses and technicians, infiltrators
everywhere
, at every level, all part of this vast, international conspiracy.

Geoff sat up abruptly, stared at the envelope containing the information given to him by Suzanne. He would have mailed it, but he didn’t know to whom to send it. Bennington was unavailable, and Lancaster couldn’t be trusted. The contents of the envelope could be Geoff’s ticket to freedom, or his death sentence. He couldn’t let the information fall into the wrong hands.

Geoff bit into his lower lip, drawing blood. The salty taste was strangely reassuring. He looked across the living room, his gaze coming to rest on Kapinsky’s computer. If he couldn’t get through to Bennington at the CIA by phone, what about sending the information by e-mail? It was worth a try.

Geoff sat down at the desk, flipped the power switch on, booted the old Dell computer. The welcome screen appeared after what seemed like an eternity, prompting Howard Kapinsky for his password. Damn.

Geoff looked over towards the couch for his fanny pack containing Stefan’s decoding flash drive, then realized he had left it back at his apartment last night. He was on his own.

He closed his eyes, tried to remember Kapinsky’s password at the hospital. He had seen Kapinsky log on the computer to check lab results and remembered it was a strange one. Something to do with food, his favorite food. Geoff tried several. Deli, corned beef, matzo ball. All were negative. Then, an epiphany.

“Knish,” he whispered aloud.

Welcome
flashed across the screen. Geoff maneuvered through the internet, found a government directory. There wasn’t much listed under Central Intelligence Agency other than a central clearinghouse. Geoff felt it would be too risky. He couldn’t get it directly to Bennington that way.

What about the FBI? They’d probably sit on it.

Geoff took a deep breath, logged out, turned off the computer. He still had the matter of what to do with the vials. He needed a back-up. There was only one solution. He’d turn himself and all the information he had into the police. Deliver it all on a silver platter to O’Malley, make the captain the hero of the day.

A street-wise, free-spirited cop like O’Malley couldn’t be in with the CIA. He might be on the take, like a lot of cops in New York, but Geoff couldn’t believe O’Malley would take kindly to an order from above, especially one from outside the department, about how to handle an investigation.

There was only one problem. O’Malley was a cop out to solve a murder—
several murders
—and all the evidence pointed towards Geoff. And it wasn’t just circumstantial. O’Malley had told him as much over the phone. They had his ID covered with Suzanne’s blood, and his gun had been used to murder the security guard. Walter’s body conveniently disappearing would make Geoff’s version of the truth seem like pure fantasy. No, even though he thought O’Malley would listen, he was just a small fry in the NYPD.

The tape of his conversation with Balassi was powerful evidence in Geoff’s favor, but it could easily be made out to be a fake, or simply disappear. There’d be pressure from high up to scapegoat Geoff and cover up anything else.

But at least he’d have half a chance, especially with the files he had from Suzanne and the conversation with Balassi on disk, which was more than he would have trying to run from the CIA. He’d probably be safer in jail.

Geoff picked up the phone and punched in O’Malley’s number.

“This is Captain O’Malley. I’m away from my desk right now. Please leave a message after the tone, or hold and a dispatcher...”

Voice mail. Shit. The tone came. Geoff hesitated, then put down the receiver.

The sound of the phone ringing just about sent him through the roof. His pulse raced. His heart pounded. Someone had discovered him. Trying to send the e-mail had tipped off whoever was monitoring the phone lines that someone was in Kapinsky’s apartment. Goddamnit.

Geoff stared at the phone as it continued ringing. Maybe it was the wrong number. Maybe they were just checking to see if he’d go for the bait, if he was really there. Whatever the case, he had to get the hell out. Now.

Geoff ran to the kitchen, grabbed the two vials of endorphins out of the freezer and placed them in the envelope. He picked up a marker from Kapinsky’s desk and wrote “Confidential—Hand Deliver to Detective Donald O’Malley, NYPD, only,” on the front in thick black letters, underlined the word “only” in red. He folded the envelope in half, tucked it into his running shorts. He was going to deliver it directly to O’Malley himself.

Chapter 40

Geoff’s pulse raced and his heart pounded fiercely as he maneuvered through the underpass and headed up the backside of Fort Tryon Park. The shortest route to the precinct house was straight up Fort Washington Avenue from Kapinsky’s apartment to the south, but he would fool them all by coming down out of the park from the north.

It was a scorcher of a day, and Geoff’s side ached sharply, but his legs continued their pace, carrying him ever closer to his destination. The hill was a killer, but he was in great shape and loved the challenge. His breathing was fine. No tightness.

Geoff could see the exit from the park at Cabrini Circle off in the distance, about a hundred yards away. The path looked clear, no one ahead or behind him, no helicopters overhead. No sign he was being followed.

His feet pounded the hot pavement as he kicked up his pace for the final sprint, the last twenty-five yards. Sweat poured off his head, drenching his body. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. Ten yards to go, then he would bolt as fast as his legs could carry him to the stationhouse just a few blocks down from the park. It would all be out of his hands.

Geoff closed in on the exit, picked up his pace, pushed himself to the limit. The exit was wide open, Cabrini Circle just about empty. No blockades. No police cruisers. He gave it all he had, sprinted past the gate out onto the cobblestone street.

The unmarked Ford that struck him from the left side came seemingly from nowhere as he exited Fort Tryon Park onto Cabrini Circle. He felt crushing pain in his left hip as he was flung onto the hood of the speeding car, his bloodied face flattened against the windshield. Their gazes met. Even in his semi-conscious state, Geoff could not mistake the cold-blooded stare of an assassin. The driver slammed on the brakes, throwing him off the hood onto the ground like a limp ragdoll.

Then all was blackness.

Chapter 41

The ambulance came to a screeching halt just outside the entrance to Fort Tryon Park at Cabrini Circle. An unmarked grey patrol car had arrived at the scene first and cordoned off the area, plainclothesman kneeling at the side of the victim, making feeble attempts to assess injuries. The paramedics bounded out of their vehicle, equipment in hand, and rushed to the victim lying motionless in a pool of blood on the hot pavement.

“’Bout time you guys got here,” said the cop, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the medics.

“Took three minutes from the time we got the damn call,” shot back Enrique Santos. “What took so long to call it in?”

“Had to shoo away a couple of grave robbers lookin’ for money, jewelry, stuff like that. These animals don’t care there’s someone dyin’ out on the street. Think they’d maybe lend a hand, do somethin’ good-Samaritan-like? No way. It’s a fuckin’ jungle out here. If you find anything on him, bag it and give it to me.”

“Yeah, sure boss. Good thing we got here when we did, or maybe you would’ve robbed him yourself. Now how about gettin’ out of the way so we can save this man’s life?” Santos said, getting down on his knees to get to work. He closed his eyes, crossed himself, then opened his box and grabbed his stethoscope.

The cop stood up abruptly. “Okay, wise ass, but don’t forget there’s gonna be an investigation here and we need every piece of evidence—wallet, papers, anything—just like I said.”

He paused and looked back down at the victim on the ground. “I think this one’s gonna’ be needing a priest, not a medic. Pretty bad hit and run.” The words trailed off as the cop stepped back out of the way and started walking across the street.

Santos carefully rolled the victim on his back and set him on top of the backboard. His face was swollen, bloody and bruised, but not beyond recognition.

“
Dios mio
, Rosey. It’s Geoff Davis!”

“What?” Rosey Ceravolo placed her stethoscope to the patient’s carotid artery. She raised her hand to Santos to keep quiet so she could listen carefully for any sounds. “Got a pulse! It’s a bit thready, but it’s there.”

With precision and speed, she cut open Geoff’s blood-soaked t-shirt with her bandage scissors, then placed the stethoscope on his chest. “Respirations shallow, but regular. Both lungs inflated. I think he’ll make it, at least to the ER.” She looked up at Santos. “What’d you say?”

“I said this is Geoff Davis,
Doctor
Geoff Davis, Chief Neurosurgery Resident at the Trauma Center!”

“What?” she asked in disbelief.

“You heard me right, Ceravolo.”

“Shit,” said Ceravolo in disgust. “Ain’t fair.”

“No, it ain’t.” Santos quickly inflated the blood pressure cuff. “BP 80/30. Looks like he’s lost a fair amount of blood here,” Santos said, gingerly checking Geoff’s head. Bad head injury, real bad. Damn.”

Santos pried the lids open and checked his pupils. They were almost pinpoint, but reactive.

“That crazy son-of-a-bitch drivin’ that car must have been going ninety miles an hour! Had to be on drugs or somethin’, man!”

Santos shot a glance at Ceravolo. “Whoever hit him knew what they were doin’. Look at those skid marks over there. They overlap and go in both directions.” He nodded towards the pavement as he wrapped Geoff’s head with gauze. “That driver kept at him, back and forth, back and forth. He was aimin’ for him.”

“The cop didn’t say anything like that. What makes you such an expert?”

“I know a hit when I see one, Ceravolo. This was a
hit
, not a hit and run. Same thing happened to my little brother. Drug dealer finished him off. A hit. Skid marks looked just like that.”

She paused as she ripped off a piece of tape with her teeth. For a moment she was speechless. He had never told her that before. “How come our cop friend over there didn’t say anything like that?”

They looked up briefly, glanced over at the tall, pock-marked plainclothes cop, who was awkwardly looking through the low hedges and flowers in the center island of the traffic circle across the way.

“Looks like our friend over there has more interest in finding what he’s lookin’ for than skid marks, Rosita.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re right. So what if this was no ordinary hit and run. Especially now that you tell me who this is. Maybe it had somethin’ to do with the attempted murder of that lady doc at the hospital. Maybe it was revenge or somethin’, you know what I mean, like the papers are sayin’?” She looked up at Santos. “You think he did it?”

Santos threw her a scornful glance. “No more than I think my own mama did it! No fuckin’ way! It ain’t in him to kill someone, especially the way they tried to kill that lady doc. Forget it.”

“Hey, just askin’, Santos. You know him as well as anyone, just thought I’d ask.”

“Let’s move him. Ready on three.”

They hoisted him up onto the stretcher. As they did so, something fell to the ground. Santos picked up the manila envelope and examined it, puzzled.

“What the fuck is that?”

“What the fuck does it look like, Ceravolo?”

“Well I know what it
is
, Santos, but what’s it doin’ in his shorts? Funny place to keep your mail, don’t you think?”

“Doesn’t look like mail.” He held it up to the light, then shook it back and forth. Something other than papers slid around inside. “Looks like some papers, a computer disk of some kind. Couple of small plastic vials, too.”

The envelope was sealed with packing tape and had a name written in black marker on the outside, but no address, no stamps. The word “URGENT” was scribbled underneath, underlined in red. “He was probably going to deliver it himself. Maybe he was on his way there when he got hit. Probably felt it was too important to trust to the post office,” he said as they lifted the stretcher and slid their patient in the back of the ambulance.

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked as she climbed inside.

“Hand it over to Detective O’Malley, 22nd Precinct, NYPD.”

“Maybe you should just give it to that guy in the unmarked car over there. He’ll get it to him. I mean, this looks like police stuff, Santos. Evidence. You know what I mean? Maybe this is what the cop is lookin’ for in the bushes over there. We’re medics, not detectives. We’re not supposed to get involved in this kind of thing.”

Santos looked over at the detective walking back in their direction. “That jerk? No fuckin’ way, babe. I don’t know him, and I don’t trust him. If I handed this envelope over to that bozo, this O’Malley might have it by Christmas, if he was lucky. No, this one’s being hand delivered by Enrique Santos. I’ll take the heat.”

He looked up and grinned. “Besides, you never saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“Didn’t think so.” Santos slammed the back door and climbed onto the driver’s seat. “Now let’s get this man to a doctor.”