Miracle Cure (35 page)

Brian sat alone while Sharpe went to call the police. His thoughts were mostly of Phil. He tried to concoct a persuasive scenario in which his workaholic friend wouldn’t show up for rounds on a day when he was acting as ward visit, and wouldn’t call, either. Nothing worked—at least nothing that didn’t involve the sort of people who had just tried to kill him.

“Well,” Freeman said, reentering the van, “your crack Reading police force didn’t sound too eager to be dealing with an anonymous tip. But they might look into it.”

Brian hurried to the phone and called Teri’s office,
then her home. He got her voice mail in both places, and left identical warnings.

“Teri, I know it sounds crazy to you, but I’m hitting a raw nerve by poking into these early Vasclear cases. All of a sudden, people are trying to hurt me. My phone may be tapped, and they might know I’ve been talking to you, too. So until the ceremony, please be very careful. Stay with friends if you can. Don’t do too much alone. I miss you. I miss you like crazy.”

After recording the second message to Teri, he called information and got the number of Wilhelm Elovitz in Charlestown. This time, Elovitz’s widow, Devorah, answered herself.

“Oh, yes,” she said in an accent not as thick as her late husband’s. “Bill said you were the finest doctor he had ever had.”

“He seemed like a very decent man, Mrs. Elovitz. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know him better.”

“Yes.”

Brian could tell that she was beginning to cry.

“Mrs. Elovitz, I’m sorry if my call is upsetting you. Perhaps I should call back at another time.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Tears are not the worst thing in the world. Please, tell me what I can do for you.”

“I know Bill was shot during a holdup, but I don’t know any of the details.”

“It was in all the papers and on TV.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t hear anything about it. I was having a tragedy of my own at the time. My father died suddenly.”

“Oh, dear. I’m very sad for you.”

“Thank you. Perhaps I could stop by and speak with you, rather than ask you questions over the phone.”

“If you want to stop by, that would be fine. But I think you should be talking to Sid.”

“Sid?”

“Sid Mastrangelo. He owns the market where Bill was … was shot.”

“And he was there when it happened?”

“Oh, yes. They shot Sid, too.”

S
ID’S MARKET OCCUPIED THE FIRST FLOOR OF A REDBRICK
tenement in a gritty section of Charlestown, not far from the berth of the USS
Constitution
. Devorah Elovitz’s directions were reasonably good, but they weren’t needed.

“After I got back from Nam,” Freeman explained, “I spent a good deal of time engaged in commerce on these streets. I actually remember Sid’s Market from way back then.”

“And do you remember Sid?”

“It’s been about twenty years, but if he’s as wide as he is tall, I remember. I think he threw me out of his place more than once.”

On the ride to Charlestown from Reading, they kept the radio tuned to the all-news station. Although there were two items related to Vasclear and the President’s impending visit to Boston, there was nothing about an anonymous call to the Reading police, followed by the
discovery of a bludgeoned body in the home of a physician who, until recently, had lost his license because of drug use.

“Too soon,” Freeman said. “Besides, I don’t think your crack police force believed me. How’re you doing there?”

“Shaken but no longer shaking would about describe it. I can’t believe that bastard was waiting inside my house.”

“They had your key. Hiding someone inside meant that the dude outside could drive away from time to time. You were just lucky Mr. Inside was heeding nature’s call.”

“I have the feeling my luck may be running out.”

“That’s the old recovery spirit.”

Sid Mastrangelo was indeed as Freeman remembered him. He was egg-bald except for a graying monk’s fringe, and would have gotten consideration in any casting call for Friar Tuck. He wore a canvas apron, untied at the waist, and had his right arm in a sling. Brian introduced himself and Freeman.

“Bill Elovitz’s wife called a little while ago and told me you were coming,” Mastrangelo said.

“Did she say what we wanted?”

“She said something about the shooting. She also said you were Bill’s doctor.”

“I was. One of his cardiologists at Boston Heart.”

“And what are you?” he asked Freeman.

“Just a friend.”

“Yeah? Well, you look like a punk from a long time ago who used to hang around this corner too much.”

“I look after a couple of apartment buildings in Boston,” Freeman replied calmly. “Married, member in good standing of the Elks, buddies with doctors like this guy. Couldn’t be me you’re thinking of.”

“Good,” the grocer said, his eyes sparkling. “Because
the punk I remember had
Hard Luck
tattooed on his knuckles just like you.”

“Mr. Mastrangelo,” Brian cut in, “would you be willing to talk to us about what happened?”

“Bill’s wife asked me to, so I will.”

An elderly woman came in for milk and cigarettes. Mastrangelo rang her charges up on an ancient register, handed over her change, and then warned her about the danger of her continuing to smoke.

“Before we begin,” Brian said, “do you have a phone I could use? I need to call the hospital.”

Mastrangelo reached beneath the counter and passed over a portable handset.

Praying silently, Brian called the ward. Still no word from Phil, he was told.

“Do you know if Dr. Pickard is aware that Phil hasn’t shown up?” he asked Jen, the unit secretary.

“Oh yes. In fact, Dr. Pickard was here asking questions just a little while ago. Wait a minute, he’s still here. He’s just going down the hall.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“Hang on, Dr. Holbrook. I’ll see if I can get him.”

Brian glanced to his right where Freeman was paying for some mints, a Coke, and a pouch of pipe tobacco.

“I don’t inhale,” he heard his sponsor say just as Ernest Pickard came on the line.

“Brian,” he said. “We’ve been terribly worried about you and Phil. Are you okay?”

“Yes, sir, I am. I was up half the night with a GI bug and I forgot to set the alarm. But I’m much better now, so I was planning on being at work within the hour.”

“Good. Excellent. Do you have any idea where Phil might be? He missed the rounds he was scheduled to conduct this morning, and didn’t call.”

“That’s certainly not like him. Have you sent someone over to his place?”

“I believe the police are on their way now. Brian, two of our fellows are on vacation. Phil was actually scheduled to cover the ward in-house tonight. Is there any way you could do that?”

“I’ll be in by two,” Brian said, thinking about using the night on duty to get back to the record room and continue down his list of Phase One patients, “and I’ll be happy to cover if you want me to.”

“No news?” Freeman asked.

“None. I’m going to cover for Phil tonight.”

“You think that’s wise?”

“You’re the one who thought I’d be making a mistake to vanish.”

“That’s true. Go in to work, but stay in the main corridors, away from the nooks and crannies. And Brian? Think of some reason why you look like you’ve been thrown in the briar patch.”

“Sorry for talking around you like that, Mr. Mastrangelo,” Brian said. “There’s been a lot of turmoil at the hospital, and I seem to be right in the middle of it.”

“Does it have anything to do with the shooting?” he asked.

Freeman and Brian exchanged glances.
The truth
, they decided.

“It might,” Brian said. “That’s why we wanted to see you. I was hoping you might go over exactly what happened when Bill Elovitz was killed.”

“I can do better than that,” Mastrangelo replied. “I can show you.”

“Show me?”

“I have a copy of the video my security system took that night. My place is just upstairs if you want to see it.”

———

Sid Mastrangelo set a Closed sign in the window and led Brian and Freeman up the back stairs to the full-floor apartment he shared with his wife.

“I have a friend in the security business,” he explained. “Triple A Security right here in Charlestown. I was being shoplifted to death and got broken into a couple of times. Manny set up a system for me. After the holdup, before he turned the tape over to the police, he made me a copy. The two guys who did it had ski masks on. I’ve watched the tape three or four times, trying to see if there was anything about them I could connect with someone I knew.”

“And did you?” Brian asked.

Mastrangelo shook his head.

“Not a thing.”

As they settled down before a large-screen TV in the comfortable, slightly musty apartment, Mastrangelo’s wife—a feminine version of the grocer—waved cheerfully to them from the kitchen.

Sid turned on the set then cued the VCR and handed the remote to Brian.

“Stop it anyplace you want,” he said. “Ask any questions that come to mind.”

A few seconds of electronic static were followed by a grainy black-and-white view of the interior of Sid’s Market.

The camera, located above, behind, and to the left of Mastrangelo, had a fish-eye lens that distorted the scene somewhat, but enabled the camera to pick up a wider field. Seen from above, the figures in the drama appeared compressed. And without sound, the ghastliness of what was being recorded seemed strangely muted.

Empty store except for the back of Sid’s head as he moves back and forth behind the low counter … 2048 hrs, a time stamp in the lower-right corner says. 8:48 P.M.…

“I close at nine on Fridays,” Mastrangelo commented.

Front door opens and Bill Elovitz enters, wearing a beltless trench coat … His left wrist is in a cast … His rich silver hair glows in the grayish recording.… His puffy ankles are actually visible over the tops of his Top-Sider–type shoes.… He waves familiarly to Mastrangelo and smiles in the bittersweet way that had first drawn Brian to him.… He heads to the back of the store and vanishes from the screen.… Moments later the door opens and two men come in.… Both are wearing dark windbreakers and ski masks.… One is carrying a handgun, the other a sawed-off shotgun.…

Brian hit the pause button. Although the physiques of the gunmen were distorted, one of them—the one carrying the shotgun—was clearly much taller and more broad-shouldered than the other. Freeman looked over at him quizzically and Brian nodded. He would bet the ranch that the face beneath that mask was deeply scarred. Leon. Whether the other gunman was the man he had possibly killed just a short time ago, Brian could not be certain. He hit the play button.

The shorter man gesticulates at Sid with his gun and seems to be doing most if not all of the talking.… Leon leaves the screen and returns seconds later, pushing Bill Elovitz ahead with his shotgun.… Elovitz is talking and does not seem overly frightened. He has experience with armed bullies.… The shorter man orders the cash register opened, takes what bills are there from Sid, and stuffs them into his pocket.… The gunmen back toward the door.… They have reached it.… They begin to turn away.… Suddenly, Leon whirls back.… He is no more than six or seven feet from Bill.… Without hesitating, he fires.… Elovitz appears to take the full force of the shot in the center of his chest.… He flies backward as if scooped up by a tornado, hits a set of shelves, and crumples to the floor.… The intruder with the
handgun whirls on Mastrangelo and fires from seven or eight feet away, but Sid is diving for cover behind the counter when he is hit.… The two gunmen do not go to finish him. Instead, they flee.… Seconds later, Sid’s hand appears on the counter as he pulls himself up.… The time stamp reads 2052.… Four minutes
.

Brian clicked off the VCR and nodded grimly at Freeman.
It’s them
. He set the remote down.

“Mr. Mastrangelo,” he asked, careful to avoid providing any clues to the answer he expected, “the man who shot you, was there anything unusual about him—anything at all?”

“He spoke with some sort of accent,” Sid said without hesitating. “I don’t know what kind. German, maybe.”

“And the other man?”

“Godzilla? I don’t think he said a word. Did seeing that video help you?”

“Maybe. There’s a lot I don’t understand yet.”

“But you don’t seem like you think Bill was shot as part of a holdup.”

Brian shrugged his shoulders, then stood and shook the store owner’s hand.

“I don’t know for sure, Mr. Mastrangelo,” he said. “But I didn’t see anyone take Bill’s wallet.”

B
RIAN LEFT HIS GYM BAG IN THE VAN AND HAD
F
REEMAN
drop him off at White Memorial. He entered the hospital lobby on full alert, scanning the crowd for anyone who seemed to be scanning the crowd for him. He was clutching his briefcase, which, in addition to the usual papers, medical instruments, Kit Kat bars, and change of underwear, had a single white gym sock in which was concealed the snub-nosed revolver he had taken from the unconscious man bleeding on his living-room floor.

Brian had never fired a gun except for a BB gun and once a .22 rifle. He hoped he wouldn’t ever have to. But two thugs from Newbury Pharmaceuticals had murdered one elderly Phase One patient, and had probably murdered a second. Now, the killers were after him, and Phil had disappeared.

Was there anyone besides Teri he could trust? Would she be willing to go out on a limb with nothing more
substantial than his word? How much time did he have before Pickard’s office called him to go for a sure-to-be-positive urine test? Perhaps Pickard was someone he could turn to.

“Dr. Pickard, I don’t have any proof, but I want you to know that the company you’ve been working hand-in-glove with for the last five years or so is controlled by the Russian Mafia. My source? Oh, a Chinese mobster named Cedric who goes to NA meetings. Now, for some reason, even though the drug you’ve developed with Newbury will save tens of thousands of lives and make your institute millions of dollars, the pharmaceutical company’s hired killers to murder your patients.…”