Miracle Cure (13 page)

"Isn't that normal in the case of a suicide?"

"Not really. Usually, the handwriting is slow and even and fairly normal. Grey always wrote very neatly even when he scribbled down a prescription. The suicide note was uncharacteristically sloppy. It could have been I said could have been coerced."

Sara sat forward with her eyes opened wide. Her words came fast.

"Then what you're saying is that maybe Bruce was forced to write it,"

she nearly shouted.

"Maybe somebody put a gun to his head and made him do it."

"Calm down, Sara. We don't know anything of the sort yet."

"And if that's the case, Harvey could be in real danger."

Bernstein shook his head.

"Don't start building this into something it's not. There are a million better explanations for all of this. It could be something as simple as Bruce Grey being so cold his hand shook when he wrote the note. Or it could be that he was nervous at the thought of running head first through a window."

"You don't buy any of that."

Max pocketed his keys.

"But it sounded good."

"Where are you going?"

"To the Days Inn. I want to check out Grey's room."

"Hey, hey, Mikey, boy! How you feeling?" Michael looked up and smiled. Reece and Jerome piled into the room with a half dozen other Knicks.

"You guys are a bunch of the ugliest candy-stripers I've ever seen." "But look what we brought you," Jerome said, holding up a brown paper bag.

"What is it?" Michael asked.

"Hospital food sucks, right?" Jerome continued.

"Bet your ass," Michael replied.

"Two days of it and I'm already going crazy."

"And," Reece added, "everyone knows how you Jews love food from the Orient."

"You mean...?"

"Yup," Reece interrupted, "take-out from Hunan Empire."

"I think I love you guys."

"Don't get mushy on us, old dude."

"I'll try not to break down."

"So how you feeling, Mikey?"

"Okay."

"When you coming back?"

"Probably not till next season."

"Shit."

"Yeah, tell me about it. But guys, guess what?"

There was a pause.

"Reece already told us the good news," Jerome said with a wide smile.

"You're going to be a papa.

Congratulations, man."

They shook hands.

"Thanks."

The other players gathered around him to offer their congratulations.

"Hey, old dude, how you gonna teach me anything from a hospital bed?"

Jerome asked.

"Watch old game films," Reece suggested.

"See how Mikey played when he was in his prime."

"They had movie cameras back then?" Jerome joked.

Reece laughed.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Michael asked him.

"You're only a year younger than me."

"I know. That's why I want you back with the team. I don't want to be the new 'old dude'."

"Swell. How's practice going anyway?"

"We miss you, Mikey," Reece said.

"Nice to hear."

"Yeah," Jerome added, "I miss blocking your shot and putting it in your face."

"Just hand over the food, Jerome, before my doctor seer it."

"Too late."

The tall bodies of the New York Knicks turned toward the door. Harvey stood leaning against the frame of the doorway.

"Hey, Harv," Reece said.

"How's it going, Reece?"

"Not bad."

"Would you and your cohorts mind if I have a few minutes alone with Michael?"

"Of course not."

"Good," Harvey replied.

"In the meantime I'll have one of the nurses bring you hoodlums over to the pediatric wing. There's a few kids in there you fellas might be able to cheer up." "Be our pleasure," Reece said.

"Come on, guys. Let's go."

Michael's teammates bade him good-bye and left. Then Harvey closed the door and moved into the room.

"So what's up?" Michael asked.

"We just got back results of the blood tests," Harvey began.

"You were HBV positive."

"Meaning?"

"You have hepatitis."

"Isn't that what you were expecting?"

"Yes and no."

"Explain, por favor."

"Frankly speaking, its all a little strange."

"What do you mean?"

Harvey crossed the room.

"You have hepatitis B rather than hepatitis A."

"Is that bad?"

"Ninety percent of all hep B patients recover fully within three to four months. With a little luck and some good training, you could even be back in shape for the end of the season and the play-offs."

"Great."

"But we'd like to take a few more tests, Michael," Harvey said, "including a T cell study and an HIV test."

Michael sat up, his eyes finding Harvey's and locking onto them.

"An HIV test? Isn't that " "Yes," Harvey, "it's a test which is supposed to indicate if you are carrying the AIDS virus."

"Why would I need one of those?"

"Its merely a precaution," Harvey continued.

"We're sure you don't have AIDS or anything of the sort. You're not homosexual and you're not an intravenous drug user, which means your chances of having it are next to nil."

"So?"

"So Eric and I discussed it. We also consulted Dr. Sagarel, the gastroenterologist. The thing is no one really understands how you contracted hep B."

"Some bad seafood maybe?"

"You're thinking of hepatitis A," Harvey continued.

"Hepatitis B is transmitted through blood transfusions, saliva, semen, stuff like that. Now I know you're going to want to slap me for asking, but I have to do it anyway. It's important that you tell the truth."

"Shoot."

"I know you love Sara, but have you had any extramarital affairs? Any at all. An indiscretion during a Knick road trip, anything?"

"No," Michael answered.

"Never."

Harvey nodded.

"Normally, we wouldn't think of going through with an HIV test, but when Eric reviewed your records, he came up with the fact that you had a blood transfusion after your boating accident in the Bahamas."

"But that was years ago."

"I know. If it were more recent, I wouldn't worry about it as much.

Nowadays we have the technology to screen blood donations so that the chances of a patient's receiving HIV contaminated blood are very remote. Back then the test didn't exist."

"So you're saying "

"I'm not saying anything. Look, Michael, Eric and I have HI Von-the-brain with the clinic and all. You don't have AIDS, I'm nearly positive of it. Under normal circumstances I would have just gone ahead and done the HIV test without telling you."

"So why didn't you? You didn't give me details about the other tests."

"Because the law requires that you sign a form, that's all."

"And Dr. Sagarel agrees with you and Eric about this?"

Harvey's face seemed to cloud over in hurt for a brief moment.

"Yes, Michael. He agreed."

"Harv," Michael began, "I don't mean to question your judgment " Harvey waved his hand.

"Don't worry about it, Michael. It was the right question to ask."

"So now what?"

"I'd like to draw some blood, if it's okay."

Michael shrugged, his eyes still scared. Then he nodded.

"You guys are the doctors." "Good," Harvey said.

"Give me your arm."

"Pick a vein, any vein at all."

Harvey did so, inserting the needle into the protruding blue line.

"Believe me, Michael, this is merely a formality."

"I hope you're right."

He finished taking the blood and withdrew the needle.

"I am," he said. He walked over to the door, opened it, and stepped into the hallway.

"Janice?"

As per Harvey's instruction, Janice Matley, his most loyal and trustworthy nurse, was waiting by the door. Harvey had brought Janice over from the clinic because he did not trust anyone with this task.

"Yes, Doctor?"

He handed her the blood sample.

"Give this to Eric or Winston only. Nobody else. If neither one of them is there, just wait."

She nodded and left. Harvey stepped back into Michael's room.

"When will you know the results?" Michael asked.

"In a week," Harvey answered.

"Now stop worrying like an old lady. There's no reason to think you have anything other than hepatitis."

Mr. Philip Adams, assistant manager of the Days Inn, unlocked the door.

"Here it is," he said.

"Room 1118."

"Damn," Lieutenant Bernstein said.

"Something wrong?"

Max took his finger out of his mouth.

"Hangnail. It's driving me nuts."

Philip Adams watched with something near horror while the police lieutenant used his teeth to rid himself of the annoying problem.

"Will there be anything else?"

"Has anybody stayed here since the suicide?"

"Actually, business has been a little slow right now so we've kept it vacant."

"Has the room been cleaned since the incident?"

"Oh, sure."

"Can you find me the maid who cleaned it?"

"She's off today."

"When will she be in?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"I'd like her to call me when she gets in."

"Of course, Lieutenant, but why are you investigating this now? The suicide was more than two weeks ago."

"Just trying to tie up a few loose ends," Bernstein explained.

"Can you also find me the receptionist who was on duty the night of the suicide?"

"Hector checked Dr. Grey in," Adams said.

"The police spoke to him already."

"When does Hector come in?"

"He's here now."

"Then please send him up."

"No problem."

"Has any work been done on the room since the incident?"

Adams coughed into his fist.

"We replaced the broken window he jumped through, of course."

"Nothing else?"

The assistant manager thought a moment.

"No, I don't think so."

"Okay, thanks."

"Here's the key, Lieutenant."

"I'll return it to you on my way out."

"Thank you."

Left alone, Bernstein paced the room in a circular pattern, hoping to get a feel for the surroundings. Then he closed his eyes and tried to step into the good doctor's shoes. He tried to picture Dr. Brace Grey checking into this hotel, taking the elevator up to the eleventh floor, unlocking the door, moving into this room.

Max imagined Grey trying to force open the window and finding that it was nailed shut. So what did Grey do next? He must have decided to take a running start and leap through the glass. Max pictured him backing up, sprinting forward, hurling his body against the glass, shattering it into small shards, slicing himself in the process. Not exactly a neat suicide. Very messy, in fact.

And painful jumping through glass could not have been a lot of laughs.

Something's wrong here, Twitch.

He nodded to himself. Why here? Why a leap? Why jump through glass?

It did not add up. The man was on the verge of a major medical breakthrough. He had been divorced for seven years already, had a kid he didn't see enough, loved to read, loved to work, was more or less a homebody. According to Harvey Riker and several of Bruce's friends, Grey rarely traveled and had only been out of the country three times his recent trip to Cancun, Mexico (taking a vacation before suicide?) and twice to Bangkok a few years back, where the clinic kept all confidential blood and lab samples and test results. Max had learned that Harvey and Bruce were paranoid about leaks, sabotage, government interference, that kind of thing hence the decision to have a safehouse way out in Bangkok. Might have seemed like unsubstantiated paranoia at the time but now... Bernstein stopped in mid-thought when he saw it.

His gaze fastened on the left side of the wall by the door, his eyes widening. He slowly crossed the room and examined the chain-lock, which hung from the wall and door in two separate pieces. The steel chain was snapped in two. Max bent forward to get a closer look when a knock on the door made him jump.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Hector Rodriguez," a voice with a Hispanic accent called out.

"Mr. Adams told me you wanted to see me."

Bernstein opened the door.

"Come in."

The slight, dark-skinned man moved into the room. He wore a hotel uniform and a goatee that looked like it had been penciled onto his face.

"Mr. Adams said you have some questions about the suicide?"

"Hector, did anyone notice this before?"

Hector squinted at the chain-lock.

"I don't think so. No one's used this room since the suicide."

"Are broken chain-locks a common occurrence in this place?"

"No, sir, they're not. I'll have it replaced right away."

Bernstein wondered if the lock had been broken when Grey first came into the room. Somehow he doubted it.

"Do you remember Dr. Grey checking in?"

"A little," Hector replied.

"I mean, he jumped out the window a few minutes after he checked in. He couldn't have been in the room for more than five minutes."

"What do you remember about him?"

"He had very blond hair "

"I don't mean looks-wise. I mean, how did he act? How was he behaving?"

"Behaving?"

"Yes. Did he seem depressed, for example?" "No, not de. I'd say nervous was more like it. He was sweating like a pig."

"I see..." Bernstein's hands flew forward.

"Hold it a second.

Did you just say Dr. Grey had blond hair?"

"Very blond."

Max's eyes squinted in bafflement. He opened his file and looked at a recent photograph of Bruce Grey. The man in the photograph had black hair.

"Is this the man who checked in that night?"

Hector stared at the picture for a good ten seconds.

"I can't say for sure. He looked much different. He didn't have a beard and like I said before, his hair was blond."

Bernstein opened the file. He had tried to avoid the police photos because he was not fond of looking at splattered remains, but now he knew that he would have to look. He thumbed through the papers until he arrived at the first glossy photograph.