Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (70 page)

“So what do you think?” Santangelo said.

Zohar sat in silence for another moment. “I think we’ve had an epiphany,” he said. “We’ve learned three crucial lessons from your interview today, Mr. Santangelo: first, we’ve confirmed Dr. Lassiter’s complete ineptitude; second, we’ve learned that Dr. McKay is a very bright woman indeed; and third, we’ve learned that we must make a concerted effort to disguise the link between the coroner’s office, PharmaGen, and myself. Now that our relationship is well established, Mr. Truett, I think it might be prudent for me to resign from your advisory board. I suggest that you recruit instead more members with Dr. Paulos’s reassuring image.”

“Never mind the future,” Truett said, “what about now? They
know,
Julian—they figured it out.”

“What do they really know? Think carefully. They know about Lassiter’s foul-ups, but they are unaware of the reason behind them. They know about Lassiter’s investments in PharmaGen, but they don’t know the source of his funding. And as for the connection to me, that’s the weakest correlation of all. As they said to Mr. Santangelo, they’re only guessing.”

“But they’re guessing
right,
” Santangelo said. “They don’t have to be able to prove anything. They just have to raise the right questions.”

“I agree,” Zohar said. “But I believe we took care of that today. Where would they raise those questions? To the authorities, of course, and today they did exactly that. They spoke to the
authorities—and not just any authority, a federal authority—the FBI. They now believe that their concerns have been heard, that a federal investigation is under way, and that they have no reason for further involvement.”

“That’s good for now,” Truett said, “but what about later on? Cruz promised them an end to the investigation. What happens when six months or a year goes by and it’s still business as usual? They won’t wait forever, Julian; they’re going to want closure.”

“And closure they shall have. Please understand me, gentlemen. This situation will have to be dealt with. All I’m suggesting is that we proceed with caution and that we take advantage of this opportunity while we have it.”

“What opportunity?”

“Mr. Santangelo made it quite clear: if they learn anything else, they are to call
him.
Don’t you see? If there are any more holes in our system, they will find them—and they will report them directly to us. These people are our very own U.N. inspection team! I think we should regard this as a divine opportunity.”

“When
do
we deal with the situation?” Santangelo asked. “The sooner the better in my book.”

“I think that would be wise. But one thing is crucial: We must identify the third member of their party. As you told them today, Mr. Santangelo, we don’t want to close the net until we have identified all parties involved. If we act prematurely, whoever remains will most certainly return to haunt us. Can you do this? Will you be able to identify the remaining accomplice?”

“It could take a few days,” Santangelo said reflectively. “I don’t have the resources of the FBI for this—I’ll have to do it the hard way.”

Zohar nodded. “As you said—the sooner the better.”

“What about the next procedure?” Truett said. “Do we go ahead, or do we call it off and lay low until this situation is taken care of?”

“I say call it off,” Santangelo said.

“I agree,” Truett nodded. “The risk is too great.”

“Gentlemen,” Zohar said in his most reassuring voice. “We must be careful not to let our fears cloud our usual acumen. If we are to test our system for flaws, we must continue as planned with our
next procedure. Besides, we must remember that our waiting client also poses a risk. How are we to raise her expectations, only to suddenly postpone without explanation? Believe me, her courage is fragile; if we show the slightest sign of caution or hesitation, she will back out of our arrangement, and then we’ll have a risk of a different kind. The only safe client is a satisfied client—and she will not be satisfied until she gets her kidney. We have a week before the next procedure; let’s see what Mr. Santangelo can learn in that time.”

The men grew silent again, lost in thought. Truett sat slumped forward, his forearms resting on his knees, rolling an amber bottle back and forth between his hands.

“What about Lassiter?”

“What about him?”

“He’s been paid well for his part in all this—
very
well. But that wasn’t enough for him; he had to invest that money in the company, he had to try to make an even bigger killing. It was his greed that allowed them to make the connection to PharmaGen. It was his stupidity that got them asking questions in the first place. From where I sit, Dr. Lassiter is becoming a greater liability than an asset.”

“Lassiter is a loose cannon,” Santangelo agreed. “He makes me nervous.”

Zohar nodded thoughtfully. “A contact within the coroner’s office is a necessary part of this process—but Dr. Lassiter does not have to be that contact. I share your concerns, gentlemen. This situation just might prove a double blessing. I think I see a way to improve our system and to replace our weakest link at the same time.”

Zohar reached down to the table in front of him and lifted his wineglass. He glanced at each man, then held the glass aloft. “Any man makes a sailor in calm seas,” he said. “Into the storm, gentlemen. Our port awaits on the other side.”

Riley parked her car beside the river and took the winding, rustred walkway over West Carson Street to the lower station of the Duquesne Incline. She loved the hundred-and-twenty-five-year-old building, with its rose-red brick and violet slate roof with gingerbread trim. Nineteen inclines once lined Pittsburgh’s formidable hills, transporting workers, vehicles, and coal up a thirty-degree pitch that even horses couldn’t master. Now only two inclines remained, the Duquesne and the Monongahela, both offering passengers a silent ascension from the river’s southern edge to the peak of Mount Washington. As a little girl, Riley’s father brought her often to ride the inclines, but by then they had been reduced to little more than tourist attractions. But it never failed to take her breath away when the red-and-yellow car rose out of the station and the three rivers came into view below.

She always took a seat at the very front of the car, turning to face the glass in anticipation of the stunning panorama—but this morning she moved directly to the rear of the car and took a seat beside a beaming, wavy-haired man.

“The lovely Riley McKay,” Leo said. “Truly, the Golden Triangle offers no more beautiful vista than you.”

Riley leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Let’s make this a regular thing,” she said. “Every time I’m having a bad day, I’ll meet you right here.”

“I will be your incline, lifting you from the depths of despair to the celestial heights where a woman like you belongs.”

There was a small jolt as the incline’s twin cables drew taut, and the car began its silent climb up the long track. The lower station began to shrink away, leaving a square, black hole where the car had been.

“I got your call,” Riley said. “Sorry if this seems a little cloak-and-dagger, but after our meeting with the FBI, I thought it might be wise if we tried to be a little more … discreet.”

“Just the way I like things,” Leo said. “Discreet.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nick Polchak is on my mind. Is he on yours?”

Riley hesitated. She began to speak but stopped short. She glanced around the empty car, then back at Leo again. All the while, Leo watched her eyes.

“I see,” he said.

Riley felt the rush of blood to her face. “What do you see?”

“I see that you care about Nick. But I sense that things are … complicated.”

“You have no idea.”

“Pour out your soul to me; I am your confidant.”

“I wish I could, Leo, I really do. But—”

He nodded. “I think you should know, Nick cares a great deal for you. I tell you this because he will have a great deal of difficulty telling you himself.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He said your voice reminds him of a wind chime.”

Riley smiled. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“In a sixth-grade sort of way, yes. But you have to start somewhere, and for Nick, that’s really quite remarkable.”

“I’ve tried not to … encourage him.”

“Nonsense—you’ve encouraged him by your very existence. You’re beautiful, you’re intelligent, and you’re comfortable with your arms up to the elbow in human viscera. You’re Nick’s kind of girl.”

“Nick is a wonderful man. But he’s kind of—”

“Strange? Twisted? Demented? Take your pick. Nick Polchak is all of these and more.”

“Leo—I thought you were Nick’s friend.”

Leo looked affronted. “I love Nick Polchak like my own brother. What am I saying—I
hate
my own brother. I love Nick Polchak like no other man in this world.”

Riley grinned. “Leo, is there anything that you just …
like
?”

“What would be the point? That’s like stopping halfway up the
incline. Italians have two emotions, Ms. McKay: we love, and we hate. Everything else is just pasta.”

Riley let out a laugh. “Well, I hope you don’t hate
me.
”

“I adore you—and so does Nick, which brings us back to the subject. Nick is like a man trapped in a great ship, staring out two giant portholes at the world passing by. I believe he wants out—but I don’t think he knows how to get out. For that, he needs the help of someone else—someone like you. Nick Polchak, you see, is a tortured soul.”

“I was always warned not to get involved with a man like that.”

“There is no other kind. But why should that discourage you? We’re
all
tortured souls—aren’t we, Riley?”

She looked down at her feet.

“Leo, what happened to Nick? What hurt him?”

“I think he should answer that question for himself. But I can tell you this much: Tarentum was a very tough town when Nick and I were growing up. The mills and factories were all closing down, people were out of work. Lean times can make meanspirited people; Nick’s father was one of them. He abandoned the family early, but he kept on returning like a plague—seemingly just to torment Nick. And then there was Nick’s obvious visual impairment—people can be very unkind, can’t they? That’s the world Nick grew up in, Riley. Early on, he discovered two things: that he had a most unusual intellect, and that—once he got his glasses—he could see things other people couldn’t see.”

“What sort of things?”

“My family liked to do jigsaw puzzles. We had lots of puzzles, and we would assemble them again and again—but over time we lost the boxes, and then we would store the pieces in plastic bags. So when we began a puzzle, we had no idea what the final image would be. Is it the lighthouse? Is it the old mill? It was always a kind of competition to see who could recognize the subject first. One evening Nick came over for dinner, and after dinner he joined us to start a new puzzle. Nick watched us lay down the first three pieces, and then he said, ‘It’s a clipper ship with three masts.’ And you know what? He was
right.
And after that, my family didn’t want Nick to help with the jigsaw puzzle
anymore. Do you know why? Because Nick takes all the fun out of it. He sees things that other people can’t see, and that puts him in a world of his own.”

“Does he really think of himself as an insect?”

“He has no love for the human species—at least, not the members of it
he’s
met. Human beings can be so unpredictable, so irrational—so
hurtful.
I think Nick came to appreciate the orderliness and predictability of the insect world. I believe there’s a cure for his malady—but I don’t think it will come in the form of a pill or a therapy. I think it will have to have a human face.”

“Leo, I need to ask you something: what do you think of Nick’s theory, this whole idea of a black market in human organs?”

“I would call it absurd,” Leo said, “except for the fact that it’s
Nick’s
theory. Remember the clipper ship, Riley. Nick has a kind of intuition that he borrows from the insect world; he makes connections in a most remarkable way. He may be wrong about this, but I would not discount his instincts.”

Now Leo took Riley’s hand and looked her full in the eyes. “I want to tell you why I really called,” he said, lifting a folder from the wooden bench beside him. “Nick asked me to see if I could hack into the patient database at UPMC Presbyterian.”

“What? What for?”

“Because you told him that most of the organ transplants in this area are performed there. He asked me to find a list of patients awaiting kidney transplants there. He also asked me to search for
old
lists; he wants to compare them, to see if anyone has dropped off the list without having their surgery. If anyone has, he plans to check them against the obituaries. Nick is putting his theory to the test, Riley. If anyone is still alive who shouldn’t be, he wants to know why.”

Riley said nothing. Leo squeezed her hand a little tighter.

“How long have you been on the waiting list, Riley?”

She turned to him with a look of both sadness and relief. “Six years, eight months, and seventeen days.”