The Angel Maker - 2 (5 page)

She answered quickly, "As good as his instincts are, John is about ten years short on experience and a lifetime short on manners. He just doesn't have the qualifications you do."

He waved a finger at her. "You're playing with me again. "I

"Don't you wish," she teased. "Not in your wildest dreams.,, It provoked a grin. "What do you know about my dreams?" he teased right back. "Animal hairs found on her jeans," he said. "We dismiss them. Too common. Blood type O-positive." He rummaged through the other files before him. She filled in, "These other three were also type O-positive." She indicated the stack next to her. "And when you read these medical stories, you'll understand why. Type O is the biggest blood group, the biggest market."

He glanced up, understanding. "They're all four the same blood type. They select their donors by blood type! That's our lead!"

"The Professor forwarded the animal hairs to the U-Dub," she said, meaning the University of Washington, "to attempt to identify the particular breeds," "You're getting off track!

It's the blood group match that's important. Let's stick with that for a minute!"

"The animal hairs are important too."

"I can't get too excited over some animal hairs. We all have pets, and if we don't, our friends do. Most of us come in contact with pet hairs on a daily basis."

"Most of us," she agreed, handing him the last file, "but not Cindy Chapman."

He started to say something but caught himself and opened the file containing a copy of Cindy Chapman's hospital admission forns. Scanning the contents quickly, he said, "You have been busy."

"Allergies," she hinted. She watched his eyes track down the form. "Allergic to house pets," he read aloud. "Severe reactions. Shallow breathing, elevated pulse rate." It was how she felt at the moment. "There's no way she would have voluntarily been in a situation that would literally cover her clothing with animal hair."

"That's good police work, Daffy," he said, complimenting her, but she could sense a reluctance in him. "But ... ?" she said, waiting. "But it's too broad a field. Too difficult to trace."

"It was the Professor's idea to run them over to the university, not mine. There were some white hairs that sparked his interest."

"The Professor will run down any hair or fiber. It's his job.

It doesn't mean it's worth getting excited about."

She was excited. She hated to admit it. She also hated it when he was right-when he could read her so easily. She had long hours invested in this. She wanted something to show for it.

How could guys like Lou Boldt stay with an investigation without victories along the way? Miles spit out his pacifier.

Boldt plugged it back in.

Boldt said, "I'd say we focus on this blood group overlap.

That's the closest thing to hard evidence we have, and it isn't much. Animal hairs won't convince Shoswitz you have a case."

"We have three victims-four, including Cindy," she complained, masking her relief at his use of we, "Unfortunately, we can't choose the evidence these people leave behind."

"Dixie says each file indicates that there was some physical evidence stored from each autopsy. Tissue samples, that kind of thing. They do that for the unsolveds and John Does. He's having the evidence brought up. He seemed pretty optimistic.-

"Dixie's always optimistic."

"He says that surgeons sometimes leave 'signatures' in their work. Style. Technique. He's going to review and compare autopsy photos when he has the time."

"That would help," Boldt said, "but knowing his workload I wouldn't count on it being very soon." He reviewed the files again. "So we're looking for a surgeon. That's another avenue worth pursuing. When in doubt, take the direct route."

"Not necessarily just surgeons," she corrected him.

He nodded. "A surgeon, another kind of specialist who wishes he were a surgeon, a medical student, an impersonator-a fake, a retiree. But of all of these, a surgeon is still the most likely. Can you draw up a profile for us?"

She nodded. She could feel him committing to the investigation.

She wanted to hear it spoken. She wanted to snare him beyond any chance of retreat. She asked, "How many surgeons are there in Seattle? And of these, how many are transplant surgeons? A handful. And if we were both to question them-I mean you and I together-you could ask your questions and I could ask mine and we just might find this person. There are certain traps I could lay-psychological traps-that he might fall into."

"You don't want to tangle with somebody like this, Daffy. I don't have to remind you of that, His cruelty hit her hard.

Involuntarily, she tugged her collar up higher on her neck as she glared at him, hiding that scar. For an instant she hated him. "There was no need for that," she snapped. "Sometimes you're just another insensitive ape. You know that?"

He apologized several times, but she didn't buy it. He had wanted to remind her of her mistake. She had failed to react she knew that; she didn't need him to remind her. She let it go; back to business. "When we talk to the girls at The Shelter about how they raise money out on the streets, one thing that comes up, besides selling sex, or running drugs, is selling their blood. They've all done it; all it takes is a fake I.D.

Even Sharon's done it." She passed him several photocopies.

They were from back issues of medical journals. "Both blood and tissue type are extremely important in transplants. That's where a doctor begins in what can sometimes be a long process of matching a donor with a recipient. These articles will fill you in."

He scanned the articles quickly. "Blood banks," he mumbled.

Then he said outright, "They select their potential donors from blood banks?" She said, "It's certainly a strong possibility.

One worth following up."

"We'll divide and conquer," Boldt said. "Talk to Cindy Chapman.

Press her for information. Did she sell her kidney? Did she sell her blood? I'll pay a visit to our local blood banks." He supported Miles as he stood.

She caught his eyes. She held him there, waiting. "Say it," she said. He stared at her. "You can't just walk out of here after all of this and not say it."

"Is it so important?" Boldt asked. "It's a young woman's life,"

she reminded. "You tell me."

He nodded in resignation. "I'm in."

Dr. Elden Tegg retained the only key to the Lakeview Animal Clinic's refrigerated walk-in because of the drugs it contained. He never would have chosen to install the walk-in himself; but this office had previously been a small Italian restaurant, and the walk-in served a useful purpose, both as the repository for the medications and as a holding closet for the surgical waste and dead animals that were byproducts of any busy surgical clinic.

The man he met at the clinic's back door was short and stocky, dressed in a black-leather jacket, with black hair that peaked sharply in the center of his forehead. Donnie Maybeck was hired freelance to drive the clinic's "chuck wagon"-transporting the various bags of organic waste to a private incinerator. Because they would temporarily store this waste in the walk-in, he made only two trips a week.

Tegg unlocked the heavy door to the walk-in and stepped back, allowing the man to do his job but keeping an eye on him because of the abundance of controlled substances. "Wanna gimme a hand with this?" Maybeck asked Tegg. He had horrible teeth, chipped and gray with decay.

This question, posed as it was, signaled Tegg. He stepped inside the cooler and pulled the door behind him until it thumped shut, closing them in. "Make it quick," he said. You could see your breath in here. Tegg crossed his arms to fend off the cold.

The man in the black-leather jacket spoke softly. "Some guy called me about a meeting. Said it can't wait."

"What can't wait? What guy?" "Sounded like a Chink. Said a doc up in Vancouver recommended you. Asked me to set up a meet with you. Wanted it ASAP. Like tonight."

"Vancouver?" Tegg knew this could only mean one thing. He felt hot all of a sudden. "The guy says either you agree to meet him or no. There's no bullshit with this guy.,, Tegg felt his knees go weak. The man next to him continued, "Said he was prepared to pay some major bucks."

"And what did you say?" Tegg asked anxiously. "I didn't tell him squat. Okay? I'd like to know how the fuck he got my name.

I'm checking with you, Doc. That's all. No need to sprout a fuckin' hemmi! I got this covered."

Tegg attempted some measure of self-control. He slowed his thoughts down, separated them, and dealt with them one by one.

His thoughts tended to leap ahead of him, making the present something he saw only upon reflection, so that much of his life felt more like instant replay than the real thing. He lived life as much from recalling that which had just occurred as he did from experiencing it, making him feel like two different people-one moving through life and the other attempting to come to grips with his actions.

Could he allow an opportunity like this to pass him by? On the other hand, could he protect himself well enough from the possible dangers? "Listen," the other man said, "you're my needle man for Felix tonight. Don't forget you agreed to do that for me. So, what if I got this guy to meet us out there?"

Tegg had forgotten about this commitment. It rattled him-it wasn't like him to forget anything, even something so distasteful.

Maybeck added, "Listen, I could run point for you. Get this Chink out there ahead of you. Check him out. Keep you close by.

If it's cool, I give you a shout on the car phone. if you don't hear from me by, say, nine o'clock, I get rid- of him and you hang until it's clear to come in and help me out with Felix.

One thing about these fights, we got bitchin' security. If this guy's trouble, he's gonna wish he stayed home. Know what I mean?"

Tegg suddenly realized that in surgery his thoughts did not get ahead of him-his hands kept up effortlessly. He wondered if this explained his love of surgery.

He said to this other man, "What if he doesn't like the setup?

I sure as hell wouldn't meet somebody at a dog fight! I've never even been to a dog fight."

"Hey, it's not our problem. Okay?

This is pay or play," he said misquoting things he knew nothing about. This man's vocal drivel always set Tegg on edge. "If he doesn't want to show, tough titties for him."

Tegg contemplated all of this while the other man gathered the plastic bags of contaminated waste. "Set it up," Tegg ordered.

He turned and punched the large throw-bar that released the walkin's outside latch. He walked slowly down the hall, pensive and concentrating. He sensed that everything had changed. The closer he drew to the examination room, the more put off he was by the thought of cats and dogs. Boring, meaningless work.

Earlier in the day, he had simply wanted to do his job well-get through another day. Have some fun. Earn some good money, listen to some Wagner, all the while working a blade.

Now all he wanted was to meet this unidentified man. He glanced at his watch impatiently: hours to go.

He looked in on Pamela Chase, who was just bringing up another set of X-rays. Ever the diligent assistant. "We didn't get much on our first series," she explained. "You do good work." She glowed at this comment. Tegg knew exactly how to play her, how to feed her needs. She fed his in her own way-her unending compliments, her adoring glances. Other ways, too.

He stepped up to the X-rays. Child's play, compared to the real work that lay ahead of him. He could feel her sweet breath warm against his cheek as she leaned in to share in this exploration. He moved over so that she could see better and allowed his hand to gently brush her bottom, as if accidentally. She didn't flinch, her eyes searching out the elusive fracture in the fuzzy black-and-gray images.

Besides, he thought, self-amused, she knew this contact was no accident. She loved it. She loved everything about him.

"Whose turn is it to heat up dinner?" Boldt asked his wife, feeling a little apprehensive about how to steer the conversation to the subject of his returning to work. How to negotiate his future with her. They had found a routine that worked. He was about to challenge all that, and he knew before he began that flexibility was not her long suit. She was changing clothes, out of her executive-banker look and into some blue jeans and a cotton sweater she had tossed onto the bed. It was past seven-he was starved.

Liz answered, "I suppose it's mine, but I refuse. Let's go out."

"What about Einstein?" Boldt asked, looking over at Miles, who was fighting to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss anything. All so new to him. Each of his expressions meant the world to Boldt: an inquisitive glance, a furrowed brow. Simple pleasures. "Okay," she said. "You win. Take-out, and I'm buying. If I make the call, will you pick it up?" He asked,

"Have you noticed how much we negotiate everything?"

"Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai? You name it."

"Fish and chips," he suggested. "Too fattening." "You said I could name it."

"I lied." She patted her belly. "How about sushi?"

"Where's your wallet?"

"The front hall I think."

"Make it a big order.

I'm starved, and that stuff never stays with me."

"And get some beer, would you?"

While Boldt was gone, Liz had put Miles to sleep. When they finished eating, Boldt caught her hand and led her out to the living room where he sat her down. It was after nine. "The IRS

shut down The joke last night. Confiscated all the books." "The IRS? So that's what's bothering you."

"They want to talk to us."

Disbelief came over her eyes. "Us? Oh, God, I hope they don't know about the cash income."

"I don't see what else it could be."

"Oh, shit. I signed that return."

"We both signed the return."

"But cash? Cash under the table?

How could they ... ? Goddamn that Bear Berenson. He must have tried to deduct it. Damn it all. You realize the penalty we'll face? Oh, my God.- "And The joke is closed down. I can look around for other work, but no one's going to pay me like Bear did."