Vaccine Nation (4 page)

A photograph of the young cop appeared on the screen. It wasn’t the guy she’d encountered in her apartment.
What the hell?
The newscaster went on. Police were looking for Ms. North—at that moment Dani felt a burst of panic as she saw her own photograph flash up on the screen—and were considering her a person of interest in the case.

Dani lowered her head, shielding her face from the bartender. She went back to her table, dropped three dollars on it, turned and walked out. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was certain it wasn’t to the police. She knew what “person of interest” meant. And given the events of the day, it seemed logical she was being framed to make it appear she was involved in the murder of the cop, and maybe even Maguire. She felt like people on the street were watching her. She pulled out her BlackBerry and hit the speed dial to call Mom.

D
ANI WALKED
up B
ROADWAY HOLDING
her BlackBerry to her ear, a knot twisting in her stomach. Her muscles felt shaky and twitchy after repeated jolts of adrenaline during the day. Normally the aromas of ethnic cooking from the shops north of 100
^th
Street, the sounds of Latin music and rapid-fire Spanish from groups on the street corners were a welcome balm when she was out of sorts. Now it was suffocating. Mom picked up on the first ring. “I’m so glad you called, sweetie. I just got back from your father’s Mass. It was so nice, and I’ve been thinking about all of you kids—”

“Mom, I don’t have time to talk. I’m in a jam. I need your help.” Dani was still walking up Broadway, crouching over her BlackBerry, her left arm wrapped around her, as if to steady herself.

Mom paused. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll have to explain later. It’s too complicated.”
And surreal.
The last thing she needed now was 20 minutes on the phone with Mom, telling her everything, making her worry when she couldn’t do anything about it.

“My goodness, what’s happened? You sound awful.” “I’ll explain later, but right now I really need your help.” Another pause from Mom, probably thinking about how to drag the story out of Dani, then log in her usual ten pounds of
advice. It was always good advice, but right now Dani just needed her to handle Gabe, and then figure out what came next. “Are you alright?” Mom asked.

“Yes. Can you drive into town and pick up Gabe?”

“Is
he
alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine, but I need you to take him someplace—safe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Later? Is he in danger?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Then what’s this all—”

“Mom, I need your help.”

Then Mom, in her turn-off-that-TV-and-do-your-homework voice: “Danielle Therese Jackson, this is your mother you’re talking to. Now tell me what in God’s name is going on.”

Dani felt a tremor of anguish course through her. She slowed her pace, lowered her head and cupped her other hand in front of her mouth so no one could hear her speaking into the phone. “A man was killed today in my office.”

“Oh my God—”

“Right in front of me.” Dani felt her voice trembling as she went on, “I’ve just spent hours with the police”—she saw the killer in the cop uniform forcing his way into her apartment—”and I need to deal with it. And I won’t be home when Gabe gets there, so can you please pick him up?”

“Of course.”

“And I don’t want to tell him. I’m afraid it will upset him.”

“Okay, is he still in school?”

“Yes, at Mercer. But Francesca’s picking him up at three and taking him to an audition. Can you get him at school instead and bring him home to New Jersey?”

Dani could hear Mom’s wheels turning.
Here it comes.

Mom said, “I don’t understand. Why can’t he go to his audition? And why bring him to New Jersey? And what did you mean before when you said ‘someplace safe’?”

“I’m scared, Mom.” Dani felt desperation, terror about that man coming after Gabe. It might not be so hard for him to trace Gabe back to Mom’s house in Hackensack. Better the lake house in Pennsylvania. “It would be even better if you could take him up to the lake for the weekend, and not tell anybody where you are.”

“Dani, what kind of trouble are you in? Are you in danger?”

Why is there no hiding from her?
“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure you’re in trouble, but you want me to take Gabe up to the lake in Milford where he’ll be safe.”

“I don’t want you to worry, Mom.”

“I’m your mother. That’s my job. Tell me. We’re wasting time.”

Dani’s neck was getting stiff from crouching over the phone. She stood up straight, arched her neck back to stretch it. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Mom, right back at her, dead firm, “Try me.”

Dani, defeated, let out a long sigh. “The—killer—” she could barely bring herself to say the word, “who shot the man in my office came to my apartment about an hour ago. He tried to kill me and I got away.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

Dani went on, “And I think he might be a cop. At least he was dressed like a cop, but then I saw on the news that another cop was killed in my apartment—”

“Go to the police.”

“—and the news said the police are looking for me as a ‘person of interest.’”

“Go to the police, right now.”

“I’m not going to the police until I know it’s safe. I don’t know whether this killer is some rogue cop or whether somehow the police are involved—”

“Dani, for God’s sake—”

“—but there were some suspicious guys who showed up at my office before the cops got there calling themselves the FBI. They left when the cops arrived, but the cops didn’t seem to know anything about them. Something really awful is going on.”

“What are you involved in?”

“I don’t know. That’s the point. But I need to make sure Gabe is safe. And maybe when I figure this thing out I’ll be able to go to the police.”

“Who was this man who was killed?”

“Someone from one of the big drug companies. I was going to interview for him for my next documentary. He’s a friend of that whistleblower, John McCloskey, I interviewed a few months ago. And I think this man may have been trying to blow the whistle on his company, too.” Dani stopped herself from mentioning the USB flash drive he’d given her.

“Dani, this is unbelievable.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“If you don’t call the police, I’m going to.”

An image flashed into Dani’s mind: the killer grabbing Gabe by the hair, dragging him…“Mom, Mom, stop. Please! I’m afraid that may put me—and Gabe—in more danger than we are already.”

That seemed to stop her. After a moment she said, “First things first. I’m leaving now to come pick up Gabe.”

“And take him up to the lake?”

“Yes, and take him up to the lake.” Then she said, with that Cindy Jackson resolve in her voice, “And then I’m going to figure out what to do about you, Danielle.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dani said, but Mom had already hung up on her.

The call with Mom had gone better than she might’ve expected, Dani realized. This, after agonizing for ten minutes about how badly it had gone. Now she mocked herself. Mom was a formidable presence. Even when Dad was alive, she took care of all the finances, paid the bills, ran the house, planned vacations, set the meal plan—actually wrote it out for the week—assigned her siblings and she their chores and dispensed allowances. Dani usually approached a problem with, “what would Mom do,” frequently calling her to vent about stresses in her life, then waiting for Mom’s counsel. So today, how could Dani really expect to give her only half the story and have her accept it. And yes, going to the cops was the logical answer, but Mom hadn’t looked that blue-eyed, acne-scarred man in the face who nonchalantly checked his gun while she was screaming for help, then got ready to point it at her. That man in a cop uniform; either a cop, or masquerading as one. But did killers masquerading as cops have squad cars parked outside with their partners in them?

A police car cruised by. She turned from the street, shielding her face, imagining that photo of her from the television on the digital screens in hundreds of NYPD cars in the city. She pulled her shoulder-length sandy hair into a ponytail and put a rubber band around it. Not much of a change, but it would have to do for now.

She fingered the USB flash drive, now in the pocket of her blazer.
John McCloskey.
Maybe he would have some answers. She checked her watch. It hadn’t been long since she’d seen her photograph on the television, but she knew from those goofy thriller movies that James watched that the cops could trace peoples’ cell phones. It was dangerous to use hers again. She knew McCloskey’s address, so she took a crosstown bus to the Upper East Side.

At his apartment building at 86th and 2
^nd
Avenue, the concierge called upstairs, got McCloskey on the phone. “Who may I say is calling?” the concierge asked.

“Dani North.”

Grover Madsen sat in his office, waiting. CEOs of Fortune 100 companies, men who made 20 million bucks a year and got paid 250 thousand a pop for speeches to the likes of douchebag investment bankers at their firm’s off-site annual conference, didn’t wait for anybody. So Madsen was pissed off. But there he sat, with a $7.99 prepaid cell phone in his hand, waiting for the contractor to call him.

“Enough of this shit,” he’d told Xavier an hour earlier after he learned the contractor had missed the girl in her apartment, “I need to deal direct.” The prepaid cell phone, completely anonymous, had arrived by messenger a half-hour later.

The prepaid cell phone rang. “What happened?” Madsen asked.

“You don’t wanna know, because it’s better for both of us if you don’t,” the contractor said. “I’m handling it.”

“Not well enough.” Madsen paused, waiting for an answer. He didn’t get one. He said, “How do you find the girl now?”

“Didn’t I just say I’m handling it?”

“That’s not good enough. I need you to put a team on this.”

The guy laughed. Laughed at
him,
Grover Madsen. “Team? You think I got a fucking team?”

Madsen thought for a second, not expecting this response. He said, “You mean you don’t have any backup?”

The guy laughed again. “Relax. I don’t get the other half of my fee unless I get you your package.”

“If it’s just you, it’ll never happen. I need you to put a team together, and fast.”

“I work solo. If you want a team, get your own. Even better, genius, you get your fucking team and feed me whatever information you dig up, ‘cause I want this little bitch out of my life forever.”

Madsen thought before speaking. This wasn’t going as planned. He said, “I guess if I can’t rely on you, I’ll have to set one up myself.”

“Good, and I’ll do the girl for nothing.” Then he hung up. The prick actually hung up on him.
Him,
Grover Madsen, the CEO of Pharma International. Madsen couldn’t believe it. No wonder Xavier always acted as intermediary. But this was the man Xavier said was one of his best, and who he’d put on Madsen’s last jobs. Madsen always thought that professional killers were cool-headed. Like the professionals he worked with. You do a merger deal, you have a team of a half-dozen investment bankers and lawyers all over you, kissing your ass for two, three months, whatever it takes. And they employed legions of drones who’d bang out memos and exhibits that detailed everything: bios of all the board members of the target company, their corporate
affiliations, all that shit. The PI guys he hired dredged up the dirt. Mistresses. Ex-wives. Public divorce filings. Misdemeanors, any other police records. Even credit scores and their kids’ school and police records, whatever was in the public domain. It was all useful in the endgame. Body blows in the final negotiations.

Madsen stood up and walked the 25 feet across his office to his private bathroom. He took a long piss, then stood in front of the sink. He was wearing one of his Dunhill suits today, this one double-breasted, still buttoned, white pocket square neatly in place. He cinched up his tie and adjusted the dimple. He always carried himself with the formality and dignity of a commander-in-chief around the office, almost never taking his suit jacket off or unbuttoning it. None of this roll up your sleeves with the working stiffs. No drinks or dinners with his senior officers. The man in command needed to be just that, and not a buddy to his subordinates. He looked into his brown eyes in the mirror. Clarity. Seriousness of purpose. At 55 years old, his jaw was still muscular and firm, none of that paunchiness guys his age started to show. The streaks of gray in his dark brown hair at his temples were merely enough to show the sagacity of wisdom, not indicate one who was slipping past his prime.

He washed his hands and then walked to the bathroom doorway while he dried them. He took in his office. The walls were covered with photographs of himself on the covers of
The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, The Financial Times, Time, Newsweek, BusinessWeek, Fortune
and
Forbes.
His Humanitarian Award from the World Health Organization for his work on the measles vaccination program in Africa was prominent in the center of the cover photographs. Pictures of him shaking hands with various notables sat on the credenza, his coffee table, the end tables situated around the sofa and chairs in his conference area:
Mayor Bloomberg, President Romney, and, before him, Presidents Obama and Bush. Senator Chuck Schumer, with whom he was on a first-name basis. He was a big guy in a big world. He walked back into the bathroom to drop the hand towel in the bin. He looked at his face in the mirror again and realized he was perspiring. That fucking prick contractor had disrespected him, rattled him, and now he felt like he needed to wash the stink of defeat off him. He splashed water on his face, dried himself.