Authors: Daniel Kalla
“I think it’s possible.”
Jenny gaped at me for a long moment. “It makes so much sense,” she sputtered. Her eyes reddened and soon welled over with tears. “No wonder he stormed out on me.
I gave Aaron HIV, didn’t I?
”
I sat with Jenny for at least half an hour longer, trying to reassure her. Overcome by self-recrimination, Jenny was inconsolable. With the benefit of hindsight, she remembered Aaron’s fevers and loss of appetite that she decided must have heralded the onset of HIV. Aaron had a phobia about needles and, unlike her, had never shot up in his life, so she reasoned that he must have acquired it through sexual contact. This could only mean she was the source.
I wandered out of her apartment with my head reeling. Worry, sadness, and shock stirred in a boiling pot of unease. My heart went out to Jenny. She had never overcome the loss of Aaron, and now I’d inadvertently saddled her with the guilt of having made him ill.
As I mounted my bike, my thoughts turned to the Human Immunodeficiency Virus. HIV had become so prevalent in our society and seemed to touch so many lives, especially mine. I had seen through my medical practice that with newer antivirals, most people living with HIV led full lives; however, twenty-five years after its terrifying appearance, the virus still carried a stigma like no disease since leprosy. And for those unfortunate souls who could not afford the exorbitant cost of treatment or whose disease progressed to AIDS in spite of medications, it could be as cruel a killer as any.
Aaron, HIV-positive!
The thought struck me as surreal, in the same way that you know plane crashes and car accidents happen but you never expect them to touch your life directly. But if he had HIV, why would he walk out on Jenny claiming he didn’t want “mutant kids with AIDS”? Again, I wondered whether Aaron might have used Jenny’s illness as an excuse to end their relationship, because he needed to protect her from whatever threat had sent him on the run.
Reaching Main Street, I glanced at my watch. It was now 12:48. In my message, I’d promised to meet Drew Isaacs in twelve minutes. I rode the two blocks to the Saigon Palace, parked my bike out front, and walked in.
If not for a few scattered scenic posters with what I assumed were Vietnamese letters, the Saigon Palace could have passed for a roadside truck stop with its orange vinyl-covered booths and long counter with barstools anchored to the floor. But the exotic smells were distinctly Asian. Wafting to me, they made my mouth water.
I grabbed a corner booth with a direct view of the door but still tucked away from potential prying eyes. Unsure when or if Isaacs might turn up, I ordered some pot stickers and spring rolls. With the warm memory of the previous night’s wine and scotch, I was tempted to order a beer, but knowing I wouldn’t stop at one, I opted for coffee instead.
My appetizers arrived and I polished them off without taking my eye off the door. Shortly after one o’clock, the door opened and a man stood in the doorway, his face blocked by the doorframe. All I saw was a black boot, one leg of his jeans, and part of a black leather jacket. My mouth dried, and my temples pulsed. Ten seconds passed before a platinum blonde in leather pants and a tight white T-shirt walked in, followed by the man from the doorway. Even before I saw the biker’s face, I knew he wasn’t Isaacs.
I withstood a few more heart-skipping near-misses, but by the bottom of my fourth cup of coffee, I still hadn’t seen Isaacs. An hour after I’d arrived, I gave up. I left a ten-dollar bill on the table and hurried out of the restaurant.
I rode in the general direction of my new home. Along the way, I stopped at a convenience store that advertised ninety-nine-dollar prepaid cell phones. Though cognizant of how traceable cell phones are, I decided that standing at pay phones would be even more risky after my newfound celebrity in Vancouver.
As I rushed through the registration forms, I avoided eye contact with the willowy Filipina clerk who stood beside the stack of
Province
newspapers that all bore my photo inside. I prayed she hadn’t had the time or inclination to read one, but I calmed as it became increasingly obvious that she had no interest in me. Using Joe’s cash, I paid for a cell phone that came with three hundred preprogrammed minutes of local airtime.
I cycled back to the complex on East Fourteenth. I rushed my new purchase up to the room with the anticipation of a boy bringing a new truck home from the toy store. Inside, I pulled the phone out of the casing and plugged it into the charger. Too impatient to wait for it to charge, I left it plugged in and punched a zero into the keypad followed by the rest of Kyle’s number.
A moment later Kyle was on the line. “Ben, what is going on?” he asked with concern. “Where are you?”
“Running.”
“Aren’t you cycling anymore?”
I suspected he was joking, but I took his question at face value. “As in
on the run
. They know I’m in Vancouver.”
“Yeah,” he said without a trace of surprise.
“Is that what the Seattle papers are saying, too?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “And Detective Sutcliffe came by yesterday. He was asking a lot of questions about who you might know in Vancouver.”
“Rick was there without Helen?”
“Just Rick.”
“Same as Alex,” I mumbled. Clutching my new phone tighter, I wondered why Rick was interviewing my friends and family without his partner.
“Alex? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. It’s…I don’t know.” I sighed. “There’s something about Rick.”
“I hear you,” Kyle said. “Never trusted that perma-grin of his. I bet he’s one of those shouting-on-the-inside guys. He was the same in Narcotics.”
“You knew Rick before this?”
“Oh, yeah. Aaron and I definitely made his radar screen in the old days. And once he got wind of you, he stuck on you.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Of course, even back then there were rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“What with the expensive suits and cars…”
“Hold on!” I hopped up from the bed. “Are you saying Rick was a dirty cop?”
“He never asked me for money, but word was he could be bought.” Kyle covered the receiver, but I could still hear his harsh though muffled cough. “Ben, in that business there were so many rumors.” He breathed heavily, sounding winded. “And most of them were just that, unfounded rumors.”
“I guess,” I said, but my chest fired like a piston engine. If Rick could be bought when he was with Narcotics then the same might be true in Homicide. And if someone needed help in framing me for Emily’s murder, who better than a dirty Homicide cop?
Kyle cleared his throat. “Any luck finding Drew Isaacs?”
“Yeah. He met me for a drink. But he thought I was Aaron.”
“
Aaron
?” The surprise sent him into another coughing spasm. “Drew thinks Aaron is still alive, too?”
“With good reason. They went out for drinks a year after Aaron was supposed to have died.”
“Holy, Ben!” Kyle croaked. “You were right all along.”
“But no one else has confirmed the sighting.”
“Still.” Kyle was quiet for a long moment. “Did he say where Aaron was living?”
“Aaron never told him,” I said. “Don’t forget I was pretending to be Aaron, so there was only so much I could ask about myself.”
“I suppose.” Kyle still sounded shell-shocked. “What else did he tell you?”
I gave him a rundown of my conversation with Isaacs, including his revelations about Emily’s relationship with Maglio and his potential HIV exposure. “Did you know about Emily and Maglio?” I asked.
“Again, only rumors.” He sighed. “I never knew what to believe about Maglio, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, there’s always been talk that he might be gay.”
“Gay?” I massaged my aching temples with my free hand. “In which case, Emily wouldn’t necessarily have exposed him to HIV.”
“Unless Maglio swings both ways,” Kyle said. “Besides, this is no more than just gossip. Why don’t you ask Isaacs?”
“Because I can’t reach him on his cell.” I climbed back onto the bed, careful not to pull the cord out of the wall. “You wouldn’t have any other way of finding him?”
“Hmmm.” I heard Kyle’s teeth tap together, and it reminded me of Aaron. “Drew used to hang out at a bar downtown. I’d meet him there from time to time.”
“Club Vertical?”
“That’s the place,” Kyle said. “He was there at least a couple nights a week.”
“Good, thanks,” I said, mentally planning to go back looking for him.
“It’s kind of depressing, huh?”
I chuckled. “You’ll have to be
way
more specific.”
“Say Aaron has been alive all this time,” Kyle said. “In two years he never tried to contact either one of us, but he visits Drew Isaacs when he’s in Vancouver. That stings a little.”
More than a little. “Maybe Aaron was trying to protect us the same way that I think he might have been protecting Jenny.”
“
Jenny
? Did you find her?”
“She found me.”
“What does that mean?”
“Long story.”
“What did she tell you?” He pressed me for details.
I relayed what Jenny had told me about her relationship with Aaron, including its abrupt end.
“What?” Kyle’s surprise launched him into another violent cough. “Jenny was HIV-positive?”
“Yes,” I said. “Did you see Aaron in the months right before he died?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, catching his breath. “He visited me a couple of times while I was still in the hospital.”
“How did he look to you?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“You didn’t think he looked thin or pale?”
“Do you remember the bone marrow transplant ward I was on? We were a bunch of bald skeletons. Everyone else looked rosy in comparison.”
“Fair enough,” I said sheepishly. “But I remember how unwell Aaron seemed the last few times I saw him. He wrote it off to stress, but looking back, I don’t think so.”
“Even if he was HIV-positive,” Kyle said, “what does that have to do with his disappearance or Emily’s murder?”
“I don’t know.” I exhaled heavily. “I can’t say why. It just feels important, you know?”
“Ben, would it help if I came up to Vancouver?”
I would have welcomed his company, but instead I said, “I don’t think so, Kyle.”
“Never hurts to have family around in a crisis. Besides, I could help track down Drew. Maybe even find a new lead on Aaron’s trail?” He laughed. “Hey, I could even show you how this new prayer gig of mine works. It’s been doing wonders for me lately.”
Religion aside, his offer was tempting, but he didn’t sound well enough to travel. “I think you’d better look after that chest of yours. What does your doctor say?”
“Sounds worse than it is. I get a lot of chest infections ever since the radiation. A few more days of puffers and antibiotics, and I’ll be ready for a triathlon.”
“Let’s wait until then,” I said. “Kyle, there is one thing you can do for me.”
“Name it.”
“All that stuff you found out about Whistler and Maglio…”
“What about it?”
“I need to know your source.”
“Ben, I gave my word.”
“I know,” I said. “Do you remember my anonymous caller?”
“The whisperer?”
“He tracked me down in Vancouver. I think he’s leading the police to me. I don’t have much time. I need to know who’s pulling the strings here.”
“Ben, I don’t know—”
“Please, Kyle, it could be key. Who is he?”
He was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “Michael Prince.”
After I hung up, I lay on the bed resting my new phone against my chest. Fragments of information swirled in my head. Sources were unreliable, leads contradicted each other: Emily exposed Philip Maglio to a lethal sexually transmitted disease; or he was gay. Rick was a dirty cop; or he was just tenacious. Drew Isaacs thought I was Aaron; or he played me for a fool. My twin brother was alive and visiting former drug-dealing colleagues while ignoring his own family; or he was dead. Prince was the most tight-lipped attorney in the world; or he had acted as my cousin’s own “Deep Throat” informer.
Who was telling the truth? What information was significant?
Maybe they’re all involved in a conspiracy to frame me
, I thought miserably, recognizing I was verging on paranoia. My head felt as though it might burst. Had I more energy, I might have sprung off the bed and decimated Dotty’s apartment like a drunken rock star.
I wished I had accepted Alex’s or Kyle’s offer to join me in Vancouver. A familiar face and a sympathetic ear, someone to talk through these contradictory facts, was what I needed to hang on to my weakening sanity.
I raised the phone and tried Prince’s number. Janelle’s sweet voice answered, but it was only a recording. Even Prince didn’t work Sundays. Then I wasted another minute of airtime trying Drew Isaacs. I hung up as soon as I heard the first words of his familiar voicemail greeting.
My stomach growled. I kicked myself for not picking up food while I was buying the phone at the convenience store. Now I had to risk exposure again foraging for food.
I stepped out of the room and rushed through the lobby, thankful not to bump into Dotty or anyone else. Head down, I walked the two blocks to a supermarket on Main Street. I strode up and down the aisles filling my basket with fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread, cold cuts, and bottled water. I even found a flashlight and a baseball cap that I tossed into the basket.
Nearing the checkout counter, I heard a voice calling, “Peter!” I didn’t realize that he meant me until the third call. My chest sinking, I looked over to see my balding former neighbor from the YMCA standing at the far checkout, buying two cartons of cigarettes and waving to me like he was trying to hail a cab.
Scanning my brain as he loped nearer, I dug up his name only when he reached me. “Hi, Ray.”
“Peter, you’ve checked out of the Y,” Ray announced like it was news to me. “I did, too. I found a cheap rental in this ’hood. Are we neighbors again?”
Ray smelled like an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied for too long, but I forced a grin. “No. I’m on my way out of town.”
He looked down at my basket doubtfully.
“Road trip.” I shrugged. “I’m heading east. To Alberta. I needed to fill the car with supplies.”
His inane smile widened. “I thought you rode a bike?”
“Only in the city,” I said. “For longer hauls, I have an old beater of a Buick that gets me from town to town. Barely.”
He nodded, looking pleased. “You’re environmentally friendly, like me.”
Except for the three packs of cigarettes you burn into the ozone layer every day,
I wanted to say but bit my tongue. “It’s good to see you, man, but I got to hit the road.” I turned toward the other checkout.
“Did your friend ever find you?” he asked.
I stopped dead, but managed to stop myself from whirling around to face him. “Friend?” I asked, as casually as I could muster.
“Yeah. Some guy came by the Y asking for you. Your last name
is
Horvath, right?”
I turned slowly. “That’s me.”
“Thought so.”
I clenched my jaw, fighting back the surge of adrenaline. “I haven’t heard from any friends lately. Did he happen to give you a name?”
“Nah.”
“When was this?”
“Couple of days ago. I tried to tell you that morning, but you were rushing off to work.”
I nodded. “I’m not from here, so I don’t have many friends in Vancouver. Maybe if you describe him, I could figure out who we’re talking about.”
“I’m not so good at that.”
I gave him my best what-have-you-got-to-lose encouragement. “Give it a shot.”
He scratched his smooth head. “Kind of short brown or black hair, I couldn’t tell. Guess he was around your height. Skinny like you, too.” He laughed, patting his large belly. “To me, anyway.”
“Hmmm.” I shook my head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Anything else stand out about him?”
“Can’t think of much.” He scratched his barren scalp. “Well, he was a dapper dresser. I’d bet his suit alone was worth more than I see in a couple months.”
“Don’t know too many rich people.” I laughed and then made a point of looking at my watch. “I better get on the road. Thanks, man. Maybe I’ll see you back at the Y someday.”
I rushed over to the free clerk at the other checkout and dumped my groceries onto the rubber conveyor belt.
A bag in each hand, I walked back to my room mulling over the possible identity of my “friend.” It had to be someone smart and determined enough to case the downtown for cheap lodgings where I might be staying. Someone my height, thin, and a “dapper dresser.” I knew it could have been an undercover cop or one of Maglio’s men, but two prospects loomed large in my brain. Rick Sutcliffe always dressed to the nines. I knew he’d been conducting solo interviews with my contacts in Seattle over the past few days, but Vancouver was less than a three-hour drive; he could have snuck up in between them. Still, the timing would have been tight. That left Marcus Lindquist, who, as I knew from the castoff clothes I now wore, was another snappy dresser. Emily’s former lover had shown an inordinate interest in my whereabouts. If it were Marcus, why would he try to track me down by himself like a private investigator? Not a skill set common to most hematologists.
Hematologist!
I almost dropped my bags. Not only was Marcus a blood specialist, but he made his living preserving umbilical cord blood. He had the expertise
and
the facilities to keep blood cells alive indefinitely.
My heart pounded in my throat. Marcus wouldn’t need Aaron alive to frame me for murder. Hypothetically, if he had a sample of either Aaron’s or my blood from any time, he could have kept it fresh enough to spray on Emily’s wall.
I remembered the blood tests to check my hepatitis immunization status three years earlier at St. Jude’s, the same hospital lab where Marcus used to work. I had no idea how often and where Aaron might have given blood for testing, but as I now believed that Aaron was diagnosed with HIV before his disappearance, he must have had at least one blood test, too. Presumably, Marcus could have got his hands on either one of our indistinguishable blood samples.
I had nothing to substantiate my hypothesis, but the idea gave me a second wind. Hands full with weighty bags, I bounded the rest of the way home and tore through the lobby and up to my room. Stuffing the groceries into the fridge, I thought more about the possibility of Marcus framing me for Emily’s murder. Was he capable of such violence? Like most womanizers, Marcus had struck me as having a misogynist edge—as if his extramarital flings were only about possession and conquest, nothing to do with emotion. The more I considered his cool oily personality, the more convinced I grew that murder wasn’t beyond him. But I had to concede that my visceral dislike of him was clouding my judgment.
The excitement of a new lead stirred my appetite. As I walked through various scenarios in my head, I swallowed two salami sandwiches and a bag of baby carrots. I was eager to learn more about Marcus’s blood-preserving business, but I realized that it would have to wait. My first priority was to track down Drew Isaacs.
At ten
P.M.
, I put on the baseball cap that I’d picked up at the store and assessed my appearance in the bathroom mirror. With a thicker beard and hair hidden under the cap, I was pleased to see that my reflection had begun to look vaguely foreign even to me.
Forgoing my helmet, I headed out the front door and grabbed my bike. I rode the two miles downtown to Club Vertical at a leisurely pace. I circled the block twice before locking up my bike a block away and approaching the nightclub on foot. A short, swarthy bouncer in tinted glasses stood at the front entrance. His nylon jacket strained to hold in his overdeveloped shoulders, and I didn’t need to see the results of a urine test to know he was on anabolic steroids. The once-over he gave me was disquieting, but his expression drifted to disinterest as he nodded permission to enter.
Inside, the club was even less crowded than during my last visit. Squinting to adjust to the dimness, I scanned the bar for any sign of Isaacs’s long mane, but saw none. The same blonde I’d seen flirting with Isaacs sashayed up to me and offered me a drink. If she recognized me from the last time I was there, she didn’t acknowledge it. I ordered a bottle of beer and headed for a seat at a raised counter in the corner.
My beer arrived moments after me. I was developing a real taste for the Canadian beer, thanks to its higher alcohol content and extra kick, but the nine-dollar cost aside, I imposed a strict one-drink limit on myself. Sitting at the bar sipping the beer, my vigil for Drew Isaacs passed much as it had at the Saigon Palace with a few near-misses but no sighting. The prolonged exposure felt uncomfortable, though the dim lights gave me some sense of cover, like hiding in the shade. By 11:30, I gave up again on Isaacs and headed for home.
I managed to sleep much of the night but I awoke early, determined to dig deeper into Marcus’s involvement.
On the road by seven, I cycled over to another coffee shop on Fraser Street with Internet access. Walking by the countertop at the window, I stopped to pick up an abandoned copy of
The Province
. My heart froze when I saw the page-three story with my photo framed underneath along with the caption
DR. BENJAMIN DAFOE WHO HAS BEEN POSING AS DR. PETER HORVATH
.
My cover is blown!
Panic welled as I gleaned from the quick read that the police had confirmed I was staying at the YMCA under the alias of Horvath. Feeling as if the walls of the coffee shop were sliding toward me, I fought off my instinct to run. Instead, I pulled my cap lower on my head and headed to the counter. Speaking to my shoes, I ordered a large coffee.
Hand trembling, I paid in exact change and then took the coffee over to the corner where the free computer terminal thankfully faced the wall. Within a minute, I’d found the official Web site of Marcus’s company, Hope Bank Cryogenics. I scanned the site, learning that more than 40,000 parents had already banked blood from their newborn’s umbilical cord with Marcus’s company. Hope Bank Cryogenics had become the leaders in the Pacific Northwest with the profits for the previous year running in the tens of millions. And the site described their storage facility as cutting-edge, secure, and massive.
Easily big enough to hide a vial of Dafoe blood for later purposes,
I thought bitterly.
Exhausting my research into Marcus, I logged on to my e-mail server and scanned my messages. Alex had sent me four e-mails that grew sequentially more insistent, demanding to know where I was and how I was coping. I responded with a quick note telling her that the pressure was mounting but the trail was getting warmer.
The last email on the list was from
JJ
99. With an empty subject line, I almost deleted it as spam, but I opened the note on a hunch to discover that “JJ” was Jozef Janacek. In the first paragraph, Joe provided me a contact phone number for “MD” (Malcolm Davies). The next and final paragraph intensified the shake in my hand:
EXPECT COMPANY SOON. NO PROBLEM. I REMAIN A GOOD JUDGE OF CHARACTER. JJ
.
Company? What the hell are you getting at?
I wanted to yell at the screen.
Who did you tell, Joe
?
I took note of the e-mail’s time stamp and realized that he’d sent the message about fifteen minutes earlier. Leaving the rest of my coffee on the table, I hopped to my feet and ran for the door.
I jumped on my bike and sprinted back to the apartment. Joe’s e-mail aside, I presumed Dotty would see my photo along with my alias in the morning paper. I had to get out of her complex before she notified the cops. But I needed to pick up the knapsack with Horvath’s identification, the rest of my clothes, and my cell phone.
Ensuring with a quick ride-by that there were no police outside, I locked my bike out front and hurried in. I rounded the corner and almost slammed into Dotty, who looked enormous in a fuzzy pink housecoat and slippers. My chest banged when I noticed the rolled-up copy of
The Province
tucked under her arm.
She gaped at me. “Dr. Horvath!”
I stared back silently, wondering anxiously if I would have to become physical with the hobbled old woman.
Then she broke into a smile. “Oh, you gave me a fright. Have you had breakfast, yet?”
“Yeah, just ate, thanks.” I mumbled. “Listen, Dotty, any chance I could borrow your paper for a few minutes? I wanted to catch up on my football scores before I race back to the hospital.”
She tapped the paper under her arm. “Soon. Won’t take me but a half an hour to get through it and finish the crossword.” She laughed. “I’ll drop it off, right after.”
“Okay, great.” I swallowed. “I better go get ready for work.”
As soon as I got into the stairwell, I dashed for my room, knowing I had little if any time to escape the building. I stuffed the clothing and toiletries haphazardly into the knapsack. Grabbing my helmet and giving the room a final scan, I slung the bag over my shoulder and rushed for the door.
I made it to within two feet, but my hand froze halfway to the doorknob. Three loud raps came from the other side.