Parts Unknown (25 page)

“He paid the million?”

“More. That and more. My informant was getting a bit incoherent by this time, but I thought I heard him say ere he sank out of sight that the million was only the finder’s fee— paid to Antibodies Research. He also paid the cost of the operation on top of that, and a munificent bonus for its success went to the hospital’s operating fund—pun intended.”

There were other questions I had which Percy couldn’t answer, but he said he’d try to find out more when he could work it in. Bunch came in as I was thanking him, and when we hung up I told him all about it.

“A million dollars!”

“Plus expenses and a generous tip.”

He leaned against the iron rail in front of the window. Overhead, the rumble of heavy casters across the bare floor told me the sculptress was moving one of her acrylic creations to a new angle of light to start the afternoon’s work. “Matheney knew Nestor’s blood type—knew how rare it was. He’d sewn up that cut a week or two earlier,” I said.

“He knew about it from the health exam Nestor took for the job at Apple Valley. My guess is the bit of surgery reminded him of it.”

“And he knew about the request. That guy at Cryo-Bio—Amaro—sent him a copy of it.”

“But would he know of the million-dollar finder’s fee?” Bunch asked.

“He could have responded to the inquiry and been told—indirectly and ever so politely, but clearly enough. Or perhaps Gilbert heard of it—it’s his line of business to know stuff like that. He must have contacts all over the country who would let him know of an offer that size.”

“For a percentage.”

I agreed.

“Maybe,” said Bunch, “Matheney thought he could convince Nestor to donate a kidney if the price was right.”

“But Nestor said no?”

“Or he said yes, but the knife slipped. Or Matheney and Gilbert were greedy and old Nestor was twofers.”

We listened to the casters roll back again, the muffled sound drifting across the ceiling like distant thunder.

Bunch sighed. “The rich buy, and the poor die—so what else is new?” He paced across the room. “We’ve got motive and opportunity, Dev. And we even have the means: that operating room in Antibodies.”

I pushed back the chair and studied the mountains. As Bunch said, it wouldn’t be the first time that those with money stole the lives of those without, but that fact didn’t make this knowledge any easier. “This is getting pretty deep, Bunch. Maybe it’s time to ask for a little help.”

“You mean official?”

“As you say, we have means, motive, and opportunity. And we know of three missing people.”

“They’ll just laugh at us, Dev. Something like this, we need a body.”

“Well, there aren’t any bodies. There aren’t likely to be any, either—you saw that incinerator. But we have good grounds for suspicion. If we don’t report what we suspect, we could be liable.”

“The hell we could—we’re trying to solve the case, not protect the criminals.”

“Concealing a death is a class-one misdemeanor. And accessory—a felony—includes ‘to prevent the discovery’ of a criminal. It’s shaky, but close enough if an assistant DA wants to haul us into court.”

“I wish to hell you’d never gone to law school.”

I reached for the telephone. “We’d better cover ourselves.”

“If that’s the way you want it, fine. But take my advice: Don’t start with the DA’s office. Let’s talk to Kiefer in homicide first.”

I
CALLED THE
homicide office and made arrangements to meet Detective Kiefer at a cop hangout, the Satire Lounge on East Colfax, around five-thirty. “I’ll be on duty, but you can drink a beer or two.” That also gave Bunch and me time for a couple other chores. The first was another call to Jerry Kagan. He was back from his pediatrics conference, his office told me, and would return my call as soon as possible. When he did, I offered him a late lunch and he wanted to know what he was being set up for.

“I’d rather tell you in person. It might be harder for you to say no that way.”

“That important?”

“I believe so. And I think you’ll believe so too.”

He paused to go over his schedule. “All right—let’s do it now. Can you meet me in twenty minutes at that little beanery near the clinic? You know the one?”

“On the corner?”

“That’s it.”

He did more listening than eating, his fork full of chef’s salad hovering somewhere between his open mouth and his plate as I told him about Nestor, Antibodies Research, and Matheney.

“Empire State Hospital? They do fine work, Dev! They take cases no one else will touch. I can’t imagine them being linked to anything like what you’re telling me. And Matheney! He’s a highly reputable transplant surgeon—he’s also one of the leading researchers in his field… .”

“My guess is, the hospital didn’t know where the kidney came from or how Antibodies got it. Maybe they routinely don’t ask—or maybe they were too surprised and grateful.”

“Too grateful or too assuming. I mean, one assumes a certain level of professional ethics.”

“Perhaps one assumes too much.”

“Obviously, if what you say is true. But I have a hard time believing somebody of Matheney’s stature would do this, Dev. For God’s sake, I hope you’re not talking this around—it’s character assassination just to think of it.”

“We’ve kept it quiet, Jerry. But something’s going on. If Matheney’s clean, he deserves to be warned about Antibodies before the egg hits the fan. If he’s not, well, that should be known.”

He chewed on his salad and thought. “What do you want me to do?”

I had a list of questions that Jerry might or might not be able to find answers for: how did the New York hospital advertise the reward? Was Matheney involved in the transplant operation? Who was the official donor, and was he dead or alive? Was there a doctor named Rosenberg involved? He jotted the questions down on a paper napkin, holding his objections until I finished. “These aren’t the kinds of things people are going to be open about, Dev. Especially that million dollars. I can’t promise a thing—and I’m not going to push too hard. I mean, the people I ask will want to know why I’m asking, and if you happen to be wrong about Matheney … .”

“I’d appreciate your trying.”

“I will, don’t worry. If any of this is true … .”

He promised to call a couple medical school friends in New York as soon as possible and to let me know what turned up. The rest of the hurried meal was a report on the latest in neonatal care, told with animation—and relief.

The second item of business was our visit to Mrs. Chiquichano. We found her in her office and spoiled her afternoon.

“I’m going to call the police!”

Bunch sighed heavily and settled his weight on a corner of her desk, making it creak ominously. “Here we are trying to be friendly, and you treat us like that.”

“I have nothing to say to you people. You people leave me alone!”

“She has nothing to say, Dev.”

“Maybe she’ll think of something,” I said, and placed a record of her payments from Antibodies on her desk. The copy had been neatly printed by our word processor in bulletin font, with the amounts in boldface for emphasis.

She stared at the large print for a long moment. “What’s this?”

“Your finders’ fees from Antibodies Research, Mrs. Chiquichano. For finding Felicidad de Silva, Serafina Frentanes, and Nestor Calamaro.” I smiled. “Now you’re supposed to ask where we got this.”

She didn’t. She only stared at me, her lips a pinched line.

“All right, I’ll tell you: from Antibodies’ files.”

Bunch said, “They’re going down, senora. Gilbert, Matheney, the whole gang. They’re going to prison for a long time, and everybody with them.”

“This is no proof!”

I opened the briefcase and placed photographs of the operating room, the gas oven, and other printouts on the table like a winning hand, one card at a time. “Those numbers mean a lot of money. Gilbert will have to explain to the police and to the IRS where it came from. And where it went. And for what reasons.”

She stared at the photograph of Nestor’s transaction. “
iEs un millión de dólares!
”

“And you only got ten thousand. One one-hundredth.”

…
millión
… .”

Bunch said, “You’re a fool, Chiquichano. You’re no smarter than those poor peons you rip off.”

“And now you’re going to jail,” I said. “A lot of years in jail and no chance to spend the money you’ve hidden away. Maybe somebody else will get to it while you’re in prison. Maybe you’ll die before you get out.”

She looked up, black eyes staring at me and at the future.

“All that work. All that planning. All that saving. For nothing.”

“Then again,” said Bunch, “maybe you can work a deal. You tell what happened, the police settle for deportation. You get to keep your money—you get off free.”

The face turned stiffly to Bunch, as if moving her neck were an effort. “I know what you do.”

“You’re right,” I said. “We want you to talk. It’ll help us, it’ll help you.”

“No!”

I gave her a few seconds and then gathered up the papers and photographs. “Suit yourself. Without your help, it’ll take a little longer. But you can see we know what’s going on, and you can see the game’s just about over.” I placed one of Kirk and Associates’ business cards on her desk. “This is your chance to get on the right side, senora. Better do it before it’s too late.”

Neither Bunch nor I was convinced she would change her mind. More likely, she would run instead of help us; grab as much floating cash as she could lay hands on and—if it wasn’t already out of the country—take her bank accounts and flee. We let her see us get into the Bronco and then drove around the block, where Bunch let me off at my car.

“If you need backup, let me know,” I said.

Bunch looked down the street at the entrance to Mrs. Chiquichano’s office. “I can handle it. I’ll call you later.”

I started across town for my meeting with the homicide detective. Kiefer was waiting in the Satire, a watering hole whose customers ranged from on-duty cops grabbing a fast dinner in the restaurant half of the building to citizens and denizens talking across the large bar on the other side of the dividing wall. As usual, he looked slightly out of place—a short, somewhat heavy man in his thirties who even in summer wore a dark blue blazer. He didn’t smoke, but every time I saw him, I expected him to pull out a pipe and begin tamping it down. We’d met a few years ago over the body of an apparent suicide—a case that had generated some mutual respect—and he was the closest thing to a friend I had in the Denver Police Department.

“Hello, Dan.”

He stood to shake hands formally and then lifted a finger for the waitress to bring another coffee. After a few how’s-it-goings and is-that-so’s, he got down to business. “So you might have something for me?”

I showed him the same photographs I’d laid out for Mrs. Chiquichano, explaining what they meant, and then told him about Felicidad and reminded him about Serafina. Like the professional interviewer he was, he didn’t interrupt but quietly jotted a note or two in a small book as I talked. When he was certain I had finished, he leaned back and took a long pull on his coffee.

“Where’d you get the photographs?”

“Let’s just say it’s inadmissible evidence.”

“I see. And you have no hard evidence about the missing people?”

“I don’t have a body, no. But tell me it’s not suspicious.”

“Ah. I can’t say that. No, I can’t say that at all.” A pair of uniformed policemen came in to sit at the booth in front of the plate-glass window and ordered rellenos smothered in green chili. Kiefer nodded hello to them. “But I can’t get a warrant with what you’ve told me, either.”

“I know that. I’m not asking you to. What I want you to do is see how much you can find out about Antibodies and Mark Gilbert. And Dr. Matheney.”

He nodded without committing himself. “If I can do it quietly. Somebody like Matheney, I start asking questions, I’d better have a damn good reason.”

“Don’t forget the victims. They’re reason enough.”

“No—you said it yourself, Dev: they don’t exist. Not legally, anyway. As far as the city and county of Denver are concerned, there never were any such people.”

“Come on, Dan! A murder’s a murder—illegals or not.”

“I said as far as the city and county are concerned. Me, I want to hang the bastards. But I’m telling you there won’t be much help from the department or from social services. Nobody wants to go looking for extra work; and if this has substance, it’s going to be a hell of a lot of work.”

“Yeah. Bunch told me to talk to you instead of the DA’s office.”

“Bunch was right. How’s he doing?”

We talked for a few minutes about Bunch. “So you can help us out? You’ll look into it?”

“Yeah. What the hell, it’s not like I have enough to do already.”

We left it at that, saying we’d get in touch with each other as soon as something turned up. It wasn’t very promising, but at least Bunch and I had done our civic duty by notifying the police of our suspicions, and that should hold off any accessory charge.

The red circle on the calendar said we had one week left to get the goods on Billy Taylor. Beyond that, Schute’s lawyers would have to drop the charges. They wouldn’t like that; Schute’s bosses wouldn’t like that; Schute wouldn’t like that. We wouldn’t either. But how to get to the man and film him going about his normal life? That was the problem, and I was pondering some kind of gag—naming him a winner in a lottery whose prize had to be claimed in person … having a sexy female voice say she was a friend of his ex-wife and wanted to say hello … . But those brilliant ideas were snuffed by the telephone. It was Jerry Kagan. “I talked to an old classmate at Empire State Hospital, Dev.” A long, slow breath. “I think it’s true. I really think a lot of what you told me is true.”

“What’d you find out?”

“He didn’t know all of it, just some rumors here and there. But apparently an Arab patient did come in for a kidney transplant.” Kagan explained: “Anybody with blood that rare is hard to keep secret. Anyway, just like you said, the hospital put out a request in a dozen channels. And sure enough, they got a match. Rh null. I couldn’t find out if it was from Denver, but they did get a donor.”