The Immortalist (22 page)

“I know it's late,” said the man as Niedermann opened the door. “But you said to come imm—”

“It's okay, Dom.” Niedermann beckoned Loscalzo into the dimly lit kitchen. “Want anything to drink?”

“Tea. Little spritz of caffeine.”

Without turning on the overhead lights, Niedermann put a K-Cup of Earl Grey in the coffeemaker and let the golden-brown stream of tea pour into a coffee mug. He avoided eye contact with Loscalzo as the mug filled. Loscalzo's appearance always revolted him—nose too big, eyes too small and close together, teeth crooked. He seemed always to be working a wad of gum in his mouth, rolling it from side to side like a bull calf with his cud. But he was one of the best people around for “after-hours” work, such as investigating Roy Mancus and Senator Libby.

Niedermann handed the filled mug to Loscalzo, who shook out four packets of sugar from a canister on the counter. Without a word, Loscalzo followed as Niedermann led the way back to his office.

“So?” said Niedermann, once he had closed the door.

Loscalzo casually fished a plastic flash drive from his pocket and tossed it onto the desk. “Here's the report you wanted on that autopsy. It's the voice file recorded by the doc for the transcriptionist.” Holding his mug by the handle, Loscalzo dipped his free index finger into the tea to test the temperature, then quickly shook his hand. “So—somebody died?”

“My secretary, Yolanda Carlson.”

“Holy shit!” Loscalzo whistled. “She was a dime and a half.”

“Yeah, it's a shame.” When Gifford had called him after dinner with the news, Niedermann had first thought it was a mistake. How could anything take out such a young woman so quickly? Niedermann almost choked up thinking about it now. “So what about the rest?” he said brusquely. “What about Dr. Rensselaer-Wright?”

“I made some preliminary inquiries.” Loscalzo blew steam off the tea. “She's not much of a swinger. Keeps a low profile. No DUIs or arrests. She's tight with her money. Got about four hundred K in her retirement account, another two fifty K in savings. Donated twenty-five K last year to some village school in Africa. Her file at the CDC is hard to get to. Somebody's sealed parts of it. She's still drawing a salary—the paycheck records show that. But everything else for the last twelve months has been taken off-line.”

“This is nothing, Dom.”

Loscalzo shrugged. “Just a start, Mr. N. You really didn't think that's all I came up with—did you?” Loscalzo bared his rat's teeth in a smirk. “I also checked with the State Department. No travel visas anywhere except Mozambique, where she was cleared to stay six months but came back after three weeks. On the way home she made a one-day stopover in Paris, staying at the Odeon Saint-Germain. The concierge says she met no one, ate alone in her room, and called for a single cab ride to Montparnasse Cemetery. A man named Étienne David is buried there. Friend of hers.” Loscalzo slurped some of the tea, allowing Niedermann a chance to reply. But Niedermann said nothing. “Next day, Sunday, she flew to Boston, and then on to Bangor Monday morning, where she rented a car.”

“This is useless to me, Dom. You've got to dig deeper. Start with that personnel file at the CDC. If it's sealed, there's bound to be something there.”

“Don't get bent out of shape, Mr. N. That was just the preview.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Loscalzo set down his mug on top of a stack of folders. “Information comes in different grades.” He licked his lips. “There's economy, second class, first class—as high up as you want to go. It's a question of what you choose to pay for.”

“You greedy son of a bitch! Are you shaking me down?”

“I've had expenses. It took boots on the ground in Atlanta to get this stuff. It cost me quite a bundle.”

“Are you telling me you know more?”

Steadying the tea mug with his left hand, Loscalzo sat down on the edge of the desk and took a yellow envelope from an inner pocket of his jacket. “In here.” He waved it in the air.

“Give it to me.”

As Niedermann reached for the envelope, Loscalzo jerked it out of reach and smiled. “This is the five-star premium version, Mr. N.”

Niedermann felt his blood boil. “You've got to be fucking kidding.” He checked himself when he saw the sadistic twinkle in Loscalzo's eyes. Loscalzo
wanted
to see him get mad. Why play his game? “All right, you win,” Niedermann said, as calmly as he could. “If you really have something there, I'll pay the same as I paid for Senator Libby and Roy Mancus.”

Loscalzo smiled coyly and took another sip of tea.

“All right, double,” said Niedermann. “But it better be fucking good.”

“Oh, it's good.”

Swearing under his breath, Niedermann got up and opened a door to the console cabinet behind his desk, exposing a Coolidge-era, steel Cary safe. He squatted down in front of it.

Loscalzo cleared his throat. “Actually, I was thinking in terms of goods rather than cash.”

“Goods? What are you talking about?” Niedermann's right hand was poised to dial the combination.

“You remember my mama? She's got multiple sclerosis real bad. I hear that Methuselah Vector might help her out.”

“Sign her up for the Lottery,” said Niedermann, vexed. He quickly dialed the combination, and the door of the safe popped open. Inside, stacked neatly alongside some small portfolios of papers, were twenty or so half-inch-thick packets of $100 bills.

“She'd never make it into the city. I was thinking of some other arrangement.”

Niedermann grabbed four packets of bills and stood up. “Forget about it. The FDA is looking over our shoulders every minute with this Lottery. We're not allowed to play favorites.”

“Don't try shittin' me, Mr. N.” Loscalzo's tone grew threatening. “I know why you've had me doin' research on all these big shots. You've got a special stash hid away somewhere, cuttin' a few deals on the side. The FDA don't know about it, but I know.”

Niedermann glowered at Loscalzo. “Everything is spoken for. I don't have anything left.”

“Then get some.” Loscalzo pocketed the yellow envelope. “I'll come back when you do.”

Niedermann tossed the money back into the safe and slammed it shut. “You son of a bitch. This isn't the way we do business.”

Loscalzo nonchalantly picked up his mug and took a sip. “Why is this woman so important to you, anyway?”

“She's someone that needs to be taught her place.”

“I know she's got you by the balls somehow. It has somethin' to do with the Methuselah Vector.”

“Really? And what makes you so sure of that?”

“The news has been wall-to-wall. That's gotta be the main thing on your plate. Plus . . . well, I've read what's in this envelope.”

The envelope! Loscalzo never bluffed when it came to information. Niedermann absolutely had to see it. “All right. If you have what I need in there, I'll find you a dose. Mind you, I don't keep it in this office. I need time to get it.” Of course he knew that all of the Vector stock was spoken for. He wasn't about to double-cross people such as Red Armbruster or the governor of California. Normally he'd have just told Loscalzo to go fuck himself and come back when he was ready to make a deal. But there wasn't time now.

“Tomorrow?” asked Loscalzo.

“Okay.” Niedermann figured that by then he could buy off Loscalzo with cash. “I need to see what's in that envelope first.”

Loscalzo tossed the envelope. It was thick. When Niedermann opened it, he found a dozen sheets of paper folded into thirds. There were e-mail transcripts—including one that Cricket had sent to the CDC that very night—some pages from a personnel file, and a confidential medical report.

As Niedermann pored over the documents, Loscalzo swung his leg from the edge of the desk and went on sipping his tea. “I haven't been the greatest son to my ma, if you know what I mean. My brother Frankie was always the good one. But this . . . this could make up for a lot.”

The words on the pages began to sink in. Niedermann couldn't resist a grin. Leave it to Loscalzo. He had an animal instinct for the weak spot.

“Can you get video of this?”

Loscalzo nodded. “Good, huh?”

“You've outdone yourself, Dom.” Niedermann couldn't resist smiling, particularly when his glance fell on his cell phone lying atop the desk. That ballbuster Eden wanted a showdown, did he? He'd soon see whose fucking career was really on the line. Wheels turned in Niedermann's brain. Gifford. The Methuselah Vector. The proxy. The new walnut-paneled office that would be waiting for him on the hundredth floor on the Magnificent Mile. More money than a man could count if he lived a thousand years. In an instant he had forgotten the gloom that had almost swept him away minutes before. He positively couldn't wait to get to New York.

Almost. Almost ready to roll. Just one thing first—

A little payback for Dr. Sandra Rensselaer-Wright.

Nine

IT'S PAST MIDNIGHT,
HANK.” CRICKET SLOUCHED
back on the sofa and rubbed her feet. Each time her thoughts drifted back to Yolanda on the cold steel autopsy table, she would press so hard on her sore arches that they hurt even worse. “Emmy should be home.”

“She's saying good-bye to her friends, hon,” said Hank from the kitchen. “Give her a little slack.”

“She's going to run. I'm sure of it.”

“Not without her clothes. You know she was over at the Freibergs' until after ten, helping to explain to Bonnie and Chuck what happened to their mother. Erich says Emmy couldn't have been sweeter. She wouldn't leave the house until both of the kids had dropped off to sleep.”

“Sweet Emmy? That's a side I haven't seen in years.” Cricket glanced at her phone on the coffee table, but saw no voice-mail alerts. “She won't answer her cell phone. What's she have one for if she won't pick it up?”

Hank chuckled. “Well, it's not so her parents can check up on her, that's for sure. C'mon, Cricket.”

Hank came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a teapot, a bottle of sherry, and two mismatched cups. The tray looked almost miniature in his strong arms. Sitting down on the love seat beside her, he picked up the sherry and turned the label toward her. “I found this old bottle of Tio Pepe in the cupboard. Your favorite, right?”

Dust was all over the bottle. “This has been here for five years?” she asked, amazed that he hadn't drunk it.

“It's yours. Part of me must've hoped you'd come back for it one day.”

She was wary of relaxing with him too much. “You go ahead. I'll stick with tea.”

“The tea's mine. I'm back on the wagon.”

Hank picked up the teapot with an old, quilted potholder and poured steaming brown liquid into both their cups. Cricket was glad to see him off the booze. But then, he'd quit a hundred times, hadn't he? How long would it last?

Hank slurped a little of the tea. “Why don't you lighten up on Emmy? You've got to stick around while you wait for the tests on Yolanda—right? Use the time to get to know your daughter.”

“Maybe you're right.” Cricket sighed. “I am a headstrong little shit, aren't I?”

Hank chuckled, gulped a mouthful of tea too hot to drink, and had to fight to keep from spitting it out. A minor coughing fit ensued. “No comment,” he managed to gasp. “Look, maybe it's none of my business, but why
now
, Cricket?”

“Making up for lost time.” She said as she twisted her teacup back and forth on the tray. “I fucked up my life, Hank. I was so busy saving the world, I never thought about the people who counted. Or who needed me.”

“No, it's yourself you never thought about. I've never met anyone more selfless and generous than you. That's why I fell in love with you. But you know what? I think your father did a number on you. You did every damn thing you could to please him. When he died, instead of being set free, you went into overdrive. You've been trying to win approval from a ghost ever since.”

“Daddy was a world-class scientist. Was it wrong for me to want to be like him?”

“Not if that's what you really want. Is it?”

“No.” Cricket stood up so abruptly that her shin knocked against the coffee table and set the sherry bottle rocking. “Not anymore,” she said as she paced toward the fireplace. “If you want to know the truth, Hank, I'm finished. I'm a total fucking basket case.”

“You mean the panic attacks?”

“It goes way beyond that. I might as well be dead. I get up wishing I
was
dead, every goddamn day. My career is ruined—I haven't completed any fieldwork in a year. I haven't written any papers. No one in his right mind will do a project with me. CDC won't keep me on much longer. Not after last week.”