Critical (28 page)

After checking the map for the fastest route back toward Hoboken, Franco made a U-turn in the middle of Broad Avenue and accelerated south.

For a time, they drove in silence. It was Angelo who spoke up first. “I certainly hope Vinnie appreciates all this effort. Driving in the city during rush hour was bad enough, but it was nothing compared to getting into the tunnel and then out here in New Jersey. I mean, it was a bitch.”

“I would have traded places in a heartbeat,” Franco said. “Commuting day in and day out on a bus like the one I was on is a nightmare.”

They didn't talk again until they pulled into the marina. Franco drove to the same place he had the night before and parked at the base of the main pier. He turned out the headlights. As it was the previous night, it was completely dark. Both men got out of the car and converged at the driver's-side rear door. As they opened it, Amy's head sagged to the left.

“Okay, baby!” Angelo said. “Time to rise and shine.” He poked his head into the vehicle and released the seat belt. With that accomplished, they got Amy out of the car.

“She doesn't weigh much, does she?” Franco commented.

“When her boss last night said she was small, he wasn't joking.”

With relative ease, they walked Amy out the pier. The cold air off the river revived her to a degree, and she actually helped them so they didn't have to support her entire weight. The only relatively difficult part was getting her across the narrow gangplank and into the stern of the boat.

“What should we do with her while we get under way?” Angelo asked.

“Well, she hasn't gotten sick, so let's put her into one of the forward cabins. I don't want her getting up and just falling overboard. Wait here and hang on to her while I turn the light on in the main saloon and below.”

It was a little more difficult moving Amy on the boat than it had been on the open pier, but they managed to get her into a cabin and draped her over a bed with her feet still on the floor. Just in case she did get sick, they spread towels under her head. When they were finished, they stood up and looked down at the woman.

Suddenly, Franco bent over, grasped the lapels of Amy's coat, and rudely ripped it open. The buttons flew off in various directions and clattered to the floor.

“You know something?” he said. “If you don't look at the hair and you ignore the zits, she's not bad. What do you say?”

“We did give her a date-rape drug,” Angelo said, as his scarred lips twisted into a half-smile. “We shouldn't waste things.”

“Yeah, it would be like the stem cell and frozen embryo hassle. I mean, if you're going to flush them down the toilet, why not use them?”

Franco and Angelo regarded each other. Their respective smiles broadened until they laughed.

“Okay,” Franco said. “Once we're under way, we'll flip for who goes first.”

“You got a deal, man!”

With more alacrity than they'd shown all evening, Franco and Angelo went back up on deck. Franco continued up to the bridge deck while Angelo disembarked to handle the mooring lines. By the time Angelo had the bowline free and tossed onto the bow, Franco had the diesel engine purring like a contented cat. Angelo ran back and loosened the stern line from its massive dockside cleat. Just as he was about to toss it into the stern, his eye caught a glint of light back along the pier in the area of the fuel pump. For a second, Angelo stared into the darkness. When it didn't recur, he assumed it was a brief reflection of the light issuing from the
Full Speed Ahead
on the fuel pump's glass gauge cover.

Angelo tossed the mooring line onto the boat, scampered across the gangplank, and pulled the gangplank aboard. “All clear,” he shouted up to the bridge deck. As the yacht began to move out of its slip, Angelo went around and pulled in the thick, white bumpers. As he did so, he was caught in the reddish glow of the running lights that Franco had just turned on.

 

BRENNAN HOVERED BEHIND
the fuel pump for longer than he thought necessary. He didn't want to take any additional chances. He was worried that while he was trying to make out the name of the yacht, he'd caught Angelo's attention. The problem had been that in the corner of his field of vision, Brennan had seen Angelo suddenly stand bolt upright and stare directly toward him for a beat. Brennan realized after the fact that it was possible for light from the yacht to reflect off the front of his rather large binoculars.

When the sound of the yacht's engines had receded enough that he was reasonably sure he'd not be seen, Brennan hazarded a glance around the pump and saw the
Full Speed Ahead
's running lights close to two hundred yards beyond the end of the pier. Believing there was no way he could be seen at such a distance, he jogged back down the pier, past Franco's car, and then all the way up to the rear of the marina's parking lot. He didn't see Carlo's black Denali until he was almost upon it. He quickly climbed into the front passenger seat. He was out of breath.

“Well?” Carlo demanded.

Brennan held up his hand to give himself a few deep breaths.

“They took her onto a yacht,” Brennan managed.

“Since we've come to a marina, that's not all that enlightening, especially since you thought they drugged her in the bar.”

“I'm sure they drugged her!” Brennan shot back. He didn't like being ordered around by Carlo. “They had to practically carry her out of the bar.”

“Okay, okay! Don't take offense.”

“You should do some of the running around if you don't trust me.”

“I said okay, they drugged her,” Carlo said. “Do you think this ridiculous shenanigan was just to pork her? I mean, this has been a lot of effort. There's certainly enough broads out in Queens so that they didn't need to come all the way out here in the sticks.”

“It can't be just to get laid,” Brennan said disparagingly. “What's the matter with you; are you stupid?”

For a moment, the two men stayed quiet. The strain of the evening's activities had gotten to them. Finally, Carlo spoke: “We shouldn't be busting each other's balls. This has not been a picnic like I thought it would be. With that said, we have to come up with something to tell the boss.”

“They made the effort to take the yacht out. I can't imagine they'd bother if they just planned on getting laid, nor would they make such an effort with a chick that certainly wasn't special. We are missing some major piece of information.”

“You really didn't hear anything they said back at the bar?”

Brennan glared at Carlo.

“Okay, okay, you already said you didn't. It's too bad, though. It was the perfect opportunity.”

“The music was too loud. It was boom, boom, boom,” Brennan said while repeatedly slapping his fist into his open palm. “I couldn't hear myself think, much less someone else's conversation.”

“Maybe they took the boat out so after they finish with her, they'll just dump her into the drink.”

“That seems like a weak explanation to me,” Brennan said, suppressing the urge to make a stronger value judgment. He knew that one of the benefits of a date-rape pill, if that was what they probably gave her, was that the woman remembered zilch.

“Well, we can't follow them anymore tonight unless they come back.”

Give me a break
, Brennan thought but did not say. Instead, he said, “Thanks to my binoculars, which I brought along, I think I know the name of the boat. I mean, I couldn't see it too well, and it was bouncing up and down, but it looked like
Full Speed Ahead
.”

Carlo turned to Brennan. “Hey, that might be something Barbera would like to know.”

Oh, really?
Brennan questioned silently and sarcastically. Sometimes he truly wondered how Carlo had gotten to where he was in the organization.

Carlo got out his cell phone and called Louie Barbera.

When Barbera was on the line, Carlo gave a quick description of their evening so far. Louie was instantly taken aback. His first question was the name of the business where the girl worked, but unfortunately, Carlo and Brennan had no idea. Louie then asked them if by any slim chance they knew the name of the boat.

“We think it is
Full Speed Ahead.
It was dark and hard to see, but Brennan brought along some binoculars, and that was what it looked like.”

Brennan nodded to acknowledge Carlo's giving him the credit.

“You guys are doing a good job,” Louie said. “That could be very interesting information. As far as I know, no one is aware Vinnie Dominick is hiding a yacht in New Jersey. It could be the answer to how he's getting his drugs these days.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Hang out and see when they come back and whether the girl's with them or not. If it's early enough, go back to the Trump Tower. I want a list of the businesses with office space. Something's going on with one of those businesses, and I'd like to know what it is.”

Carlo disconnected with Louie and turned to Brennan. “Did you hear? We've got to sit tight.”

“Thanks for giving me credit about the boat's name.”

“Hey, you deserved it. What do you say we go find some coffee? Who knows how long these dorks will be out for their romantic cruise.”

“That's the best idea you've had today,” Brennan said.

 

“WELL?” FRANCO ASKED
when Angelo came back up onto the bridge deck. Franco had the big boat up to a reasonable speed so that it was just planing. He could have gone considerably faster, but there was no need, and the diesels made a tremendous, earsplitting roar when they were pushed much faster.

“She said she liked me better because your dick is so small.”

Franco took a playful swing at Angelo, which Angelo easily evaded. Earlier, Franco had won the coin toss, and while Angelo piloted the boat, he'd gone down to have his way with the unconscious Amy. After that, it had been Angelo's turn.

“How far are we going to go?” Angelo asked. He looked out at the New York City skyline to the left and the Jersey shoreline to the right. In the middle distance ahead was the illuminated Statue of Liberty.

“About the same as last night. Did you get the chain out?”

“Not yet.”

They rode in silence for a short while until Angelo said, “What are we going to do?”

“Why are you asking? We're going to do just what we did last night. Shoot her and throw her overboard.”

“Why bother to shoot her?”

Franco took his eyes off the water in front and regarded Angelo in the half-light of the bridge. “She'd be still alive when we tossed her into the drink.”

“So what?”

Franco shrugged. “It doesn't seem right throwing her into the water alive. It's not human.”

“So you think you are human. Is that it, Franco?”

Franco redirected his attention to the water in front. He saw some running lights of a boat off the starboard side on a course across their bow. He backed down the engines and the boat slowed quickly.

“What the hell are you driving at?” Franco questioned angrily. “Are you trying to play with my mind somehow?”

“Hell, no!” Angelo exclaimed. “Jeez, calm down! I'm just asking because actually, I feel the same way. It's just not right throwing her in without icing her first. But that makes me wonder if we're two old softies.”

“Hey, speak for yourself.”

“Franco, this is a discussion, not an argument. In comparison with the wiseguys of old, particularly the enforcers like us, we're pussycats.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw a movie once about what it was like when the real bosses were in control. When one of the musclemen of the day took someone out to knock 'em off like we're doing, they tied the person to a chair and put their feet in cement, and while the cement dried, the person being knocked off could think about what was soon to happen. Now, those guys were the real baddies, not like us.”

“You're out of your freakin' mind.”

“Maybe, but someday I'd like to have a chance to do it. Besides, it would be easier and faster today, with stuff like quick-set and the like on the market.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. We're not going back to Home Depot tonight so you can have some fun and games.”

A
ngela hurried out onto Fifth Avenue from the commercial entrance to the Trump Tower, and merged into the heavy pedestrian traffic heading south. She had to wait for the light at 56th Street, and glanced at her watch. She was already late for her scheduled seven-fifteen dinner with Chet McGovern. It seemed that lately she was always running and always late. The pressure was unrelenting. She knew she shouldn't be taking the time to dine formally, but the coincidence of having had a confrontation of sorts with Dr. Laurie Montgomery and being persistently asked to dinner by one of the medical examiner's colleagues on the same day was too much not to take advantage of. Angela was concerned that Laurie Montgomery could be the biggest current threat to the secrecy Angels Healthcare had managed vis-à-vis the MRSA problem and its cash-flow consequence. Angela needed to know how big a threat.

When the light changed, Angela's mind went back to her other problems. Paul Yang still had not returned, and just before leaving the office, Angela had checked with Bob. She thought he would have called if the accountant had contacted him, but Angela wanted to be sure. It would have been nice to be able to cross off one of her concerns. At the same time Angela was checking with Bob about Paul Yang, she had asked him if all had been arranged with Michael about the extra fifty thousand. Bob had said everything had been taken care of except the money itself, which he hoped would be wired in the morning.

The last thing Angela had had to take care of before she left the office was a blowup between Cynthia Sarpoulus and Herman Straus, the president of Angels Orthopedic Hospital. Cynthia demanded to keep David Jeffries's OR closed for another twenty-four hours, while Herman wanted it available. It was his contention that there had been four operations after Jeffries, which had had no infections, and the OR had been fastidiously cleaned. Cynthia, on the other hand, wanted to wait a day to check it again before giving it a green light. Under normal circumstances the chief operating officer, Carl Palanco, would have handled the problem, but mercurial Cynthia had threatened to quit, meaning Angela had to step in to mediate. Angela did not want to lose their infection-control professional with MRSA still a potential threat.

At 54th Street, Angela turned left and hurried her step. Despite all the current problems and pressures, she resigned herself to at least enjoy the meal even if it was, like everything else she was doing, in the line of work. After all, on the positive side, it was one of her favorite restaurants.

Coming through the front door and then the inner door, she peeled off her coat and gave it to the coat check person. Approaching the hostess desk, she expected to see one of the owners, of which there were two. Although she didn't know for certain, she suspected they were brothers. The one whom she expected to see, since he acted as the maître d', was the elegant Italian male with the omnipresent and superbly fitted Italian suit, crisp white shirt, bold Italian silk tie with matching pocket square, and luxuriously dark, rather long and flowing hair. The other was the tough, no-nonsense Italian male exuding testosterone, who could have played the part of a mobster. He dressed considerably more casually yet commanded significant respect tinged with a touch of fear. He usually hung out behind the small bar, and when Angela stepped farther into the room, she caught sight of him in his usual location. When he caught sight of her, he waved and greeted her by name. Prior to the disastrous MRSA problem, Angela had patronized the restaurant nearly on a weekly basis, but it had been for lunch, not dinner. She quickly surmised the brothers probably rotated evenings, since the power lunch was the establishment's forte.

One of the waiters recognized her as well. He was a youthful-appearing Italian with a pervasive smile, who also greeted her by name. With a grand gesture he pointed her toward the front corner table and said, “Your guest has already arrived.”

Standing behind the table, Chet waved and smiled a greeting.

As Angela approached, she sized him up. She'd forgotten his engaging, nonchalant smile as well as his boyish appeal. She never would have suspected he was a physician, and certainly not a medical examiner. During her medical training, pathology had not been her favorite course. She couldn't help but wonder why anyone would choose to make a career of it.

When she reached the table, Chet surprised her by stepping out and giving her a hug. She limply hugged back. After all, this was business, even if he didn't know it.

“Thanks for coming out, knowing how busy you are.”

“Thanks for having me. I'm not sure I would have gotten much dinner had you not been so persistent.”

“As I said, you have to eat.”

They sat down.

“First things first,” Chet said. “This is my treat.”

“I think I'm going to get the best of this exchange,” Angela said. She knew that in keeping with its quality, San Pietro was not inexpensive.

They engaged in superficial banter for a time, after which Angela signaled for the waiter. She was committed to having a short evening.

The youthful, smiling waiter came over and rattled off an impressive description of more than a dozen appetizer specials and more than a dozen entrée specials. Then he handed out the menus.

“That was incredible,” Chet whispered to Angela. “How does he remember all that?”

After they had made their selections, including a bottle of 1995 Brunello, they went back to their conversation. As had been the case the night before, Angela found Chet an extremely facile conversationalist, and she couldn't help but enjoy his humor and refreshing candor. He was, as he openly admitted, an irrepressible lothario. Yet by admitting it so freely, it seemed to erase its usual tawdry shallowness. Once again, as was the case the previous evening and in spite of all the pressure she was under, she began to enjoy herself. Of course, the wine significantly helped, as it was truly delicious to the point of making her feel a bit guilty: She imagined the bottle was pricey.

As the conversation proceeded, and not wanting to be rude by essentially delving into her true interest for coming out to dinner, namely, to find out about Laurie Montgomery, she took advantage of Chet's openness by asking him why he chose medicine and why forensics.

“You want the expurgated version or the truth?” Chet said, flashing one of his playful smiles.

“The truth!” Angela said with exaggerated forcefulness. She took another sip of the heavenly wine.

“Most people, like ninety-eight percent, go into medicine because they are truly motivated to help people. Not me. I had no idea what I wanted to be until about the eighth grade.”

“What happened?”

“One of my friends, whom I thought of as somewhat of a nerd—I mean, he was the chairman of the chess club—suddenly decided he truly wanted to be a doctor, and for the standard reason. And do you know what happened?”

“I cannot wait to hear.”

“Overnight, he became really popular with the girls. I couldn't believe it. It was like a metamorphosis. Even the girl I was trying to date, Stacey Cockburn, suddenly wanted to date Herbie Dick. Really, those were the names. I'm not joking.”

Angela suppressed a laugh.

“So, suddenly I wanted to be a doctor,” Chet continued. “And it worked. Two weeks later, I took Stacey to the Saturday-night dance.”

“But was the motivation enough to make you actually study medicine?”

“It was for me. I'd always liked biology, so medicine wasn't generally contrary to my interests. And having a real sense of direction at that age was somehow reassuring. And my parents and sisters were wild about me being a doctor, because in a small midwestern town, the doctor is still considered a rather respectable individual.”

“Okay,” Angela said. “But why forensics?”

“I suppose because I like puzzles and I like to learn new things. For me, that's what forensics is all about. Also, in medical school I sensed I wasn't all that good with patients, especially when they were alive.”

Angela smiled and nodded. She could understand to a degree philosophically what he was saying, but not the part about having to do the autopsy itself.

“Okay, it's your turn,” Chet said. “Why did you choose business?”

Angela hesitated for a moment, thinking how she cared to answer. Her first inclination was to brush the question off by offering some pat answer, but a combination of Chet's forthrightness, her recent misgivings about her motivations, and even perhaps the wine made her want to be frank. “I guess I should ask you the same question you asked me,” she said. “Do you want the stereotypical version or the honest one?”

“The honest one for sure.”

“Actually, I never wanted to be a businesswoman, at least not until about five years ago.”

“What did you want to be?”

“I wanted to be a doctor.”

“No shit?” Chet questioned, as a wry, uncertain smile appeared on his face.

“No shit,” Angela echoed. “And I was part of the herd. I was part of the ninety-eight percent you mentioned. I truly wanted to take care of and hopefully cure people. It might sound overly sappy, but I even had it in mind to bring medicine into the inner city like a kind of modern-day Dr. Livingstone.”

“How come you didn't do it?”

“I did do it,” Angela said. “I went the whole nine yards. I did a residency in internal medicine, got my boards, and opened a practice in Harlem.”

Chet sat back and put his fork down. He was momentarily at a loss for words. He'd sensed from the moment he'd begun talking with Angela at the health club that there was something special about her, but he never would have guessed she was a doctor. The shocking news challenged his self-esteem, since being an M.D. and a high-level businesswoman certainly trumped his being only a doctor. But at the same time, the news fanned his interest in Angela.

“Are you surprised?” Angela asked. Chet looked as if a cannon had gone off next to him.

“I'm flabbergasted.”

“Why?”

“I don't really know,” Chet stammered.

“I'm surprised myself,” Angela admitted. “But perhaps my motivations for medicine weren't quite as altruistic as I've always believed.”

“Oh?” Chet voiced. He leaned forward. “Why not?”

“Part of the reason I wanted to go to medical school, and I suppose to take care of people, because that's generally what you do after you graduate, was to get back at my father.”

“Really?”

“Really!” Angela repeated. In truth of fact, she was as surprised by her statement about her father as Chet was. It wasn't that the idea hadn't vaguely occurred to her in rare moments over the years, but rather because she'd never truly visited the issue.

“Forgive me if I'm being too personal,” Chet said, readjusting himself in his seat. “Why would you want to get back at your father? For some reason, I guess I just assumed you experienced an idyllic childhood.”

“In all outward appearances, it was,” Angela said. She was again surprised at herself. As a private person, she was admitting things she'd admitted only to a few close girlfriends while in college. “And it was important for my father that it appeared that way. But our perfect little family had its secrets.” Angela paused, unsure if she wanted to go on. “I hope I'm not boring you. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Oh, come on!” Chet complained. “I'm fascinated. And if it is a concern for you, I give you my word that whatever you feel comfortable telling me will go no further.”

“I appreciate that,” Angela said. She took a sip of wine, thought for a moment, and then said, “Regrettably, my father abused me, not in any sexual sense but rather in an emotional sense. Of course, I had no idea of this as a child. It was only after I'd matured to whatever degree I have. When I was very young, I was the apple of my father's eye. I remember it very well, and I was crazy about him. But with my father's guarded emotions and reliance on appearances, the cost for me, and for my mother, for that matter, was absolute, petlike allegiance. As long as I was his little automaton darling doll, everything was picture-perfect. The problem was that I was slowly growing up, and the moment I expressed any autonomy by being my own person, he turned away from me and dropped small comments about me abandoning him, which made me feel horribly guilty. For a time, I tried desperately to please him, but invariably I'd disappoint him as my interests turned progressively away from home and more toward my friends and school. My poor mom, who had remained entirely allegiant, perhaps suffered the most, because he seemed to become bored with her and had the stereotypic midlife crisis, complete with affairs and alcohol. Of course, he never took responsibility. He blamed both my mother and myself for his need to act out, claiming no one cared about him. For some reason, which I'll never understand, my poor mom stayed with him until he divorced her for a younger woman.”

“I'm sorry for you,” Chet said. “It's tragic that people like your father can be their own worst enemies. Obviously, your father should have been proud of your accomplishments, not feel threatened by them. But how did this influence your wanting to go to medical school?”