In A Heartbeat (11 page)

Overhead, florescent tubes lit the warren of hallways. Raymond followed the directions on the scrap of paper through a door marked NO ADMITTANCE, straight past a fenced-in area secured with a padlock, to a quiet, dimly lit, yet obviously protected corner of obscurity.

“Larry, is that you?” Raymond called to the Tshirt-clad back hunched before a monitor.

“Who wants to know?”

“Andy,” he replied, using a pseudonym. “We met on the Internet, remember?”

The chair squeaked and a gangly, baby-faced boy sporting a sparse goatee turned to face him. PHREAKING WITH THE UNIVERSE blazed across his navy shirt. “You’re the hospital guy,” he said. “Did you bring my money?”

“That depends.” Raymond moved closer. “Did you get my information?”

“Nothing to it.” A grin spread across the hacker’s face. “I sniffed around a bit, hit a few walls, but I found a weak link in the pathology department. They had some archaic security structure. Easy to penetrate. Once in, I hooked up some databases and lifted all kinds of crap.” He held up about five pages of paper covered with words and numbers.

“Let me see,” Raymond reached for the report.

“Not so fast.” The pages disappeared behind Larry’s back. “I could get in deep shit over this. How do I know you won’t blow my cover?”

“Don’t you watch television?” Raymond sighed. “A journalist never has to reveal his sources. I’m going to use this to prove how hospitals haven’t enough security over confidential information.”

“No one will get hurt with this?” he asked. “I mean, I hack into databases just to see if I can, not to hurt anyone.”

“Do I look like a criminal?” Raymond asked, practicing his most innocent “trust-me” look. “I’m a journalist, Larry, and I always protect my sources.”

“Okay then.” He hesitantly pulled the papers from behind his back. “Let me see the money.”

Raymond smiled; it always came down to money. He reached for his wallet. “You bet. Five hundred, right?”

Larry exchanged the report for the crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Sweet,” he said. “I’ve got my eye on a high-def monitor. This should put me over the top.”

Raymond didn’t respond. He turned and retraced his steps out of the underground maze.

“Pleasure doing business with you, man.” Larry’s words followed him down the hall.

Raymond quickly climbed the steps and left the building. He studied the pages as he walked toward a fast-food restaurant. Just as he had done with two previous hackers, he had asked Larry for a list of all transplants performed at the university hospital over the course of a month, sorted by organ and date, that identified each recipient by name, address, age and social security number. Heart transplants were still rare enough that only one or two names on each list met the date criteria surrounding Miranda’s death. Raymond had already researched the candidates on the other lists and both were dead. One died on the operating table. The other died of complications after contracting a respiratory infection. This was the last hospital of the three that had appeared on the screen at the organ transplant billing facility.

One last name to research. One last name between him and freedom. Concerns about being identified as Miranda’s killer had twisted his dreams into grotesque nightmares. The uncertainty was eating him alive, and now…now he held the key. What was it Larry had called it? A weak link? Well, now he could eradicate his personal weak link and return to his perfect life without shadows of uncertainty.

He shuffled through the pages searching for the date he knew as well as his own birthday, May fifteenth. There it was, the final name on his list. He crumbled up the other pages of the report and tossed them into a trash can overflowing with greasy burger wrappers and ice-filled cups.

Carefully, he folded the paper into a neat two-inch square. This one felt right. In his mind, the name pulsed with the quickening of his own heartbeat. He hadn’t been this excited since he first conceived of Miranda’s death. Smiling, he silently began to plot his strategy.

It was time to meet Angela Blake.

Chapter Nine

“I’D LIKE MY keys back, please.”

Angela was surprised Hank was already in his office when she arrived. She had asked Stephen to drop her off extra early on the excuse of needing to make up work. In reality, she hoped to catch Hank before the others arrived. But she hadn’t expected him to be waiting for her.

“Angel. Come in. Sit down.”

“My name is not Angel and I don’t need to sit. May I have my keys back now?”

“Why? I doubt you can drive with that thing on your leg.”

“This thing on my leg is none of your business. My keys, please.” She could have told him she drove Lilly last night just fine. But she didn’t feel she owed him an explanation.

“How’s Oreo?” he asked.

“How’s Elizabeth?” she countered, instantly disliking the pettiness in her voice. He winced, then removed her keys from his drawer and laid them on the desk. She reconsidered the sharp edge to her words, attributing her nastiness to lack of sleep. The plastic cast was extremely uncomfortable. Even faithful Oreo had abandoned the bed after her constant fidgeting. She softened her tone. “I think Oreo’s as anxious to move back home as I am.”

“You could have avoided all that family involvement, you know.”

His gentle reminder was akin to holding a lollipop just out of reach of a grasping child. She straightened her posture. “No, I don’t think that would have been possible. Now, if you can tell me where you parked the car.”

“It’s in back by the shipping dock.”

“Thank you.” She reached across his desk, covering the metal keys with her hand. She was about to pick them up when he placed his hand over hers. Her whole body jerked at his touch. She bit her lip, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
Calm down
, she willed silently.
He’s just touching my hand.
She glanced down, noting that the little identification heart attached to her key chain lay exposed outside the cover of his hand.

“That heart.” He poked at it with his free hand. “This is the reason for all those pills, isn’t it? There’s something wrong with your heart?”

“Not anymore.” She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Not exactly. I…I had a transplant three years ago.”

“A heart transplant?” Surprise resonated in his voice. “You have someone else’s heart?”

She knew the pattern. First shock, then curiosity, and finally pity. It was only a matter of time. Something shifted inside. She wasn’t sure if it was relief or despair that he knew the truth.

“My heart wasn’t going to last much longer. When a healthy one became available, I took it,” she said without apology. She swatted his hand away and pulled her keys close. “Now if we’re through with the freak show.” She turned to make a quick exit.

“Angela, wait.”

Darn, that man was fast! He managed to block her exit before she could get to the door. He stood close, too close. Her nose tingled with the crisp scent of his cologne. She clenched her fist letting the keys bite into her fingers, just so she wouldn’t be lulled into believing the comfort his body promised.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t know.”

The building was beginning to come to life behind him. File doors opened and closed, raised voices called in greeting, shoes shuffled on the carpet.

“I’ve got to go,” she whispered.

“Wait, one minute.” He continued to block the door. She mentally configured the quickest route to the nearest restroom. Somewhere she could go to splash water on her suddenly burning eyes. What was it about his voice that made her heart yearn for something more?

“I had a long talk with Elizabeth last night,” he said. “I explained that there was nothing going on between us. She’s leaving this morning for New York.”

Elizabeth!
He might as well have poured cold water on head. “Your dates are none of my business, Mr. Renard.”

He winced. Her use of
mister
hadn’t gone unnoticed. “She was rude to you yesterday. I thought you’d want to know she was gone.”

“For all the apologizing you’ve been doing, I’m not sure which of us should be more relieved.” She spat the words more sharply than she intended. He was, after all, the client, and as such, the key to a possible promotion. “I’m sorry,” she said, heat infusing her cheeks. “I’m not normally that rude.”

“Must be the effect I have on you.” He smiled and stepped aside, giving her free access to the door.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Angie said. “I need to speak with Max before he gets started.” She almost collided with Tom Wilson as she stepped through the doorway. “Excuse me,” she mumbled as they passed, hoping he didn’t notice her high color.

She heard Hank’s welcome behind her. “Come on in, Tom. I wanted to talk to you about these accounts payable turn ratios.”

Turn ratios? Angie stopped and turned, but just caught a glance of the closing office door. Hank wanted to talk about Accounts Payable? Had he noticed the same inconsistencies she had? The little irritation in the back of her skull kicked up a notch. She stopped at Hank’s secretary’s desk. Max’s flirtatious nature had encouraged frequent visits to the conference room by all manner of women delivering documents, coffee, baked goods, etc. Consequently, Angie was on a first name basis with all the female support staff.

“Cathy, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Angie, what’s up?”

“Can you call Pete Burroughs in Purchasing and tell him I’m running about five minutes late? I want to ask Max to do a little research project for me while I’m meeting with Pete.”

“I’ll call Pete for you, but Max isn’t in the conference room.”

“He’s not?”

“He mentioned you guys were wrapping up today, so the girls in Accounts Receivable baked a cake for him, kind of a farewell party.”

“Don’t they know we’ll be back in a couple of months for year end?” Cathy shrugged. “Well, if you could deliver this message to Max for me.” Angie scribbled a quick note on her legal pad, ripped it on the perforated edge and folded it up in a square. “I’ll just go ahead and meet Pete as scheduled.”

PETE BURROUGHS, THE Purchasing Manager, fidgeted behind his metal desk. He stood to shake her hand when she entered then stepped behind her to close the office door. Although Pete was one of the few in the department with an office, it was a modular office, little more than a cubicle with a door. Privacy was more imagined than real. She glanced at the collection of framed family photos angled on the credenza behind his desk. A child’s joyful smile stirred a memory.

“How’s your daughter doing?”

“Some days are better than others.” He picked up the photograph. “The latest round of chemotherapy seems to be doing some good. We’re hoping this will put the leukemia in remission.”

“I’m so sorry for your family. This must be very difficult.”

“It’s always difficult when one of your children is ill. But that’s—” He waved away any further questions. “Thank you for asking.” He took his seat. “I thought we covered everything rather thoroughly last week when you and Mr. Renard came through. Was there something that we missed?”

“Direct ships.”

“Direct ships?” He looked startled. A thin man, with deep-set eyes magnified by the thick black-rimmed glasses perched high on his nose, he looked like a surprised Chihuahua. His agitated condition made Angie uncomfortable. She glanced quickly at her notes.

“I understand you frequently request that goods be shipped to an outside location— “

“I wouldn’t say frequently…”

“Well, then let’s say, sometimes shipped,” Angie countered.

He shrugged. “Sometimes our customers don’t want to pick up their merchandise at the warehouse, so we ship it to where they tell us.”

“Why not ship it directly to the customer?” She asked. “Why an outside warehouse?”

“I guess you’d have to ask the customer. I just do what I’m told.” His lips thinned to a tight straight line. Obviously, this line of questioning wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

“Okay.” She changed tactics. “What can you tell me about Timone Industries?”

He shifted a bit in his chair, scratched his chin a few times. “They’re a local company, I believe. We’ve done business with them for a couple of years now. What else do you want to know?”

“What do you buy from them?”

“I’d have to check that out.” He wrote out TIMONE on a piece of paper. “With three hundred vendors, I can’t remember them all. I’ll get back to you with that information. Anything else?”

How odd. Purchasing managers tend to have a very good memory about what they buy from the various vendors. Perhaps his daughter’s medical issues had him distracted. “Do you have a report that shows all the purchase orders issued with direct ship instructions?”

“Nope. That sounds like something you’d have to take up with Data Processing. Tom Wilson would have to ask for it.”

Based on her earlier meetings with Tom, she doubted he’d request anything special for her. “Do you have a report that shows how much money you’ve spent with Timone?”

“I have a report like that for rebate vendors, those vendors that refund some of our money based on purchasing volumes, but Timone doesn’t give rebates. You’d have to ask Data Processing, that’s another—”

“Yes, I know. Tom would have to ask for it.” She sighed, maybe a bit too audibly.

This meeting was rapidly becoming a waste of time. “How about a phone number for Timone. Do you at least have that?”

“Now, Angie,” he placated. “I don’t want you to be calling our vendors. They might panic and think we’re in some sort of financial difficulty. I’ll call and ask whatever you want, but I don’t want any auditors calling them. Understand?”

Angie paused, disappointed at Pete’s refusal to surrender any information, even a telephone number. “All right, Pete.” She stood and walked out of the cubicle, but turned before closing the door behind her. “We’re planning to finish up today, so if you could get me that information today, I’d really appre—”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He closed the flimsy door and the whole office partition shook.