On Borrowed Time (18 page)

“I thought you told me to assume it worked.”

“I told you to assume the trial was positive,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

“So the fix is in?” he asked.

“I don’t know for sure. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on, and the best way to do that is to follow the money.”

He nodded. “There’s precedent for this, to a degree. Small companies have exploded in value as the result of successful trials, and some have even gone back down when later trials didn’t go so well. But I’m not aware of any where fraud was suspected.”

I smiled. “Glad I’m able to expand your horizons.”

“And all this is supposed to help you find your girlfriend?”

“Could be.”

“Good luck,” he said, picking up his putter. “You know, the real shame in all this is I can’t even buy the stock. Lassiter has a stranglehold on it, and there’s no way he would sell. I hate when I know something but can’t make money off of it.”

“Sorry about that. What are you going to do for food and shelter?”

He shrugged and made the putt. “Maybe I’ll go on the PGA tour. I hear it’s a great way to get women.”

When I left Robby’s office, I went home and knocked out the third installment in the series about Jen and my efforts to find her. Scott had been bugging me to do so, and I could still see the value in keeping the issue in front of the public.

I wasn’t really satisfied with the piece when I finished it, because I left out Sean Lassiter. The magazine’s legal counsel advised strongly against including him, feeling that in the absence of proof it would give him a strong legal case against myself and the magazine. I went along; the last thing I wanted was to give Lassiter any potential weapon to use against me.

So I filled in many of the details, and while the piece was compelling, it didn’t go nearly as far as I would have liked. For instance, while I was positive that Ardmore Hospital was complicit in whatever was going on, the only time I was free to mention the hospital was in revealing that the murdered plumber, Frank Donovan, had worked there.

I sent the piece off to Scott, and he promised to run it immediately. The magazine’s circulation was soaring each time one of my articles ran.

Suffice it to say that this was of small comfort to me.

Kentris knew the look beyond any doubt.

The man waiting in his office when he got back from lunch was a federal agent. He knew it as surely as if the man had a sign on his forehead proclaiming it. FBI agents had a look about them, and this guy was right out of central casting.

“Hello, Lieutenant, Special Agent Emmett Luther,” he said, his hand held out for Kentris to shake it. Luther was a large man, at least six-three and two hundred thirty pounds, with a handshake to match.

“What can I do for you?” Kentris asked.

“You’ve been talking to people about Sean Lassiter.”

“I’m not sure I detected a question in there.”

“The Bureau wants you to suspend your investigation of Mr. Lassiter. And that’s not a question either.”

“To tell you the truth, I can’t remember the last time I woke up in the morning and gave a shit what the Bureau wanted me to do. So why would I drop the Lassiter investigation, assuming there was one?”

“Because I asked you to, and because our country’s national security is at stake.”

“How exactly does my asking questions endanger our country?”

“That’s not something I can share with you, other than to say it interferes with an ongoing federal investigation.”

“You’re going to need to be more specific than that.”

Luther shook his head. “Not possible. Can we count on your cooperation?”

“No.”

“You understand that we can go over your head and have you ordered to stop?”

Kentris shrugged. “Take your best shot.”

“You know, it’s not a scientific survey, but I have found that the percentage of hick cops who are also assholes is close to a hundred percent.”

Kentris smiled. “They weed out the non-assholes at the hick academy.”

Luther started to move toward the door, but then stopped. “What is it you suspect Lassiter of doing?”

Kentris shrugged again. “Not sure; it’s more of a fishing expedition than an investigation. But based on this little chat, I must be after a pretty big fish.”

“You won’t be on the case long, Kentris. But be real careful while you are.”

Luther’s visit had exactly the opposite effect that he was hoping for. Rather than get Kentris to back off, it instead provided him a jolt of motivation. His interest had waned slightly when Gates was apparently so forthcoming at the hospital. But Luther knew that Kentris was asking Gates questions about Lassiter, which meant the feds had some connection to Gates.

Kentris had been around the block more than a few times, and had had his share of dealings, both cooperative and contentious, with the feds. He therefore knew that Luther would not give up, and would probably have the juice to eventually get his way. There was every possibility that before long the mayor would call and order his cooperation.

Which meant that Kentris had to act quickly to find out whatever he could. This case was his, and it was going to be big, and if he had his teeth dug solidly into it, the mayor would see the upside to his department pulling off a major coup. Or arrest. Or whatever the hell was going to be the result.

“What have you got for me?” Kentris asked when I picked up the phone.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, I assume you haven’t been sitting on your ass. What did you come up with?”

“Are you familiar with the two-way-street concept?”

“I am,” Kentris said. “But it no longer applies here. We’ve got ourselves a three-way street. The feds are involved.”

I started bombarding him with questions about the federal intervention, but he had very few answers. Finally I switched subjects. “Did you check out the license plate and picture of the guy following me?”

“Yeah. Plate was a fake; the number doesn’t exist. I sent an alert out on the photo, but nothing so far.”

“You’re full of good news.”

“I need you up here tomorrow morning,” Kentris said.

“What for?

“For one thing, so we can share information.”

“What else?’

“You’re an investigative reporter, right? Well, it’s time for you to investigate.”

We spoke for a while longer, at the end of which I promised to drive up the next morning.

When I hung up, Allie, who had come into the room near the end of the call, said, “Update me.”

“Kentris wants to see me tomorrow morning. The FBI is pressuring him to get off the case.”

“Why?” she asked.

“He doesn’t know; all he did was speak to Gates, and Gates showed him everything … all the data from Lassiter’s drug trial.”

“So why does he want you there?”

“He doesn’t want to draw too much attention to what he’s doing, so I assume he thinks I can learn more by digging than he can. At least for now.”

“How can you do that?”

I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out. You busy tomorrow? Because I don’t know where I can get another date at this point.”

“You think you can ask me out tonight for a date tomorrow morning?”

“That was my plan. Another part of the plan was to stop at a place I know that makes the best blueberry pancakes in America.”

She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Seems like a workable plan.”

Allie had cooked dinner, not exactly her specialty, but she liked doing it, so I let her. My only regret was that I had to eat it, but she had made spaghetti with meat sauce, and it seemed nearly edible if I swallowed quickly.

While she was putting the final touches on it, I called Craig Langel to tell him about the FBI’s attempted intervention into Kentris’s work. Craig had many connections with law enforcement, and I wanted his insight.

“If Lassiter’s screwing around with a drug trial, that’s the FDA’s area, and that’s federal,” Craig said. “It makes sense that the Bureau would be involved if they suspected something. I’ll ask around, but I’m sure there would be a tight lid on it.”

“See what you can find out,” I said. “I’m going to see Kentris tomorrow morning to plan strategy.”

“You want me to go with you?” Craig asked, the concern evident in his voice.

“Why?”

“Richard, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but every time you take another step, you wind up deeper in dangerous shit. A little personal protection might be a good idea.”

“Allie’s coming with me. I’m taking her to Aunt Patty’s Pancake House.”

“Well, that should do the trick. Come on, man, I’m worried about you.”

“Thanks, Craig, but I’m fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

Allie woke me at seven
A.M.

She didn’t knock on my door or come in and shake me. She was too subtle for that. Instead she made so much noise in the kitchen that I would have come to if I were in a coma.

I went out to the kitchen and said, “Was there an earthquake in here?”

“Sorry, I was just puttering around.”

“Why?” I asked. “We’re having breakfast on the road.”

“I wasn’t cooking puttering. I was just puttering puttering.”

“You were trying to wake me up.”

She nodded. “It worked.” Then, “I’m anxious to get going. You know me, I want to feel like we’re getting somewhere.”

“That’s where we differ,” I said. “I want to actually get somewhere.”

We were on the road within the hour, crossing over the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey and driving up Route 17 almost into New York State. Allie was quiet most of the way. She’d been a lot moodier since she got back, and it was understandable. I could actually tell when she was thinking about her sister, and I would watch as she tried to shake herself out of her depression. It was amazing how well I was getting to know her, and how much I cared about her.

I reached over and took her hand, then held it. She looked at me and our eyes connected, staying that way until I decided I probably should look at the road. Neither of us said anything, and our hands stayed entwined until a toll booth broke the mood.

The pancake restaurant was crowded as always, and we had to wait fifteen minutes for a table. Patty’s was a place that my parents took me to as a kid, and it had not changed one iota in the intervening years. I would go there maybe twice a year as an adult, and the look of the place, and especially the aroma, brought back extraordinary memories. Hopefully they were real memories.

“These are unbelievable,” Allie said, once she had chewed enough to clear a path in her mouth, thus enabling speech. “I’ve got to learn how to make these.”

“Or maybe not,” I said.

“You don’t think I’m a good cook, do you?”

“You’re not Aunt Patty.”

She took another bite. “That’s for sure.”

We were back on the road at about nine-thirty, going up route 17 and on to the New York State Thruway. We were about twenty minutes south of Monroe when my car seemed to slow down, and I stepped on the gas.

Nothing happened.

The car had shut down and the motor seemed to be off, even though the key was still turned. It had just died, and we were coasting along, with no power behind us.

“What’s wrong?” Allie asked.

“I have no idea.… I just filled it with gas yesterday.”

I turned the key off and then back on, but it had no effect. At the same time I veered the still-moving car to the side of the road, on the shoulder. We finally slowed to a stop, right near a sign that said there was a rest area one mile ahead.

“Do you know anything about cars?” Allie asked.

“I know how to call Triple A. What about you?”

“Make the call,” she said.

I took out my cell phone and immediately noticed that there were no bars at the top; we had stopped in a rather desolate area without cell service. “I don’t believe this,” I said. “You have any reception on yours?”

Allie checked her phone and confirmed that she did not.

“I’m going to walk to that rest area,” I said, opening my door. “I would think there would be a pay phone there. Or maybe cell service.”

“You want me to go with you or stay with the car?” she asked.

“Why don’t you go with him?” It was a voice I recognized, and I involuntarily stiffened. I finally turned, and confirmed my fear that it was the guy who had been following us. He was holding a gun and pointing it at my chest.

I raised my hands in the air without being told to, and the man frowned. “Put your hands down, asshole. This isn’t the movies.” He moved toward the open door and said to Allie, “Get out of the car.”

Allie opened the door and got out. I was scared to death, but Allie looked more angry than afraid.

Two cars passed by, but I noticed that our captor had his body between the gun and the road; there was no way that anyone passing by would think anything was wrong. That’s probably why he didn’t want us raising our hands. I also noticed that ours was the only car visible; this guy must have come walking out of the woods alongside the road. Perhaps his car was back there.

Which meant he had known where we would stop. Which meant he had somehow stopped us.

“What happened to your camera?” he asked, a not-so-subtle reminder of the last time we’d met. It also wasn’t lost on me that he’d ended that last conversation by calling me a “dead man.”

“Let’s go. That way,” he said, pointing toward the trees. There was a path cut out of them, leading farther away from the road, and that was where he was indicating we should go.

Allie sent me a look that said,
Don’t do it.
I considered our limited options. I thought about refusing, but there was so little traffic that he could have shot us there and gotten away without being noticed. I didn’t know what he had planned for us down that path, but at the moment I didn’t have the guts to force his hand.

I nodded slightly to Allie, and we started walking, with the man behind us. We were about ten feet into the woods when Allie stopped.

“No,” she said. “This is as far as we go.”

The man laughed. “She’s a hell of a lot smarter than you are,” he said to me. “But this will do fine.”