Saving Max (19 page)

He nods sadly. “The letterhead and signature line were the same as the hundreds she routinely prepared for me to sign for correspondence purposes. She always typed in the text to the patient.”

Danielle shakes her head. “So she has the original of this letter somewhere. And if anyone asks her, she will say you sent it to her.”

“Correct.”

“Did you send her the money?”

“Yes,” he replies stiffly. “I had to make a substantial withdrawal from my retirement fund, but I sent her the money.”

“Did you ever try to go to her house in Chicago?”

“Once,” he says. “She had already moved out.”

“Has she contacted you since?”

“No.” He gives her a hopeless look. “Why?”

Danielle can’t think of anything else to ask. She holds the letter in her hand. “May I keep this?”

“I wish you would, actually. I never want to see it again.” He sighs. “Anyway, Ms. Parkman, that is my story. A sad and pitiful tale from a stupid old man who was deceived. Not a novel one, to be sure.”

Danielle nods. Jojanovich struggles out of his chair, as if giving the account of his downfall has made him older than when he started. Danielle takes his elbow as he walks to the door. He lets her. She opens the door as he puts on his hat and belts his raincoat.

“Doctor,” she says. “I can’t thank you enough. It took a lot of courage to come here today. You did the right thing.”

“Not soon enough, Ms. Parkman,” he says sadly. “Not nearly soon enough.”

The door closes behind him. Danielle turns and walks to the window. Everything Jojanovich has told her swims in her head as she tries to match it to Marianne at Maitland, Jonas’s death and Max’s meds. She glances at her suitcase. She isn’t going anywhere until she figures out how all of this fits together. She turns back and gazes at the glittering city below, not seeing any of it. A tingle courses up her neck. She is electric.

Danielle stares out as the city lights flash by. She and Doaks are on their way to the Chicago airport. She stops typing on her laptop and puts the computer back in her bag. The drive has passed silently. They are at an impasse. Despite the information they have collectively uncovered about Marianne, Doaks insists that they call Sevillas before pursuing the investigation further. Danielle demands that they go on to Phoenix. The traffic is murderous.

Doaks tosses her his cell phone. “Make the call.”

She looks at him. “Why? You know what he’s going to say.”

“And you know he’s right.” He takes the phone from her and punches in a number. There is a pause. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Hey, don’t ream me out, hotshot. She’s your client, remember?” There is another pause. “Well, we found some good stuff.” Doaks paraphrases what he and Danielle have uncovered about Marianne: her affair and successful black mailing of Jojanovich, the falsification of Jonas’s records and Doaks’s discovery of Marianne’s Phoenix address. There is another long silence. “Yeah, I hear you. I ain’t deaf, ya know. No way. I ain’t your messenger boy. You tell her.” He holds the cell phone out to Danielle.

She sighs and holds it to her ear. She imagines the set of Sevillas’s jaw, his controlled anger. “Hello.”

“That’s it?” The words are spit bullets. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Tony, look, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t go there with me, Danielle.” Frustration and anxiety lace his voice. “Get on that plane. I don’t want excuses; I don’t want explanations. You simply have to show up in the courtroom for this hearing tomorrow. Do you have any idea what position you’ll put me in with the court if you’re not there at your own bond hearing? I will not behave unethically or ruin my professional reputation so you can go off on some ridiculous witch hunt.”

“I know I’ve put you in a terrible position, but—”

“Forget about me,” he says. “Think about yourself. Think about Max.”

“That’s exactly who I’m thinking of.”

His words are hammer chinks on frozen metal. “Right now your son is so beside himself that you’ve left him that he’s driving himself crazy trying to prove that Fastow did it just so you’ll come back. Even with Georgia here, I don’t think he can take much more.”

“But he’s all right, isn’t he?” she asks anxiously.

“So far he is,” he says. “Georgia is here with me. She’s seen him. Since she’s your oldest friend, maybe you’ll listen to her.”

Danielle hears a rustling and then Georgia’s mellifluous voice. “Danny, Max is fine. I just left him. But you know how he gets this monomaniacal focus on something when he’s really scared or nervous? That’s what he’s doing now.”

Danielle closes her eyes. Dread fills her. “Do you think he’s on the verge of a break? Tell me right now, and I’ll come back.”

“No,” she says slowly, as if to mask what she and Danielle are discussing for Sevillas’s sake. “Max is managing to hide
most of the pills, and I haven’t noticed anything that indicates he’s losing touch with reality. Even so, you do need to be back for the hearing.”

“But you think as long as I do that, I should follow up on what I’m doing if it means possibly getting Max free?”

“I would say that’s true,” she says slowly.

“You know why I don’t think going after Fastow is the answer?”

“Yes, I do, and I would have to agree with you. It’s a temporary fix.”

“I’ll be back for the hearing. I love you, Georgia. Take care of my boy for me until tomorrow.”

“Will do. I’m going to be with him until he falls asleep tonight, and then I’m taking him to the hearing with us.”

Danielle’s relief is overwhelming. “Bless you, Georgia.”

“Love you, too, Danny.”

Another rustle and then Tony. “I don’t know what that was about, but I don’t think Georgia appreciates how very serious your situation is.”

“Tony, please understand,” she says. “I have to go to Phoenix. I’ll be back in time for the hearing.”

She can almost hear his temperature rise. If he could spit bullets instead of words, she believes he would. “Listen to me, Danielle. You’ve jumped bond. You’re now a wanted felon who is at large. The sheriff’s office is in an uproar. They can tell your monitor isn’t moving. Do you think that just because they’re from Iowa, they’re stupid? All your son had to do was turn on his damned cell phone.”

She hears him take a deep breath. A moment passes. “All I care about is what happens to you and Max. And unless you show up at the hearing in the morning, they’re going to get a warrant to search your apartment. When they find out you’re
missing, they’re going to scope out the Des Moines airport and slap you in cuffs the minute you walk up the jetway.”

She is terrified. “What did you tell them?”

“That you’re sick in bed.” His voice is curt. “That you’re so seriously ill that you haven’t moved for forty-eight hours. That I’m planning to produce a doctor’s affidavit to that effect if the judge asks for it. That the damned bracelet is acting up again.”

“Tony, I truly am sorry, but we’re onto something here. Marianne—”

“Forget Marianne,” he says. “You’re a lawyer—act like one. So what if she blackmailed some old man she was screwing? So what if she falsified some records? We’re talking about murder here, Danielle, not monetary felonies. We’re talking about you standing there with the bloody comb in your purse—with Max covered in Jonas’s blood!”

Danielle presses the phone closer to her ear and uses her most persuasive voice. “But I am certain that she was involved in Jonas’s murder.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s a liar and an extortionist,” she says. “Because she submitted false information to ensure that Jonas was admitted to Maitland when it was completely unnecessary.”

“You’re grabbing at straws, Danielle,” he says wearily. “I’m trying to help you—to save Max, dammit—and you’re doing everything you can to screw it up.”

“Tony, please listen to me,” she says. “I hope you know how much I…care for you.”

“And I for you,” he says sadly. “But we can’t go anywhere if you keep this up. Listen, the whole deal with Fastow has split wide open. He did it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we finally have a real suspect—other than
Max.” His voice is firm. “You can stop this wild-goose chase and trying to pin the murder on the mother, which doesn’t wash, anyway, as you would realize if you weren’t so scared and could look at the evidence clearly.” He pauses a moment. She hears the rustle of papers. “Smythe’s toxicology report is back. So is Max’s blood sample and the chemical breakdown of the pills.”

Danielle’s heart races. “What do they say?”

“You were on the right track,” he says. “Fastow’s dismissal from the Viennese hospital was hushed up. He had developed a psychotropic ‘wonder drug’ which, while amazing in many respects, also had terrible side effects. It seems that Fastow was suspected of falsifying data during clinical trials, but apparently the hospital couldn’t prove it and so they fired him. When Fastow figured out that he was busted, he probably threatened to sue them for breach of his employment contract, knowing that they couldn’t prove anything. It looks like they gave him a good reference just to get him out of there.

“Anyway, it’s pretty clear that Fastow has been hell-bent on making a name for himself for some time. Max found out that he has close ties with a certain Swiss pharmaceutical company to patent a new drug. That kid—he’s amazing.”

The blue capsules flash in her mind’s eye. “What kind of drug?”

Another rustle of papers. “Smythe’s final report and the toxicology results we’ve got concur. The labs don’t have a clue what the chemicals are in Max’s blood. They’ve been sent off to a specialty lab in New York for further analysis. No one knows what this stuff is.”

She closes her eyes. “Max,” she whispers. Her eyes fly open. “Tony, you’ve got to get a T.R.O. against Fastow and Maitland. Max is still in there taking that medication—except for what he’s been able to hide under his tongue and flush
away. They’ve got to be stopped. God knows how many other patients he’s poisoned.”

“My plan, which you’d know if you’d been here, is to put Fastow and Smythe on the stand tomorrow and move immediately for a T.R.O. on Max’s behalf. That’ll be the quickest way to have the court grant it,” he says. “I’m tracking down the patent lawyer on the medication so I can subpoena his records. I probably won’t get them in time for the hearing, but we’ll get them, all right.” He pauses. “Where exactly are you?”

Danielle looks outside. The traffic is now moving. “We’re about ten minutes away from O’Hare.”

“On your way back.” His words do not form a question.

She is silent. Danielle can’t deny his logic. Still…

“Sweetheart.” The word is awkward, but somehow feels right. “Please. You know I’m right.”

Her heart leaps at his endearment, but her head takes over. “I’m sorry, Tony. I know what I’m doing seems preposterous in light of the risks. But I have to follow up on this lead about Marianne.”

“They’re gonna lock you up and eat the key,” mutters Doaks.

An exasperated noise comes through the receiver. “We’ll reassess our defense once Fastow testifies.”

Danielle looks at Doaks. She can tell that Sevillas convinced him of this path before he handed her the phone. He shrugs.

She pauses for a moment. “All right,” she says slowly. “I’ll come back. But you have to promise me you’ll file that T.R.O. for Max first thing in the morning.”

“Done.”

“And that Doaks will leave when the hearing is over and go straight to Phoenix.”

“Fine.”

Danielle sighs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Safe home.”

She rings off and hands the cell phone back to Doaks.

He shoots her a look. “What he’s sayin’ makes sense, ya know.”

She doesn’t answer. The cabdriver finally enters the ramp and pulls up to the curb. She and Doaks grab their bags, pay the fare and get in line. Doaks rummages around in his pocket and pulls out his ticket. “We got a few minutes. I’m gonna hit the head.”

“Go on,” she says. “Give me your bag. I’ll check in and meet you at the gate. Could you get me a cup of coffee on the way back?”

“Sure, sure,” he grumbles. “I’ll mop the floors while I’m at it.”

She takes his overnight bag and watches him walk away. As soon as he is out of sight, she yanks out her laptop and checks her e-mail. The confirmation is there. She grabs both bags and heads for the opposite end of the terminal, where she has booked a flight to Phoenix, Arizona.

Danielle looks out of her window seat. The flight from Chicago to Phoenix will give her an opportunity to at least try to think calmly about what she is going to do. She is not ignorant of the gravity of her situation. Tony is absolutely correct. He has taken a seemingly hopeless murder case and developed a viable suspect. He will put that suspect on the stand tomorrow and most likely glean even more information helpful to an otherwise lame defense. He will advocate strenuously, and most likely persuasively, for her bond to remain intact.

She, on the other hand, has gone nuts, possibly destroying every brick he has laid in place on her behalf. She is a loose cannon who has committed felony after felony in direct contravention of his sound advice. And why?

Because she knows that, as the State’s star witness, Marianne will crucify Max when she takes the stand. She will be enormously sympathetic as a perfect mother shattered by her autistic son’s brutal murder. Her tearful recounting of Max’s violent behavior will go uncontroverted. Danielle has to find something—anything—to impeach her.

If not, Danielle is terrified that the jury, with the Court’s blessing, will have no choice but to convict Max. Given that, she must pursue all leads, no matter how far-fetched. Just one thread, if followed painstakingly, could provide that evidence. And right now that thread is Phoenix. If Tony weren’t so
worried about her own legal situation, she knows he would agree.

After Chicago, she knows that Marianne is a con artist and an extortionist, but Jojanovich won’t testify against her. Yet a strange, strong instinct tells her that Marianne must have conned others. Perhaps she is even a suspect in other crimes. Danielle has to go where Marianne lives, think as she thinks, and tear her place apart if she has to.

She also doesn’t believe that Fastow would kill Jonas and Max—at Maitland, no less—to conceal the fact that he was using experimental drugs on his patients. His only plausible motivation would be to avoid detection, and Tony’s theory that he killed to accomplish that end, no matter how well crafted, is painfully thin. It strains credulity that brutally murdering one of his patients would lessen suspicion of him. The opposite is true. The bodies would be autopsied, and the blood analyzed. All roads would lead to him. And although a bastard, Fastow is no fool.

Another reason Danielle is convinced that going to Phoenix now is the right thing to do is that she will still get back to Plano in time for the hearing. If the 5:00 a.m. flight to Des Moines is on time and the moon and planets are properly aligned, she will make it to the courthouse well before the preliminary motions are argued. Before the sheriff gets his search warrant.

She shakes her head at the stewardess. A lifeless sandwich of stale bread, limp lettuce and salt-riddled luncheon meat is not what she needs. She points at a small bottle of gin. Rocks, no tonic. Dutch courage, isn’t that what they call it? Thankfully, she has the entire row of seats to herself. She pulls Doaks’s overnight bag from under the seat and roots through it. She knows the damned thing is in there.

Danielle extracts a worn golf shirt, a wrinkled pair of
khakis, socks, underwear, assorted lint and detritus. She piles it all on the seat next to her and peers into the bag. Empty.
Damn.
He must have it on him. He said he never goes anywhere without it. He told her with pride that he had a police buddy of his build a special lead tube around the instrument, which fitted neatly into the frame of his carry-on. If only she can find it. She spies four zippers and yanks on each one, inspecting the exteriors of the black round frame pieces that hold the bag together. There is nothing until she gets to the last one. She slides it open. Inside is a cylindrical leather case. She takes it out, opens it and smiles at the strange instrument. It looks like a small metal toothbrush with a little ball on one end. Certainly nothing that would alert security. She puts everything back into the bag, reinserts the tool into the round piece of black framing and slides it shut. The warmth of the gin floods her. It almost makes her believe her plan will work.

She stands on the sidewalk in front of the Desert Bloom Apartments. The dark blue cool of the Arizona night takes her by surprise. She knows that in the daylight, the low humidity would evaporate her sweat before it forms on her skin. Now, though, she shivers—not from the night—but in preparation for yet another performance. And another felony. She tousles her hair, picks up her bags and walks toward the mud-colored adobe kiosk that stands between her and the entrance. This place is nothing like the house Doaks described in Chicago. Behind the gate, elaborate fountains spill over volcanic rock and into intricate botanical gardens. The apartments seem to be newly constructed, tri-level townhomes, each with its own yard and pool.

She stops in front of the kiosk and puts down her bags. She taps on the window, which slides to reveal a young man in a
stiff, blue uniform. On the pocket of his jacket is a name tag. “Brett” gives her an uncertain look. “Can I help you?”

Danielle tries to look weary and world-worn. “Morrison, Marianne Morrison.”

“Uh, just a minute.” He pulls out a laminated sheet. His index finger leaves a sweaty smear in its wake as it stops somewhere near the end of the list. He looks up. “What unit?”

She gazes skyward and sighs. “Four-one-one. Look, would you buzz me through? It’s almost one in the morning and I just got in from the airport after a very long flight from New York. All I want to do is get into my house, feed my cat and go to bed.”

He pores over the list. “I’m sorry, but I’m new here. Chuck is sick—”

“Well, Chuck most assuredly knows who I am.” She points at the gate. “Now, let me in. I don’t have time for this. I have two hip replacements tomorrow morning, and if I get into the O.R. even half an hour late, it’ll throw off my schedule for the rest of the day.”

He stares at her. “You’re a doctor?”

She groans. “No, I’m a yardman. Now, are you going to let me in?”

“Do you have some ID?”

“Good God.” She drops her bags and pulls furiously on the zipper of her purse. She yanks out her cell phone and flips it open. “What is your last name, Brett?”

He turns white. “Oh, hey, what are you doing?”

“Calling management,” she says calmly. “Once Carl Mortenson hears that you’ve kept me waiting—”

He holds up his hand. His voice shakes. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I told you. I’m just doing Chuck a favor.” A buzzing sound comes from the door on the side of the gate. “Go on in, Dr. Morrison. Sorry about the confusion.”

She picks up her bags, wheels around and marches through the gate. She kicks it closed behind her. She doesn’t look back.

The antique grandfather clock that stands on the plush carpet of the lobby entrance bongs. By the time it has stopped, Danielle’s heart has almost stopped with it. She takes a few steps into the hall. It is deserted. On the wall is a framed, colored map of the complex, complete with unit lots and numbers. Danielle winds her way around the communal areas until she locates Marianne’s unit. She hides her bags in a concrete niche. The front door is solid and locked. No surprise there.

She swings open the teak gate and enters the backyard. The pool glistens in the desert moonlight as small waves lap against its concrete lips. She tiptoes to the back door. Luck has found her once more. She stands in front of a large, glass door. Her reflection stares at her. She reaches into Doaks’s bag and removes the small, leather case. She pulls out the four-inch glass cutter. In the dark, she can’t make out how to use it. She curses and fumbles in her purse until she finds her key ring. On the end is a tiny flashlight. She presses the button and illuminates the tool. The name Fletcher appears on the thin metal shaft. On the toothbrush end, she finally spies it—an impossibly small wheel. That must be how it works. Just like pizza.

She turns her attention back to the glass door. With the aid of the narrow beam from her key ring, she estimates the path the tool is to take. She presses the pizza wheel against the glass—harder than she thought she would have to—and scores a neat square directly next to the handle of the sliding door. She’s not really sure how to do the next part, but she’ll have to wing it. Further examination of the bottom of Doaks’s
bag reveals a modest red rubber suction cup. She licks its bitter edges and affixes it to the section of glass she has scored. After a silent prayer that there is no burglar alarm, Danielle flips the instrument in her hand and, using the golden ball on its end, lightly taps the glass. As she hoped, the tap breaks the tensile strength of the glass at the point of fracture.

She puts the glass cutter back into the secret hiding place in Doaks’s bag and pulls gently on the suction cup. The glass comes out in one piece. She spies a large flowerpot outside by the pool. She puts the glass underneath it and tosses the suction cup into her purse. With trembling hands, she unlatches the switch and slides open the door.

An unbearable stench stops her dead in her tracks. She covers her nose as she tries to locate the source, but it takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She feels her way to a floor lamp and slides the switch until an eerie halogen glow fills the room. She moves cautiously forward.

“Hey, you!” A loud voice comes from somewhere outside by the pool. Danielle freezes and then moves swiftly across the room and down the hall. She crouches in front of what looks like a spare room. She spies a closet, ready to provide temporary shelter if need be. The odor she smelled when she first entered the house is horrific here.

“Come on, Barry, we don’t have all night!” The voice sounds like it is two feet away. She stands very still, her back against the wall.

“I’m in the water, asshole,” shouts another voice.

“You sure they’re not here?”

“Nah, been gone for weeks.”

Danielle slips into the living room and peers, unseen, from the side of the sliding door. Teenagers. She sees the blurred outline of two nude boys in the dimly lit pool. She feels her breath come a bit more slowly. She reaches out, unobserved,
and locks the latch on the door. After a few moments, she returns to the spare room, draws the curtains, and turns on a desk lamp, which sends out a slim halo of yellow light. A computer and monitor are on the table.

Wedged into the opposite corner is a wooden desk. Odd green lights shine dully from a bookcase onto the desktop. They make a strange, buzzing noise. The table is completely covered with small plastic disks and glass containers of varying shapes and colors. She leans over them and sniffs. The foul odor does not emanate from them. Danielle flicks on her tiny flashlight and passes it slowly over each item. Petri dishes nestle against one another, a neat white label affixed to each. Angry puffs of mold in all shades of the color wheel fill each container to bursting—as if what is inside wants out. She comes closer.
Stachybotrys atra. Aspergillus. Fusarium. Claviceps purpurea.

“Oh, my God,” she whispers.

It looks like a Level 4 lab at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. She flashes the light around and finds a large sky-blue binder. It is very heavy. Inside, detailed charts and logs fill hundreds of pages. The sections are tabbed with more strange names.
Aflatoxins. Ergotism. Mycotoxins.
Danielle shuts the book and searches the rest of the room. All she finds is a stack of bills. Nothing else—no postcards, no personal correspondence, nothing that reveals any more about Marianne or Jonas than she knew before she left for Chicago. What can she bring back to Sevillas and the judge? Evidence that Marianne does odd scientific experiments in her guest room? Maybe she has a research job in a lab and does part of her work at home. Whatever it is, it doesn’t spell murder.

She turns off the lamp and feels her way into another room. The curtains are drawn here as well. It has the stale, unused odor of an abandoned space. She turns on a table lamp. Mari
anne’s bedroom. The king-size bed has a lace coverlet that is barely visible under a sea of pillows that suffocate the bed. Everything is covered in a cloying, flowered fabric. The room overflows with knickknacks. China dolls crowd tables and fill bookcases. The curtains bloom from the window in strangled floral patterns of soft pink and vibrant red. Out of place amid the
Southern Home
décor are wooden bookcases crammed with thick medical and pharmaceutical texts.

A perfunctory inventory of Marianne’s closet reveals nothing unusual. She quickly searches the drawers, but her curious fingers find only a plethora of lacy undergarments. In the last drawer, under a pile of garter belts, she finds a tiny key. She searches the room for a jewelry box that might hold its contents. Nothing.

She walks to another room at the end of the hall. It is weakly illuminated by two night-lights. At least here the stench is less horrific. This must be Jonas’s room, although nothing indicates it belongs to a teenager. The bed is neatly made and covered with a cheerful red-and-blue throw. On the wall is an embroidered scene of a small boy kneeling at the feet of his mother, while she sits in a chair with her hand on his head. Underneath, in painstaking cross-stitch, are the somehow ominous words:
Every good boy does fine.
The room has no window. On top of the dresser is one photograph—Marianne holding Jonas as a baby. He is wrapped tightly in a blue blanket. She clutches him to her chest and looks straight into the camera. Her smile stretches beyond pride.

The only other furniture is a small wooden desk that looks as if it were used long ago in an elementary school. It’s marred with pencil gouges. The corners are chewed. Danielle opens the closet door to a neat row of shirts and pants. In plastic cubes on shelves are underwear, socks and shorts—arranged as sternly as the contents of an army footlocker.

Danielle pulls back the bedcovers. A thick metal ring catches her eye. Leather restraining cuffs are tethered to either side. Danielle feels her pulse quicken. She holds one in her hands. The buckles are made of cast metal, heavy and menacing. The leather is lighter and cracked at the point where the cuffs meet the straps that fasten them to the bed. They look worn and weary—beyond broken in.