“I know,” Porkchop agrees. “Just know that I let myself down too.”
The elevator opens with a ding. Barlow’s assistant, Mrs. Tansmore, greets him as he comes into the office. Porkchop, decked out in full biker garb, winks at her and kisses her hand. You can’t get away with this anymore. But Porkchop can. Mrs. Tansmore blushes.
“They call me Porkchop,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Porkchop,” Mrs. Tansmore says.
“I bet Doc Barlow never told you he used to be in a motorcycle gang.”
“No, he never did.”
“We used to say Barlow set the Bar Low, if you catch my drift.”
She doesn’t. Pinky frowns and shakes his head at Porkchop. Then Pinky raises both his hands. One is a fist. The other is two fingers. This is signaling 0–2, meaning that between the “you’ll need a better doctor” line and the “Bar Low” pun, Porkchop is one strike away from being out.
Porkchop nods. “Fair.”
Porkchop follows Barlow into his office. Pinky stays out with Mrs. Tansmore and guards the door. No one in, no one out.
“What do you want?” Barlow snaps.
Porkchop frowns. “Can we skip this part?”
“Skip what part?”
“The part where you pretend you don’t know I’m here about Maggie.”
Barlow nods. “There’s nothing for me to tell you,” he says.
“You hired her for a job.”
“Do you understand what HIPAA violations are?”
“I do.”
“Do you understand patient confidentiality?”
“Again: I do. So who hired her?”
“If she wants to tell you—”
“She’s in Russia. She’s in trouble.”
Barlow blinks. “What makes you think she’s in trouble?”
“Four days ago, you travel down to Baltimore. You tell Maggie you have some big reason to see her. She comes up to New York. You two meet. Suddenly debts are paid. Lawsuits are settled. She gets on a private plane at Teterboro. She ends up in Russia. I get it. It’s some kind of surgical concierge service. Off the books. I don’t know whether it’s all legal or not, and I don’t much care.”
“I’m not going to confirm or deny—”
“Don’t make me punch you again, Evan.”
“Look,” Barlow says. “She’s safe. She’s fine.”
“I have reason to believe otherwise,” Porkchop says. “But you can allay my fears. Call the client. Get Maggie on the phone.”
“I can’t do that.”
“She’s in trouble, Evan.”
“How can you know that?”
“Call the client. Say there’s an emergency at home, that I have to talk to her.”
“How can you know something’s wrong?”
“Tell them you need to speak to her for a moment. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“You do know I care very much about Maggie,” Barlow says. “That she was a prized and beloved student. That I was very close to her mother.”
“Yeah, I know all that,” Porkchop says.
“Do you really think I’d do something to put her in harm’s way?”
“If you did...” Porkchop stops. “Wait, I don’t want to come up with another arch threat. So let me state this plainly. If you did indeed put Maggie in harm’s way, I’m going to kill you. Not sure how. I may throw you through that window. I may strangle you to death. I don’t know. I don’t care. I lost my son. You know that, right?”
“Of course.”
“I’m not losing Maggie. Do you hear me?”
Barlow nods. “We’re on the same side here.”
“Good. Then call. I want to hear her voice.”
Barlow heads over to his desk and sits down. Porkchop takes the chair across from him. Barlow opens his phone and checks phone numbers. He puts speakerphone on and calls one. No answer. He calls another. The same.
On the third number, a voice answers with one word. “What?”
Porkchop jolts up. He recognizes the voice. It’s the guy who was in the car with Maggie.
“It’s Evan Barlow,” Barlow says.
“Yes, I know. My phone has caller ID. What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak with Doctor McCabe for a moment.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
“She can’t come to the phone right now. Don’t call back.”
The call disconnects. Porkchop has Barlow try again. No reply. One more time, the same. Porkchop says, “Tell me everything.”
Barlow stands up and starts pacing. “Why are you so sure something is wrong?”
“Someone destroyed her phone.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“I don’t want to waste time explaining this to you. Tell me what you know.”
“It’s not that complicated. Or uncommon. It’s like you said. Über-rich people come to me. They want the best, and they want full discretion. I’ve traveled on my own a few times. A Saudi prince once. A rich man in Brunei. They fly you in on private jets. They pay you a fortune. It’s all off the books.”
Porkchop nods for him to continue.
“I’m sorry about your son. I met Marc several times. He was a brilliant surgeon. And I know, well, when he and Maggie were together, you could feel the connection, you know what I mean?”
Porkchop gives him nothing.
“So when Maggie lost him and then her license... I wanted to help. She’s a brilliant surgeon too. You probably know that. I figured this was a good opportunity. They wanted the best plastic surgeon money could buy. Maggie needed money and wanted to get back in the game somehow.”
“What kind of surgery?”
“Cosmetic. There would be two patients, so at least two surgeries. The client’s mistress would be getting breast augmentation. And the client himself wanted some facial work. I don’t know the specifics.”
“Who was the client?”
Barlow shakes his head.
“What?” Porkchop says.
“I don’t know who the client is.”
“How can you not know?”
“That’s part of the discretion. They all have middlemen.”
“That was the middleman on the phone?”
“Yes. He calls himself Ivan Brovski. I doubt it’s his real name. He’s the one who contacted me. He’s the one who spoke to Maggie.”
“And you don’t know who he works for?”
“Right.”
“So before you send a doctor overseas like this, you don’t vet the client?”
Barlow says nothing.
“Then how can you know if they are legit?”
“None of them are ‘legit,’” Barlow half snaps. “That’s sort of the point. How did I vet him? A million dollars was deposited for me in an overseas account. Just for taking the meeting. That’s the vetting. I got another million dollars when Maggie agreed to take the job.”
“So they pay you that kind of money to, what, find a top-notch doctor who will work discreetly?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what happened here?”
Silence.
“Evan?”
“No. This case was a little different.”
Porkchop doesn’t like the way Barlow is starting to squirm. “Different how?”
“Like you said, most of the über rich, they trust me to find them excellent medical care in the most discreet manner possible. That’s how it works — and it works well for all. It’s in all our interests to keep this as clandestine as possible. I’m sure you understand.”
“So what was different this time?”
Barlow opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “I was going to suggest a surgeon,” he says. “A man I’ve worked with before. He’s an excellent physician right here in New York City.”
“And they didn’t want this guy?”
“No. They wanted Maggie McCabe.”
“They asked for her specifically.”
“Yes.”
“So you weren’t the one who recommended Maggie to them?”