“Start with Ashanti,” Michael said. “It will give us an idea of what we are up against. Maybe we won’t even have to go into the Shapiro if we can somehow prove they are doing unethical drug testing.”
Lynn nodded and quickly typed in Ashanti Davis in the search window and hit ENTER. Both students were optimistic and both were disappointed when a message popped up saying there was no file for Ashanti Davis.
Undeterred, Lynn retyped the name and added Shapiro Institute. Immediately a window appeared but not the file they’d hoped for. Within the window it said: ACCESS DENIED! SEE IT ADMINISTRATION.
“Shit!” Lynn said. “I guess Shapiro records can only be accessed on Shapiro terminals.”
“Mothafuckas!” Michael said.
“I was so psyched,” Lynn said, making fists with both hands.
“Well, that’s that,” Michael said. He rolled his chair back and went to the door. Carefully he cracked it, peered out, then opened it farther to get a better view. “The coast is still clear,” he called back to Lynn. “Let’s jet our asses out of here while we still can.”
“Okay,” Lynn said. “But just a second.” She was busy typing. A moment later the printer next to her sprang to life and kicked out several pages. Lynn logged out, grabbed the papers, and joined Michael at the door.
“Let’s run,” Michael said.
A few minutes later, as they were abreast of the Pathology Department, they passed a rather large man who’d come out of the elevator, carrying a take-out bag from the cafeteria. When they got onto the elevator Michael said: “That guy looked like Vladimir’s twin. Must be the guy holding down the IT fort. Damn Russians are taking over.”
“That reminds me,” Lynn said, checking her watch. “You have company coming.”
“No problem,” Michael said. “I’ve been watching the time. What did you print out?”
“I didn’t want our visit to be a complete wash. I looked up the percentage of patients being discharged from the Mason-Dixon Medical Center with a diagnosis of a gammopathy that was discovered while they were in the hospital.”
“That’s all?”
“No! I also queried about the incidence of multiple myeloma.”
“What did you learn?”
“One percent of people being discharged have a paraprotein abnormality that was discovered during their stay.”
“That seems way high,” Michael said.
“Seems high to me, too, but I’m going to have to find out what the incidence is in the United States in general. I think it’s in that article we read about gammopathy, but I don’t remember what it was.”
“What about multiple myeloma? What percentage of patients being discharged have multiple myeloma?”
“That’s point one percent.”
“Point one percent of people being discharged have multiple myeloma?” Michael asked with surprise. “That seems way high, too.”
“I know. It can’t be right,” Lynn said. “Like with gammopathy, I’m going to have to look up the incidence in this country. It’s not a common cancer; at least I don’t think it is.”
They took the stairs to get up to the first floor, then crossed over the pedestrian bridge to the deserted clinic building.
“I found out something interesting while you were in the neuro ICU,” Lynn said. She told Michael about the call to Tim Cooper and that she could probably get detailed plans for the institute from the Charleston Building Commission.
“Cool,” Michael said. He was impressed with her resourcefulness but didn’t want to encourage her. He was still hoping she’d change her mind.
“I’m going to stop in tomorrow morning on my way here to the hospital,” Lynn said as they exited into the courtyard gardens. It was a balmy spring night.
“You’re going back to Carl’s tonight?” Michael asked. He was a bit surprised, as it was now going on nine. He could imagine how tired she was.
“I don’t have a choice,” Lynn said. “I promised to feed Carl’s cat. I had told Frank Giordano I’d take care of the poor thing.”
“As late as it is, why not call Frank and renege? He lives down there, South of Broad. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. This is no time for you to be out riding your bike.”
“I’m not riding my bike. It’s not even here. I left it at Carl’s and drove his Cherokee this morning.”
“So I have to party with our Russian buddy by myself?”
“I could stay if you want,” Lynn said. “And then go.”
“No need,” Michael said. “If you are going to Carl’s, you should do it sooner rather than later. Are you sure you want to stay again in that big house by yourself?”
“It will make me feel closer to him,” Lynn said. She stopped walking and looked over at the Shapiro Institute. “God! It pains me no end to think of Carl in there.” Once again her voice caught.
Michael put his arm around her and pulled her toward him to give her a reassuring hug. “Try not to think about it now. We’ll figure it out. We’ll make sure that he is being cared for appropriately and not being used as a test object. I promise!”
“Thank you, bro,” Lynn managed.
33.
Tuesday, April 7, 9:52 P.M.
Darko and Leonid tossed the shovels into the back of the van. Leonid added the pickax they had shared. Both pulled off their gloves and coveralls and tossed them in, on top of the tools. They were in a deeply wooded area with Spanish moss hanging like festoons from all the trees. Both the men were fatigued and perspiring profusely from the rapid, nonstop work. There had been no conversation between them to slow them down. Nearby was a dismal swamp, and the creatures of the night were making a racket. Mosquitoes had made their job all the more difficult.
They had scouted the location six months earlier for just this kind of job. They wanted an unpopulated place so as not to attract any attention and with earth firm yet soft enough to dig a grave. It also had to be accessible by a passable dirt road. They had found it about twenty-five miles due west from the Charleston International Airport, on the grounds of an abandoned farm, partially surrounded by extensive wetlands. Although it was only an hour out of Charleston, it could have been on the dark side of the moon.
They had worked with planned dispatch, using the headlights of the vehicle to do it all properly. When they had finished, the plot appeared untouched. They even added some local plant seed. Considering the way things grew at that time of year, they were confident that all traces of their activity would quickly disappear. Satisfied, they had gotten into the van and headed back toward Misha’s, where Wykoff’s car was waiting in the garage to embark on its westward journey.
After a quarter hour, with the van’s air conditioner on at full blast and with several Marlboros smoked, the men started to feel normal enough to begin a conversation. As usual, they spoke in Russian.
“The grave digging went well,” Darko said. He was at the wheel.
“Hardly a challenge,” Leonid said in agreement. “Except for the humidity and the mosquitoes.”
“You remember I have another job tonight,” Darko said.
“I remember, but you didn’t elaborate.”
“I have to threaten a female medical student to get her to mind her own business. She and a friend have been asking too many questions about anesthesia. It’s going to be a pleasure. From the photo Misha got for me from hospital security, she’s a piece of ass.”
Leonid chuckled. “Sounds like a choice assignment. Why not share the wealth?”
“You need to finish up with this Wykoff job. When we get back to Misha’s, you have to drive her car back to her town house and pack a bag and make it look like it was done in haste.”