Maybe so. They tried, but Jennifer could never carry to full term. Perhaps if she had, things might have been different.
Doubtful. Very, very doubtful.
Harvey wondered if Jennifer still kept in touch with Michael. He suspected she did.
“Did you tell Michael—” Eric started to ask.
Harvey interrupted him with a shake of his head. “Not yet. I just wanted to make sure Sara was going to be at the party tonight.”
“Is she?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
Harvey shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. Why when we’re so close—”
“We’re not that close.”
“Not that close?” Eric repeated. “Harvey, look out there. People are alive because of you.”
“Because of this clinic,” Harvey corrected.
“Whatever. When we let the results go public, we’re going to go down in medical history next to Jonas Salk.”
“I’m more worried about the present.”
“But we need the publicity so that we can raise enough money to continue—”
“Enough,” Harvey broke in, glancing at his watch. “Let’s make a quick check of the charts and head over to the lounge.” He smiled tiredly. “I want to watch Sara’s report on Reverend Sanders.”
“No friend of the cause, that one.”
“No,” Harvey agreed. “No friend.”
Eric picked up a photograph from the credenza. “Poor Bruce.”
Harvey nodded but said nothing.
“I hope his death means something,” Eric said. “I hope Bruce didn’t die for nothing.”
Harvey moved toward the door, his head lowered. “So do I, Eric.”
George Camron removed his gray, pin-striped Armani suit, carefully folded the pants at the creases, and placed it on a wooden hanger. He had been forced to burn another Armani two weeks ago, and that upset him very much. Such a waste. He would have to be more careful with his wardrobe. Bloodstained silk suits raised overhead and increased expenses.
George, a very large man, enjoyed the finer things in life. He wore only custom-made suits. He stayed in only the most luxurious hotels. He frequented only the finest gourmet restaurants. His slicked-back hair was styled (not cut, styled) by the world’s most expensive hair designers (not beauticians, designers). He enjoyed manicures and pedicures.
He walked over to the hotel phone, picked up the receiver, and pressed seven.
“Room service,” a voice said. “Is there something we can get you, Mr. Thompson?”
The Ritz always referred to its guests by their names when they called. The personal touch of a very fine hotel. George liked it. Thompson was, of course, his current alias. “Caviar, please. Iranian, not Russian.”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson.”
“And a bottle of Bollinger, 1979. Very cold.”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson.”
George hung up the phone and relaxed on the king-sized bed. He was a long way from his humble beginnings in Wyoming, a long way from his military days in Vietnam, a long way from Thailand, the country he now called home. A wide variety of elegant hotel rooms was George’s home now. The Somerset Maugham suite at the Oriental in Bangkok. The harbor penthouse at the Peninsula in Hong Kong. The corner suite at the Crillon in Paris. The presidential suite at the Hassler in Rome.
George checked his watch, turned on the television with the remote control, and switched to Channel 2. In a few minutes NewsFlash, with Donald Parker and Sara Lowell, would be on. George wanted to watch that show very much.
The phone rang. George picked it up. “Hello.”
“This is—”
“I know who it is,” George interrupted.
“Did you get the last payment?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” the voice replied.
The voice sounded nervous. George was not sure he liked that. Nervous people had a tendency to make mistakes. “Is there something else I can do for you?” he inquired.
“As a matter of fact…”
Another job. Excellent. George had no idea who his employer was, nor did he care. He did not even know if the voice on the other end of the phone was calling the shots or merely a go-between. It did not matter. This was a job where you asked no questions. George did his work, collected his pay, and moved on. Questions were irrelevant.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“The last job I gave you… it went smoothly? There were no problems?”
“You read the papers. What do you think?”
“Yes, well, I just wanted to make sure. You have Dr. Grey’s files?”
“Right here,” George said. “When do you want to arrange a pickup?”
“Soon. Have you been wearing the gloves and a mask like I told you?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing else happened?”
George wondered for a moment if he should tell his employer about the package Bruce Grey had mailed at the airport. But no, it was none of George’s concern. He had been hired to kill the man; make it look like a suicide; grab any files or papers he had on him; cut a page out of his passport; and leave all money, personal effects, and identification untouched. Period. Nothing about mailed packages.
Except, of course, it was his concern. He should never have let Grey mail that package. It was a mistake, George was sure of it, but there had been no way to stop him. He shook his head. Maybe he should have done some more background checking before he signed on for this job. Something about it was not right.
“Nothing else,” George said.
“You sure?”
George cleared his throat. Dr. Bruce Grey had made the job painfully easy. His checking into a high-rise hotel had been a blessing for George; it gave him the license to use whatever means he wished to elicit pain and solicit the suicide note. Any physical trauma inflicted on Dr. Grey would be hidden in the splattered mess on the pavement.
“I’m sure,” George said. “And in the future, don’t make me repeat myself. It’s a waste of time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said something about another job?”
“Yes,” the voice said. “I want you to eliminate another… person.”
“I’m listening.”
“Is someone else with you?”
“No.”
“I hear voices.”
“It’s the television,” George explained. “NewsFlash is about to go on. Sara Lowell’s debut.”
The voice on the phone sounded startled. “Why… why did you say that?”
A strange reaction, George thought. “You asked about the voices,” he replied.
“Oh, right.” The voice tried to steady itself, but the strain was unmistakable. “I want you to eliminate someone else.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“This is very short notice. It will cost you.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“Fine,” George said. “Where?”
“At Dr. John Lowell’s house. He’s having a large charity formal tonight.”
George almost laughed out loud. His eyes swerved back toward the television. Dr. Lowell. Former surgeon general. Sara Lowell’s father. That explained the bizarre reaction. He wondered if Sara would be at the party.
“The same method as the first two?” George asked.
“Yes.”
George took his stiletto out of his pocket, snapped it open, and examined the long, sleek blade. It would be messy, no question about that. He considered his wardrobe and settled on the green Ralph Lauren polo shirt he had picked up in Chicago. It was a little too tight around the shoulders anyway.