“What’s in it?”
“Bound ledgers, papers and correspondence. That type of stuff. There were no drugs, if that’s what you were wondering.”
“No,” Jason said, “that’s not what I was wondering. But I’m glad you called. The books might be important. I’d like to see them.”
“Okay.” Carol said. “I’ll be at the club tonight. I’ll have to think of some way to get them to you. My boss is giving me a lot of trouble about protection. Something weird is going on, which they won’t tell me about, but I’m stuck with this goon following me around. I’d just as soon not involve you in that.”
“Maybe I could come and pick it up?”
“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea. I’ll tell you what. If you give me your number, I’ll call when I get home tonight.”
Jason gave her the number. “One other thing,” Carol said. “Last night I realized there was something else I didn’t tell you. About a month ago, Alvin said he was going to break up with Helene. He said he wanted her to concentrate on their work.”
“Do you think he told her?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Helene hasn’t shown up for work today.”
“No kidding!” Carol said. “That’s strange. From what I’d heard, she was compulsive. about work. Maybe she’s the reason my boss is acting so crazy.”
“How would your boss know about Helene Brennquivist?”
“He has a great informational network. He knows what’s going on in the whole city.”
Hanging up, Jason pondered the confusing inconsistencies between Carol’s job and her intellectual sophistication. “Informational network” was a computer-age term — unexpected from an exotic dancer.
Going back to his patients, Jason studiously avoided Claudia’s questioning gaze. He knew she was overwhelmingly curious, but he wasn’t about to give her any satisfaction.
Toward the very end of the afternoon, Dr. Jerome Washington, a burly black physician who specialized in gastrointestinal disorders, interrupted Jason, asking for a quick consult.
“Sure,” Jason said, taking him back to his office.
“Roger Wanamaker suggested I speak to you about this case.” He took a bulky chart from under his arm and put it on the desk. “A few more like this and I’m going into the aluminum siding business.”
Jason opened the chart. The patient was male, sixty years old.
“I did a physical on Mr. Lamborn twenty-three days ago,” Jerome said. “The guy was a little overweight, but aren’t we all? Otherwise I thought he was okay and told him so. Then, a week ago, he comes in looking like death warmed over. He’d dropped twenty pounds. I put him in the hospital, thinking he had a malignancy I’d missed. I gave him every test in the book. Nothing. Then three days ago he died. I put a lot of pressure on the family for an autopsy. And what did it show?”
“No malignancy.”
“Right,” Jerome said. “No malignancy — but every organ he had was totally degenerated. I told Roger and he said to see you, that you’d commiserate.”
“Well, I’ve had some similar problems,” Jason said. “So has Roger. To be truthful, I’m worried we’re on the brink of some unknown medical disaster.”
“What are we going to do?” Jerome asked. “I can’t take too much of this kind of emotional abuse.”
“I agree. With all the deaths I’ve had lately, I’ve been thinking of changing professions too. And I don’t understand why we’re not picking up symptoms on our physicals. I told Roger I’d call a meeting next week, but now I think we can’t afford to wait.” An image of Hayes’s blood pumping over the dinner table flashed through Jason’s mind. “Let’s get together tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have Claudia set it up, and I’ll tell the secretaries to put together a list of all the physicals we’ve done over the last year and see what’s happened to the patients.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jerome said. “Cases like this don’t do much for a man’s confidence.”
After Jerome left, Jason went out to the central desk to make plans for the staff conference. He knew that a few people would have to put in some overtime, and he thanked providence for providing computers. There were a few groans when he explained what was needed, including rebooking all the afternoon patients, but Claudia took it on herself to be the ringleader. Jason was confident things would get done as well as the short time would permit.
At five-thirty, after seeing his last patient, Jason tried Helene’s home number. Still no answer. Impulsively, he decided to stop by her apartment on his way home. He looked at the address he’d gotten from personnel and noted she lived in Cambridge on Concord Avenue. Then he recognized the address. It was the Craigie Arms apartment building.
What a coincidence, he thought. Before meeting Danielle he’d dated a girl at the Craigie Arms.
Descending to his car, Jason headed over to Cambridge. The traffic was terrible, but thanks to his familiarity with the area he had no trouble locating the address. He parked his car and went into the familiar lobby. Scanning the names, he found Brennquivist and pressed the buzzer. There was always the outside chance Helene wasn’t picking up her phone, but would respond to the door. There was no answer. Jason looked at the tenant list, but Lucy Hagen’s name was gone. After all, it had been fifteen years.
Instead, he reached for the super’s buzzer and pressed it. A small speaker above the door buzzers crackled to life, and the gruff voice of Mr. Gratz grated out into the tiled foyer.
“There’s no soliciting.”
Jason quickly identified himself, admitting that Mr. Gratz might not remember him since it had been a few years. He said he was concerned about a colleague who was a tenant. Mr. Gratz didn’t say anything, but the door buzzed open. Jason had to run a few steps to get it. Inside, Jason confronted the unmistakable odor, which he’d remembered for fifteen years. It was the smell of grilled onions. A metal door opened down the tiled hall and Mr. Gratz appeared dressed, as always, in a tank-top undershirt and soiled jeans. He sported a two-day growth of beard. He studied Jason’s face, demanded his name again, then asked, “Didn’t you used to date the Hagen girl in 2-J?”
Jason was impressed. The man certainly wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but he apparently had a memory like a steel trap. Jason had gotten to know him because Lucy had chronic problems with her drains and Larry Gratz was in and out of her apartment.
“What can I do for you?” Larry asked.
Jason explained that Helene Brennquivist hadn’t shown up for work and wasn’t answering her phone. Jason said he was worried.
“I can’t let you in her apartment.”
“Oh, I understand,” Jason said. “I just want to make sure everything is okay.”
Gratz regarded him for a moment, grunted, then started toward the elevator. He pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket that looked adequate enough to open half the doors in Cambridge. They rode the elevator without speaking.
Helene’s apartment was at the end of a long hall. Even before they got to the door; they could hear loud rock and roll.
“Sounds like she’s having a party,” Gratz said. He rang the bell for a full minute, but there was no response. Gratz put his ear to the door and rang again. “Can’t even hear the door chimes,” he said. “Wonder no one’s complained about the music.”
Lifting a hairy fist, he pounded on the door. Finally he selected a key and turned the lock. As the door opened, the volume of the music increased dramatically. “Shit,” Gratz said. Then he yelled, “Hello!” There was no answer.
The apartment had a small foyer with an arched opening to the left, but even from where he stood Jason recognized the unmistakable smell of death. He started to speak, but Gratz stopped him.