“I like the way your mind works, counselor. A courthouse rat like Caisse wouldn’t dream of spending a day down here for an arraignment, followed by visits to his clients, then a week for a trial.”
A courthouse rat was a lawyer whose real office was the district court’s front patio, since all courthouse rats smoked like chimneys and used butt time to prep their clients. Their hours coincided with the metal-detector guards’-first to enter, last to leave. “Hamper has been down for visits with this pair since the arraignment?”
“Interesting question. Know what I did after I learned Hamper was still listed as handling this mess?”
Marcus found his chest tightening. “You checked the prison visitors’ log.”
“You’re not looking for a job, are you?”
“I’d never be able to keep up with you, ma’am.”
She laughed. “Apparently Hamper Caisse is beating a path between Raleigh and the coast. You man’s been down here eight times in the past six weeks. What’s more, Hamper’s only seen one of the guys six of those times.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Your mental lightbulbs just went off. I can hear it happening. Just popping on everywhere.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“You kidding? I’ve got me two bad guys with sheets long enough to wrap them up like shrouds. You don’t think I’d like to find something to bury them?”
“Calling Hamper directly won’t work,” Marcus said. Courthouse rats had mobile phone usage down to an exact science. They never answered their calls. Never. They checked messages, thus giving themselves an out when cornered. “And it might be Halloween before he actually visits his office again.”
“So?”
“Call Judge Rachel Sears. Family court. Third floor of the district courthouse. Tell her exactly what we’re facing here. Then see if she’ll order Hamper to meet us in Wilmington.”
“I am liking this conversation,” the DA said, “more and more.”
“Ask her to do so with a minimum amount of nicety. We want this guy to show up parboiled,” Marcus suggested. “Oh, and one more thing. Ask Judge Sears if she would not tell Hamper it’s me. We might be able to use that as leverage.”
“I get the impression you already know why this Raleigh hotshot is taking the trouble to drive down and handle the case of two punks on a burglary charge.”
“I don’t know, but I can guess.”
“Guess away.”
“It wasn’t robbery.”
“I’m listening.”
“And they’re not his client.”
“Then who is?”
“That is exactly,” Marcus replied, “what I want to ask them myself.”
CHAPTER 48
Finding a doctor who would meet with Kirsten at short notice required going back to the hotel and asking the receptionist for help. When she said she wanted to meet urgently with an oncologist, the concierge looked bereaved. An hour later, she was seated in the swank outer office of a Park Avenue specialist. The nurse was polite but firm in requesting an up-front payment. The doctor’s waiting area was done in suede and steel, with a pink coral coffee table and framed Picasso etchings. A half hour later Kirsten was seated in his office-same artwork, more valuable antique furniture. Nothing to suggest it was a doctor’s office except for the books on the shelves behind his rosewood desk. That and the vague clinical odor from somewhere farther along the dreaded corridors.
“Ms. Stansted?” He was young-old and tall in the way of men who bowed over slightly to accommodate themselves to a shorter world. “Jay Walsh. I understand this is something of an emergency.”
“I’m actually here for information,” she said. “About a friend’s condition.”
“An acquaintance.”
“That’s right.”
“Is this acquaintance a patient of mine?”
“I hope not.”
He slid into his high-backed leather chair. “And you are?”
“Working on a legal case.”
“I don’t do court work, Ms. Stansted.”
“This is a preliminary interview for background information only.”
He had the lean look of a dedicated athlete. But no healthy regime could erase the smeared strain of watching patients die. “Your friend has cancer?”
“He does.”
“What form?”
“Leukemia. CML.”
He had the good grace to grimace. “I assume he has gone through the traditional treatments.”
“Yes.”
“And they have not been successful.” It was not a question.
“No.”
“Do you know his blood type?”
“Only that it is rare.”
“Has he had bone marrow transplants?”
“Twice. They failed.”
“Does he have a living blood relative?”
“No. Why is that such a problem?”
“For reasons that still are not absolutely clear, marrow from a blood relative is far less subject to rejection.”
She read the unspoken from his expression. “But there are problems.”
“Putting it into the patient is not difficult. It is not inserted into the marrow, but rather into the blood. Eventually, if previous treatments have eradicated all the diseased marrow, this new substance will take over production of white blood cells and replenish the bones with new healthy marrow.” He struck his leg with a tight fist. “But drawing the marrow from living bone is a very difficult procedure, and not without risk. The needle has to have a bore large enough to extract a substance with the consistency of cold molasses. We must thrust this probe right through the arm or leg, and punch deep into the bone.”
She spoke with extreme care. “What if the only blood relative is an infant?”
“How old?”
“Sixteen months.”
“Is that what your case is about?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“This is an ongoing issue. Personally, I wouldn’t subject an infant to this for love or money. We have no idea what effect this procedure might have on a child’s development. What if it retarded growth in that limb?”
“But another doctor might be willing?”
“Nobody I’d associate with.” His voice and features had both turned to flint. “Are we done here?”
“What if the patient does not have a blood relative?”
“Then I would urge you to begin making arrangements.”
Kirsten rose to her feet. “Thank you for your time.”
But the doctor was not finished. “Without further delay.”
Kirsten called Marcus from the doctor’s waiting room. Or tried to. But he was either out of range or had his mobile shut off. She left a terse message, her words strained through the awareness of patients pretending not to listen. Their features bore the same shadows as the doctor’s. Suddenly she could think of nothing nicer than being out and away.
She walked down Park Avenue taking deep draughts of the city’s air. She tasted the diesel fumes like the elixir of life. She relished the sirens and the horns and the jostling crowds and the muggy overcast heat. Question: What would a vain and blindly conceited man do, given the fact that his life depended upon it? Answer: Anything and everything he could.
When the phone cheeped at her, she felt such a rush over the prospect of talking to Marcus again it embarrassed her. Kirsten walked down a side street and up a trio of stone stairs, then turned toward the wall in an effort to find as much privacy as midday uptown Manhattan could provide. “Marcus?”
“Ms. Stansted?”
“Yes?”
“This is Kurt Luft. Calling you from Düsseldorf.”
The fact that there could be only one reason for the German detective to call her did nothing to cut away her disappointment. “Yes, Mr. Luft.”
“I have been contacted by the former housemaid to Ms. Erin Brandt. She is a very stubborn woman, Ms. Stansted. Very difficult.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing. She refuses to speak unless she can personally deliver the message.” The detective sounded genuinely irate at the disorderly process. “Wait, I am putting her on the line.”