Raza shrugged. “My brother came in, that’s all. I had an appointment that night.”
“Your brother? What brother? Nobody else is supposed to be—”
“Don’t sweat it, Marty,” Raza said. “My brother comes in from time to time. He knows what to do. He works at Hilldale Mortuary.”
Marty wiped sweat from his forehead. “Jesus. How long has this been going on?”
“Maybe a year.”
“A year!”
“Only at night, Marty. Late night only. He wears my lab coat, looks like me…We look the same.”
“Wait a minute,” Marty said. “Who gave that girl the blood sample? That girl Lisa Weller.”
“Okay,” Raza said. “So sometimes he makes mistakes.”
“And sometimes he works afternoons?”
“Only Sundays, Marty. If I have appointments, is all.”
Marty gripped the edge of the desk to steady himself. He leaned over and breathed deeply. “Some fucking guy who doesn’t even work for the hospital gave unauthorized blood to a woman because she asked for it? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Not some fucking guy. My brother.”
“Jesus.”
“He said she was cute.”
“That explains everything.”
“Come on, Marty,” Raza said, in a soothing tone. “I’m sorry about the Weller guy, I really am, but anybody could have made the switch. Fucking cemetery could have dug him up and taken the long bones. Gravediggers working as independent contractors could have done it. You know it happens all over. They got those guys in Phoenix. And the ones in Minnesota. And now Brooklyn.”
“And they’re all in jail now, Raza.”
“Okay,” Raza said. “That’s true. The thing is, I told my brother to do it.”
“You did…”
“Yeah. That particular night, the Weller body came in, we had a stat call for bone, and the Weller guy typed right. So do we fill the order or what? Because you know those bone guys can take their business elsewhere. To them, now means now. Supply or die.”
Marty sighed. “Yeah, when they call stat, you should fill it.”
“Okay, then.”
Marty slid into the chair and began typing at the keyboard himself. “However,” he said, “if you extracted those long bones eight days ago, I don’t see any payment transfer to me.”
“Don’t worry. It’s coming.”
“The check is in the mail?”
“Hey, I forgot. You’ll get your taste.”
“Make sure of it,” Marty said. He turned to go. “And keep your fucking brother out of the hospital from now on. You understand me?”
“Sure, Marty. Sure.”
Marty Roberts went outside to move his car from the emergency space. He backed out and drove to the Doctors Only section of the parking garage. Then he sat in his car for a long time. Thinking about Raza.
You’ll get your taste.
It seemed that Raza was starting to believe that this was his program, and that Marty Roberts worked for him. Raza was handing out the payments. Raza was deciding who should come in to help. Raza was not behaving like an employee; he was starting to behave like he was in charge, and that was dangerous for all sorts of reasons.
Marty had to do something about it.
And he had to do it soon.
Or losing his medical license would be the least of his problems.
CH015
At sunset, the titanium cube that housed BioGen Research shimmered with a blinding red glare, and bathed the adjacent parking lot in a dark orange color. As president Rick Diehl stepped out of the building, he paused to put on his sunglasses, then walked toward his brand-new silver Porsche Carrera SC. He loved this car, which he had bought the week before in celebration of his impending divorce—
“Fuck!”
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
His parking spot was empty. The car was gone.
That bitch!
He didn’t know how she had done it, but he was sure she had taken his car. Probably got her boyfriend to arrange it. After all, the new boyfriend was a car dealer. Moving up from a tennis pro. Bitch!
He stomped back inside. Bradley Gordon, his chief of security, stood in the lobby’s waiting area, leaning over the counter, talking to Lisa, the receptionist. Lisa was cute. That was why Rick had hired her.
“Goddamn it, Brad,” Rick Diehl said. “We need to review security tapes of the parking lot.”
Brad turned. “Why? What is it?”
“Somebody stole my Porsche.”
“No shit,” Brad said. “When did that happen?”
And Rick thought, Wrong guy for this job. It wasn’t the first time he had thought it.
“Let’s check the security tapes, Brad.”
“Yeah, sure, of course,” Brad said. He winked at Lisa, and then headed back through the keycard-swipe door, into a secure area. Rick followed, fuming.
At one of the two desks in the little glass-walled security office, a kid was minutely examining the palm of his left hand. He ignored the bank of monitors before him.
“Jason,” Brad said, in a warning tone, “Mr. Diehl is here.”
“Oh shit.” The kid snapped upright in the chair. “Sorry. Got a rash. I didn’t know if—”
“Mr. Diehl wants to review the security cameras. Which cameras are they exactly, Mr. Diehl?”
Oh Jesus. Rick said, “The parking lot cameras.”
“The parking lot, right. Jason, let’s start forty-eight hours back, and—”
“I drove the car to work this morning,” Diehl said.
“Right, what time was that?”
“I got here at seven.”
“Right. Jason, let’s go back to seven this morning.”
The kid shifted in his chair. “Uh, Mr. Gordon, the parking lot cameras are out.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Brad turned to Rick. “The parking lot cameras are out.”
“Why?”
“Not sure. We think there’s a cable problem.”
“How long have they been out?”
“Well—”
“Two months,” the kid said.
“Two months!”
Brad said, “We had to order parts.”
“What parts?”
“From Germany.”
“What parts?”
“I’d have to look it up.”
The kid said, “We can still use the roof cameras.”
“Well, then show me the roof cameras,” Diehl said.
“Right. Jason, bring up the roof