Miracle Cure
“I heard you’d been rushed in,” she continued. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks,” he said.
“Good,” she replied. “Since I knew you were both here, I thought I’d stop by personally to deliver the news.”
Michael sat up. His lips felt dry. He tried to wet them with his tongue, but there was no moisture there either. “News?” he asked.
“Yes. I have the results of Sara’s test.”
“And?” Sara prompted.
Carol Simpson stuck out her hand. “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”
Sara’s hands fluttered toward her mouth. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. About two months, I’d say.”
Sara turned toward Michael. “Did you hear that, hon?”
Michael nodded, not yet able to speak. “Forgive me, Doctor,” he managed. “It’s just . . .”
“No need to apologize. It’s nice to see.”
Sara wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, smothering him against her chest.
“Well,” Dr. Simpson said, “I have to be going back. Sara, I want you to stop by and see me tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.”
Michael pulled away. “Thanks, Doc.”
“Take care of yourself, Michael. Congratulations again.”
She left them alone.
Michael smiled. “Do I have to start calling you Mommy soon?”
She nodded. “And I get to call you Dad.”
“Even in bed?”
“No. There I can still call you by your name.”
“Hung Stallion?”
“Dream on.”
“God, I can’t believe it. We’re going to be parents, Sara. You, me, and baby makes three.”
They kissed.
“I love you, Michael.”
“I love you too,” he said, rubbing her still-firm stomach. “Both of you.”
As they kissed again, the phone rang. Michael reluctantly reached over, picked up the receiver, and said hello. After a brief pause he handed it to Sara.
“It’s for you,” he said.
“Who is it?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Sara put the phone to her ear. A nasal, female voice said, “Please hold while I connect you.”
There was one ring before the phone was picked up.
“Sara?”
“Max?”
“Jeez, you weren’t easy to find. Took me over an hour to track you down. How’ve you been?”
“Never better.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She could almost see him chewing on his nails as he spoke. “This isn’t a social call, is it, Max?”
“No, it’s not.”
“So what’s up?”
Max Bernstein let go a long breath. “Bradley Jenkins was murdered. I need to talk to you right away.”
THEY met half an hour later in a quiet corner in the hospital cafeteria. After a quick greeting Max said, “Everything we say here is confidential and off the record, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Let me ask you something right off the top.”
“Go ahead,” Sara said.
“Was Bradley Jenkins gay?”
“Yes.”
Max had expected that answer. He nodded, his curly dark hair swaying with the movement. He put a fresh pencil into his mouth and began to chew. Then he crossed his right leg over his left, ran his hand through his curls, put his feet back on the floor, and then crossed his left leg over his right.
Bernstein was thirty-two years old, but he looked a good five years younger. Sara knew the police department—for that matter the world at large—considered Twitch Bernstein a bit of an enigma. Despite being homicide’s number one lieutenant, he had no love of danger. He hated carrying a gun and had never used one in the line of duty. He was barely adequate with his fists, did not consider himself particularly brave, and tried to avoid violence whenever possible.
What he did like, however, was solving puzzles—the bigger, the better. And he was good at it. Damn good. No one knew for sure just how he did it, but Bernstein had the rare ability to plod and putter and shift and unnerve and fidget his way to the answer.
“My turn to ask a question,” Sara said. “What happened to Bradley and why did you want to know if he was gay?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Max . . .”
“Just trying to keep things light,” Bernstein said. “We found his body this morning behind a gay bar in the Village.”
“Jesus.”
“The autopsy is not in yet, but we’re sure he died from multiple stab wounds. We think . . . Sara, are you all right?”
Sara’s eyes were wide, her face shockingly pale. “Have there been other murders?” she uttered.
“What makes you say that?”
“Don’t play with me, Max.”
“We may have a serial killer on our hands,” he said. “I wasn’t involved in the investigation of the first two cases, but two other men were killed in the same grisly way. We suspect that the same person committed all three murders.”
“And why did you ask if Bradley was gay?”
“Because the other two victims were. The killer may be targeting the gay community. Now it’s my turn. How did you know that there were other victims?”
“I assume you’ve met Dr. Harvey Riker,” she began.
“Sure.”
“You know that he is operating an AIDS clinic in here?”
He shrugged. “So?”
“The first two victims—what were their names?”
“Bill Whitherson and Scott Trian.”
“Right. They were part of a select group of AIDS patients who were being treated in this clinic. It should be in your files.”
Bernstein’s leg began to shake. “To be honest I haven’t had a chance to go through them thoroughly yet. I just got the case an hour ago.”
“Anyway, Harvey told me about it last night. That’s how I knew.”
“An obvious question—was Bradley being treated here too?”
Sara lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a sip. “I don’t know,” she said. “You’ll have to ask Harvey.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Just what I said.”
“Did Bradley have AIDS?”
“It can’t leave this room,” Sara said.
“It won’t.”