Miracle Cure (Page 84)
“I care about you too.”
Jennifer hung up the phone, afraid of what more might be said. Then she picked up the white envelope marked “Susan” and stared at it for a very long time.
20
SARA’S mind churned in confusion and anger as her fingers dialed the Eighty-third Street Precinct.
“Police department.”
“Lieutenant Max Bernstein, please?”
“Yeah, hold on a sec.”
Her father. Stephen Jenkins. Raymond Markey. And Ernest Sanders. An unholy alliance who had done . . .
. . . what exactly?
She could not say for sure. And what should she do now? How should she follow it up? She was not sure. She knew that she needed to do something, anything, before she lost her mind completely. Max would know. He would have a good idea what their next step should be.
Sara had considered confronting Sanders and Markey head-on, but in the end she had decided against it. If the sons of bitches had denied any wrongdoing to their own coconspirators, they were certainly not going to tell her anything new—more likely, she would either warn them of impending danger or, worse, scare them into doing something catastrophic.
The sergeant manning the desk came back on the line. “Sorry, lady,” he said. “Lieutenant Bernstein is not around.”
“Can you page him for me?” Sara asked. “It’s important.”
“No can do. He is on official police business and cannot be reached.”
Cannot be reached? “Do you know where he is?”
“Can’t say, ma’am. I’m not at liberty to discuss his whereabouts.”
“But I need to reach him.”
“That’s just not possible right now. If you would like to leave a message, I am sure Lieutenant Bernstein will be calling in.”
Sara scratched her head. Where could Max be that he could not be paged on his beeper? “Please ask him to call Sara Lowell immediately. Tell him it’s important. If I am not at home, he can reach me at the clinic.”
“At the clinic. Okay, Ms. Lowell, will do.”
“Thank you.” She replaced the receiver and considered her next move.
NARITA Airport.
Max gladly disembarked the Japan Airlines’ Boeing 747-300 that had carried him nonstop from New York to Tokyo for the past fourteen hours, checked the departure screens, discovered that his connecting flight was leaving from a nearby gate, and walked toward it. To be fair, the flight had been comfortable; in fact, the on-board service had been second to none. It was just that being trapped in any metallic tube 30,000 feet above the earth for fourteen hours had a way of wearing on a person—even if they did show two movies and serve three meals.
As Max walked through the terminal, he glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows and saw a dozen or so JAL Boeing 747-300s lined up by their respective gates. Each plane had a boarding tunnel running from airport to aircraft like some gigantic umbilical cord that would have to be cut before the plane could be set free.
Max was not as tired as most of his fellow passengers. Though his mind had whirled with thoughts of how to free Michael, he had managed to sleep a good six hours. He checked his watch and realized that he still had about an hour before his connecting flight took off for Bangkok, the exotic capital of Thailand. Just as well. He had some important things to do in the meantime.
He followed the yellow sign that read “Overseas Telephone,” conversed with the operator for a moment, then went into a small booth and lifted the receiver. Within seconds the call was connected. One ring later the phone was picked up.
“Hello?”
Sara’s voice came in a nervous half shout. It was late in New York, almost two in the morning, but Sara Lowell sounded very much awake. That did not surprise him. He debated what he was going to say and decided to be as vague as humanly possible.
“Sara?”
“Max? Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been indisposed.”
“Where are you?”
“In Tokyo.”
“What?”
“Well, technically speaking, I’m not in Tokyo. I’m at Narita Airport. That’s about an hour and a half from downtown Tokyo—”
“I don’t need a geography lesson,” she interrupted. “What are you doing in Tokyo?”
Max began to wrap the phone cord around his arm. “I’m on my way to Bangkok.”
A small pause. “Why?”
“Something has come up.”
“Involving Michael?”
Vague, Max. Don’t want to get her hopes up. “Maybe. Look, I don’t know what it means. I’m just tracking down a lead.”
“What kind of lead?”
“Stop playing reporter. I don’t have the time. I’ll call you if anything happens.”
“How long will you be gone?”
A good question. “I hope to be coming home right away. Anything new?”
“A lot.”
“I’m listening.”
Sara recounted her conversation with her father and Senator Jenkins. Max listened in silence. He wrapped the telephone cord around his mouth now and gnawed. Tasted rubbery. The Japanese woman in the next booth frowned at him. Max smiled apologetically and let the wire fall loose.
When Sara finished, Max told her about his conversation with Winston O’Connor.
“Now we know how they were getting all that inside information,” Sara said.
“I guess so,” he said. “But there is still a lot that doesn’t make sense.”
“Like what?”
“Like why would Sanders do it? What does Sanders gain from the murders?”
“He wipes out the evidence,” Sara replied. “No cured patients, no cure.”
Max shook his head. “There have to be easier ways than going through all this Gay Slasher stuff. Like your father says, the press from the Gay Slasher has strengthened the clinic. More donations, more media support—even Markey couldn’t close them down anymore.”
“So what do you make of it?” she asked.
He thought. He thought about the murder victims. He thought about the AIDS clinic. He thought about the Washington conspiracy and Winston O’Connor’s connection to it. He thought about the Gay Slasher. He thought about George Camron holding Michael in some whorehouse. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I better go now. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
He replaced the receiver before Sara could protest, walked into the airport pharmacy, and purchased a can of shaving cream and a disposable razor. He headed into the bathroom and wet his face. Ten minutes later his mustache was gone.