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.M., on campus, he never left, was sitting in an out-of-the-way spot, under a tree.He'd been there for a long time, just sitting, won't say why.He refuses to talk to me at all.I did manage to get him back on the plane, brought him back to L.A.He's missing all kinds of exams, but I don't give a goddamn about that.I'd like you to see him.Please.""Does Stacy know about this?""I knew you'd be concerned about sibling rivalry, or whatever, so I asked her if you could see Eric and she said sure—if you want to verify that, I'll get her on another line." Voice straining—a man racing against something inexorable."No, that's all right, Richard," I said."Have you had Eric examined medically?"Page 205"No, there wasn't a scratch on him.It's his psychological status I'm worried about.Let's do it sooner rather than later, okay? This isn't Eric.He's always been the— Never lost his productivity.Whatever the hell's going on, I don't like it.When should we set it up?""Bring him by this afternoon.But please have a physician check him out first.Just to make sure we're not missing something."Silence."Sure.Whatever you say.Are there any particular tests you want?""Check for head trauma, fever, acute infection.""Fine, fine—what time?""Let's plan on four.""That's nearly four hours from now.""If the doctor finishes sooner, call me.I'll stay close.Where's Eric now?""Right here, in my office.I've got him in the conference room.One of my girls is keeping him company.""He hasn't said anything since you found him?""Not a word, just sitting there—this is so damn neurotic, but I can't help thinking this is what Joanne did.The way she started.Pulling away.""When you touch Eric or move him, how's his muscle tone?"Page 206"Fine, it's not like he's catatonic or anything.He looks me in the eye, I can tell he's all there.He just won't talk to me.Shutting me out.I don't like this one damn bit.One more thing: I don't want Stanford to know about this, see him as damaged goods.The only one who knows so far is that Chinese kid, the roommate, and I let him know it would be in all our interests to keep this close to the vest."Click.Milo entered the room.Before he reached the desk, another detective pulled a sheet out of the fax machine and handed it to him."Look at this," he said, bringing it over."Further communication from Agent Fusco.Persistent little civil servant, ain't he?"He placed the fax on the desk.Reprint of a news item, dated fifteen months earlier, datelined Buffalo, New York.Doctor Suspected in Attempted MurderAn emergency room physician who allegedly laced the drink of a former supervisor with poison is being sought by police.Michael Ferris Burke, 38, is suspected of concocting a lethal combination of toxic materials in an attempt to murder Selwyn Ra-binowitz, chairman of the Department of Emergency Medicine at Unitas Critical Care Center in Rochester.Burke had recently been placed on suspension by Rabinowitz due to "questionable medical practices" and had made veiled threats to his superior.Rabinowitz drank one sip of the doctored coffee and grew ill almost immediately.Suspicion fell on Burke because of the threats and due to the fact that the suspended doctor had left town.Several syringes and vials were recovered from a locker in the physicians' lounge at Unitas, but police refuse to say if they belonged to Burke.Rabinowitz remains hospitalized in stable condition.Below the article, a few lines of neat, upright handwriting: Page 207Detective Sturgis:You might want to know more about this.Lem Fusco"So what's he saying?" said Milo."This has something to do with Mate?""Burke," I said."Why's that name familiar?""Hell if I know.I'm getting to the point where everything sounds familiar."I gave the clipping another read.Something came into focus."Where's the material I pulled off the Internet?"He opened a drawer, searched for a while, pulled out more papers, produced the printouts.I found what I was looking for right away."Here you go.Another upstate New York story.Rochester.Roger Sharveneau, the respiratory tech who confessed to poisoning ICU patients, then recanted.Months later, he claimed to have been under the influence of a Dr.Burke, whom no one had ever seen.No sign anyone followed up on that, probably because Sharveneau's pattern of confessing and recanting led them to believe he'd made it all up.But this Dr.Burke was working in Buffalo, sixty, seventy miles away, and getting into mischief.Poison mischief, and Sharveneau died of an overdose."Milo exhaled."Okay," he said."I give in.S.A.Fusco gets his meeting.Want to come?""If it's soon," I said."I've got an appointment at four.""Appointment for what?"Page 208"What they sent me to school for.""Oh yeah, you do that occasionally, don't you." He punched the number Fusco'd listed on the fax, got through, listened."Taped message," he said."Hey, personalized for me.If I'm interested, meet him at Mort's Deli on Wilshire and Wellesley in Santa Monica.He'll be the one with the boring tie.""What time?""He didn't specify.He knew I'd call after I got the fax, is confident I'll show up.I just love being played." He put on his jacket."What key? "I said."D minor.As in detective.As in dumb.But why the hell not, the deli's not far from those squats in Venice.How about you?""I'll take my own car.""Sure," he said."That's how it starts.Soon you'll be wanting your own dish and spoon."CHAPTER 19Page 209THE EXTERIOR OF Mort's Deli was a single cloudy window over a swath of brown board below red-painted letters proclaiming lunch for $5.99.The interior was all yellows and scarlets, narrow black leatherette booths, wallpaper that looked inspired by parrot plumage, the uneasily coexisting odors of fried fish, pickle brine and overripe potatoes.Leimert Fusco was easy to spot, with or without neckwear.The only other patron was an ancient woman up in front spooning soup into a palsying mouth.The FBI man was three booths back.The tie was gray tweed—same fabric and shade as his sport coat, as if the jacket had given birth to a nursing pup."Welcome," he said, pointing to the sandwich on his plate."The brisket's not bad for L.A." In his fifties, the same gravel voice."Where's the brisket better?" said Milo.Fusco smiled, showed lots of gum.His teeth were huge, equine, white as hotel sheeting.Short, bristly white hair rode low on his brow.Long, heavily wrinkled face, aggressive jaw, big bulbous nose.The tail end of his fifties.The saddest brown eyes I'd ever seen, nearly hidden by crepey folds.He had broad shoulders and wide hands.Seated, he gave the impression of bulk and frustrated movement."Meaning, where am I from?" he said."Most recently Quantico.Before that, all kinds of places.I learned about brisket in New York—where else? Spent five years at the main Manhattan office.Those qualifications good enough for you to sit down?"Milo slid into the booth and I followed.Fusco looked me over."Dr.Delaware? Excellent.My doctorate's not in clinical.Personality theory." He twisted the tweed tie [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]