T. Bunn - Winner Take All

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.”

There was a scratching hiss, then, “You are here now, yes?”

“Goscha? How are you? How is the child?”

“The baby, ah, ah, the baby. Please, you must help her.”

“But the money isn’t ready yet, Goscha. Do you understand about the money?”

“I am overhearing conversations. Bad things are happening, and right now. You must come.”

“Goscha, who is behind the kidnapping?”

“This also I am wondering. I hear Reiner Klatz speak to his wife. You know Klatz?”

“Erin Brandt’s manager.”

“They say ten million dollars is coming.”

Kirsten inspected the cracked stone wall in front of her face, searching for understanding. “They told Dale five. I’m sure of it.”

“Ten million. Herr Klatz, he says something about new instructions. Please, you are helping now, yes?”

The Wilmington district attorney’s office was attached to the police station and city lockup. All were built of the same Carolina brick, with slit windows and an air of grim functionality. The DA’s appearance was a perfect fit to her voice-big-boned and heavy, a shiny black force that cleared everything from her path. She greeted Marcus with, “Hamper Caisse would not be doing a trial of two would-be robbers down in Wilmington. How many cases does he have running at any one time, thirty?”

“More.”

“Call it thirty cases to stay conservative. Even for a DUI he’d be clearing five hundred dollars a pop. Bound to have five or six cases on a decent day.”

“Somebody else is pulling Hamper’s strings,” Marcus agreed. “Did you call the Raleigh courthouse?”

“Just like you suggested. Judge Sears is a fine lady, by the way. Sends you her regards. She heard me out, then brought Hamper into chambers and put me on the speaker phone.” She had a brilliant smile. “I tell you what, that made my day. He hit a high note. Several of them, in fact.”

“Is he coming?”

Wilma Blain ushered him down the hall and into her office. “Made a lot of noise about how we had to put this off. So me and Sears, we struck Hamper with a double whammy. Sears ordered him down, just like we hoped.” She pointed Marcus into a chair. “I told him we were opening the case again, starting from scratch, seeing what else we could hit these guys with. Man didn’t even let me finish. Soon as he realized this was a happening thing, he was up and headed for the door.”