Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

"You mean Pramod Singh?"

"Yes, I mean Pramod Singh. Oh, this Ettinger is beautiful, Matt. Just beautiful."

"What do you know about the powder?"

"I don't understand what you're driving at. I don't know anything about the powder."

Again Matt stood to leave.

"Okay, okay," Mallon said, waving Daniels back to his seat. "Where in the hell did Phelps find you anyhow? In some South Chicago junkyard?"

"He underestimated me."

"I'll say. Well, the only thing I know about Ettinger's powder-and that's the truth-is that something very screwy is going on with the money all those chubby people are sending in."

"Go on."

"After you brought up the diet powder thing at Ettinger's deposition, I asked him to tell me everything about it. He didn't, of course, but I really didn't expect him to. Goddamn egomaniac. So I started to do some checking. I put a couple of my sharpest people on it. According to the charts on Ettinger's office wall and the quantity of product rolling out of his shipping operation each day, that powder is taking off like a space shuttle. Ten thousand orders a week now, and rising. Four million bucks a month."

"So?"

"So we can't find the money."

"What?"

"Those TV shows of his are being aired all over the country. But the addresses to send checks to and the phone numbers to call in orders to are different for different areas. There are at least eight of them. L.A., Chicago, Florida, New York. Somehow the orders find their way to Ettinger's place in Hillsborough-you know, Xanadu. But the money's going every which way."

"Explain."

"I'm assuming you're going to accept that partnership offer, Matt."

"It's a safe assumption. Tell me about the money."

"It moves around faster than the pea in a shell game. There's an office in each area-at least eight of 'em. Maybe more. The money gets deposited in one area bank. Then it gets wire-transferred to another. Eventually it ends up in banks in the Caribbean and Europe-maybe a dozen of them. Then it begins to work its way back to Ettinger. But from what we can tell so far, the amount that comes back to him isn't close to the amount that goes out. It's like he's a junior partner in all this. We don't have enough money ourselves to bribe all the bankers we'd have to to sort out how Ettinger or Singh or whoever it is set up this laundry, or where the rest of the money is. But one thing has come to light that has big potential for us. I mean big. In addition to Ettinger's paychecks, the Xanadu Foundation has received extensive support from someone named T.J. McGrath. Maybe a million bucks' worth so far."

"And?"

"And Crunchy Granola General-you know, MCB-has been saved from bankruptcy by a huge grant from something called the McGrath Foundation. Until last week, goddamn Paris guarded the name of that foundation like it was the combination to his family safe. Saturday he's blowing up a building on the hospital grounds and starting construction on a new research facility. He's paying for the whole extravaganza with McGrath Foundation money. Is this coincidence?" really going on, we may be able to put Glenn Paris and his motley crew out of business for good. Do you know what kind of bonus is waiting for us if we can pull this off for Everwell? Can you spell yacht?"

Matt grinned.

"I always was very good at spelling," he said. "Is that all you know about the powder?"

"So far. My people are still working on it. When can I expect to get that signed agreement back?"

"Within the day. I promise."

"Excellent. We're all looking forward to having you on board."

"A most appropriate figure of speech." Matt tried unsuccessfully to think of a way to avoid shaking hands with the man.

"Cheerio," he said to the receptionist as he headed through the art gallery and out to the elevators.

He left the plush office building and had not walked half a block when he came to a grizzled old man pushing a shopping cart full of bulging plastic bags, empty bottles, and other junk.

"G'day," Matt said, handing over a five-dollar bill. "How're you doing?"

"Can't complain, Bucko. Can't complain," the old man said with a broad grin.

He wore a red bandana around his tangled gray hair and had a rolled-up green plastic bag looped around his neck. The bag was tied in a four-in-hand knot that was actually quite passable. In addition to, perhaps, a new tie, he also needed dental care in the worst way.

"What's your name?" Matt asked.

"Siggins," the man said. "Alfie Siggins."

"Well, Mr. Siggins, I have good news for you." He took out Mallon's agreement, crossed off his own name, wrote in Alfie's, and helped him sign it. "See that building over there? Number one hundred? Go on up to the twenty-ninth floor, show the receptionist this contract, and tell her that you are Mr. Mallon's new partner. If the security guard tries to stop you, just show that to him. Sell it back to them if you want. But don't sell it cheap."

"What do I have to lose, Bucko?" Alfie Siggins said.

"You got nothing to lose, Alfie," Matt replied. "Nothing at all. Here, take this ol' rabbit's foot for luck. It's on a roll."

Matt watched until the man and his shopping cart disappeared into number 100 Federal Plaza. Then he headed for the lot where he kept his car. Phelps's tape would be in the hands of the Board of Bar Overseers within a day. Now it was time to let Sarah know that thanks to the plaintiff's expert witness, she was no longer the defendant in a malpractice suit. Then, provided she was not on call, he would beg her to celebrate their victory by going for a walk together, boldly and unabashedly holding hands in public.

Sarah was summoned to Glenn Paris's office, where she was informed that, until further notice, she was no longer a resident physician on the staff of the Medical Center of Boston. The joint executive committee decision did not come as much of a surprise, and she took the news with little emotion. In truth, she was drained almost beyond feeling-beaten by an unknown adversary who had systematically, methodically destroyed her. What few believers she still had at MCB could hardly be expected to stand by her after this latest movement in her carefully orchestrated decimation. Now there was really nowhere for her to go but home. Later she would call Matt. He would understand she had been set up once again… At least he might.

Before going up to clean out her locker, Sarah stopped by the labor and delivery floor to see Annalee. A uniformed private security guard, posted by her door, firmly and not too politely refused to allow her in. She returned to the nurses' station and wrote a note to Annalee reaffirming her innocence, and explaining as best she could what had been done to both of them. She had just finished the note and was searching for an envelope, when one of the nurses handed her one. She was about to thank the woman for the envelope when she realized that DR. SARAH BALDWIN was typed on the front of it.

"A pink lady just dropped this off for you," the nurse said, referring to one of the salmon-jacketed volunteers.

She turned and left before Sarah could voice any acknowledgment.

IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN LEARNING ABOUT RATTLESNAKE POISONING, GO TO ROOM 512 THAYER. I WILL CALL YOU THERE AT EXACTLY SIX P.M. TELL NO ONE ABOUT THIS UNTIL YOU HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY. YOU WERE FRAMED.

The note was neatly typed and unsigned.

Sarah glanced at her watch. Five fifty-five. She folded the note and the one she had written to Annalee, and thrust them both into her pocket. Then she raced through the tunnel to the Thayer Building and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Room 512 was at the very end. It was exactly six when she reached the door. Inside, the phone was ringing. Without knocking, Sarah hurried into the dark room and across to the bedside phone. As she reached it, the door slammed shut behind her. The blackness was immediate and total. Before she could react, a blanket was thrown around her from behind, and she was thrown facefirst onto the bed. She cried out and tried to resist, but the blanket and the weight of her assailant made movement almost impossible.