Robin Cook: Chromosome 6

Kevin’s heart skipped a beat. Despite the rain and the mist, he could see what he’d feared he’d see. Just like a week ago there was the unmistakable wisp of smoke lazily undulating toward the leaden sky.

Kevin slumped into his desk chair and cradled his head in his hands. He asked himself what he’d done. Having minored in the Classics as an undergraduate, he knew about Greek myths. Now he questioned if he’d made a Promethean mistake. Smoke meant fire, and he had to wonder if it was the proverbial fire inadvertently stolen from the gods.

6:45 P.M.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

While a cold March wind rattled the storm windows, Taylor Devonshire Cabot reveled in the security and warmth of his walnut-paneled study in his sprawling Manchester-by-the-Sea home north of Boston, Massachusetts. Harriette Livingston Cabot, Taylor’s wife, was in the kitchen supervising the final stages of dinner scheduled to be served at seven-thirty sharp.

On the arm of Taylor’s chair balanced a cut-crystal glass of neat, single-malt whiskey. A fire crackled in the fireplace as Wagner played on the stereo, the volume turned low. In addition there were three, built-in televisions tuned respectively to a local news station, CNN, and ESPN.

Taylor was the picture of contentment. He’d spent a busy but productive day at the world headquarters of GenSys, a relatively new biotechnology firm he’d started eight years previously. The company had constructed a new building along the Charles River in Boston to take advantage of the proximity of both Harvard and MIT for recruitment purposes.

The evening commute had been easier than usual, and Taylor hadn’t had time to finish his scheduled reading. Knowing his employer’s habits, Rodney, his driver, had apologized for getting Taylor home so quickly.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to come up with a significant delay tomorrow night to make up,” Taylor had quipped.

“I’ll do my best,” Rodney had responded.

So Taylor wasn’t listening to the stereo or watching the TVs. Instead he was carefully reading the financial report scheduled to be released at the GenSys stockholders’ meeting scheduled the following week. But that didn’t mean he was unaware of what was going on around him. He was very much aware of the sound of the wind, the sputtering of the fire, the music, and alert to the various reporters’ banters on the TVs. So when the name Carlo Franconi was mentioned, Taylor’s head snapped up.

The first thing Taylor did was lift the remote and turn up the sound of the central television. It was the local news on the CBS affiliate. The anchors were Jack Williams and Liz Walker. Jack Williams had mentioned the name Carlo Franconi, and was going on to say that the station had obtained a videotape of the killing of this known Mafia figure who had some association with Boston crime families.

“This tape is quite graphic,” Jack warned. “Parental discretion is recommended. You might remember that a few days ago we reported that the ailing Franconi had disappeared after his indictment, and many had feared he’d jumped bail. But then he’d just reappeared yesterday with the news that he’d struck a deal with the New York City’s DA’s office to plea-bargain and enter the witness-protection program. However, this evening while emerging from a favorite restaurant, the indicted racketeer was fatally shot.”

Taylor was transfixed as he watched an amateur video of an overweight man emerge from a restaurant accompanied by several people who looked like policemen. With a casual wave, the man acknowledged the crowd who’d assembled and then headed to an awaiting limousine. He assiduously ignored questions from any journalists angling to get close to him. Just as he was bending to enter the car, Franconi’s body jerked, and he staggered backward with his hand clasping the base of his neck. As he fell to his right, his body jerked again before hitting the ground. The men who’d accompanied him had drawn their guns and were frantically turning in all directions. The pursuing journalists had all hit the deck.

“Whoa!” Jack commented. “What a scene! Sort’a reminds me of the killing of Lee Harvey Oswald. So much for police protection.”

“I wonder what effect this will have on future similar witnesses?” Liz asked.

“Not good, I’m sure,” Jack said.

Taylor’s eyes immediately switched to CNN, which was at that moment about to show the same video. He watched the sequence again. It made him wince. At the end of the tape, CNN went live to a reporter outside the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York.

“The question now is whether there were one or two assailants,” the reporter said over the sound of the traffic on First Avenue. “It’s our impression that Franconi was shot twice. The police are understandably chagrined over this episode and have refused to speculate or offer any information whatsoever. We do know that an autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning, and we assume that ballistics will answer the question.”

Taylor turned down the sound on the television, then picked up his drink. Walking to the window, he gazed out at the angry, dark sea. Franconi’s death could mean trouble. He looked at his watch. It was almost midnight in West Africa.

Snatching up the phone, Taylor called the operator at GenSys and told him he wanted to speak with Kevin Marshall immediately.

Replacing the receiver, Taylor returned his gaze out the window. He’d never felt completely comfortable about this project although financially it was looking very profitable. He wondered if he should stop it. The phone interrupted his thoughts.

Picking the receiver back up, Taylor was told that Mr. Marshall was available. After some static Kevin’s sleepy voice crackled over the line.

“Is this really Taylor Cabot?” Kevin asked.

“Do you remember a Carlo Franconi?” Taylor demanded, ignoring Kevin’s question.

“Of course,” Kevin said.

“He’s been murdered this afternoon,” Taylor said. “There’s an autopsy scheduled for the morning in New York City. What I want to know is, could that be a problem?”

There was a moment of silence. Taylor was about to question whether the connection had been broken when Kevin spoke up.

“Yes, it could be a problem,” Kevin said.

“Someone could figure out everything from an autopsy?”

“It’s possible,” Kevin said. “I wouldn’t say probable, but it is possible.”

“I don’t like possible,” Taylor said. He disconnected from Kevin and called the operator back at GenSys. Taylor said he wanted to speak immediately to Dr. Raymond Lyons. He emphasized that it was an emergency.

NEW YORK CITY

“Excuse me,” the waiter whispered. He’d approached Dr. Lyons from the left side, having waited for a break in the conversation the doctor was engaged in with his young, blond assistant and current lover, Darlene Poison. Between his gracefully graying hair and conservative apparel, the good doctor looked like the quintessential, soap-opera physician. He was in his early fifties, tall, tanned, and enviably slender with refined, patrician good looks.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” the waiter continued. “But there is an emergency call for you. Can I offer you our cordless phone or would you prefer to use the phone in the hall?”

Raymond’s blue eyes darted back and forth between Darlene’s affable but bland face and the considerate waiter whose impeccable demeanor reflected Aureole’s 26 service rating in Zagat’s restaurant guide. Raymond did not look happy.

“Perhaps I should tell them you are not available,” the waiter suggested.

“No, I’ll take the cordless,” Raymond said. He couldn’t imagine who could be calling him on an emergency basis. Raymond had not been practicing medicine since he’d lost his medical license after having been convicted of a major Medicare scam he’d been carrying on for a dozen years.