Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

“Because of Nelson’s book?” Bruce asked.

“That, and now a sample has gone missing. All he has to do is snap his fingers and the E3 disappears. No one will know about it. The staff has no idea what the drug is anyway. The patients will die but that’s what they’re supposed to do. Their poor families will be relieved. No one will ask questions.”

She glanced at her watch and seemed surprised that she had been there for almost two hours. “I need to go. My friends will be waiting. Can I make a suggestion?” She was opening her large purse. She withdrew two small boxes.

“These are cheap phones, burners, bought ’em at a Walmart in Houston. Let’s use them only for each other, okay?”

“Sure,” Bruce said. “When shall we talk again?”

“Soon. The walls are closing in and I want to get away from these people.”

She stood and everyone shook hands. Bruce escorted her to the door, closed it behind her, then fell onto the sofa. He rubbed his eyes, then closed them and threw an arm across his forehead. Noelle found a bottle of water in the minibar and poured two glasses.

She finally asked, “Do you ask yourself why you’re doing this? Couldn’t we just as easily go home and close this little chapter, let the police down there do their thing, or not, and just forget about Nelson? Why are we expected to solve the murder? As you like to say—he ain’t your brother.”

“Only about five times a day.” He sat up and said, “Look, Noelle, I don’t have to tell you that this is not sustainable. I can’t live with one eye in the rearview mirror. Can you believe that we’re going about our routines with the belief that someone is listening to our phone calls and reading our emails? I’m just not cut out for this. I’m tired of losing sleep and sick of worrying about who killed Nelson.”

“Can you walk away?”

“Of course not. I’m his literary executor and his novel will be published next year. I’ll be dealing with that and his backlist for years.”

“I get that. But no one appointed you as his private detective.”

“True, and it was a mistake to hire that firm in D.C. and get so involved.”

“But it’s done. So what’s next?”

“We’re going to D.C.”

11.

They left the Lowell in a cab headed for Penn Station, not LaGuardia. Their two seats on the flight would go unoccupied. Instead, they took the Acela Express and three hours later rolled into Washington’s Union Station where they hopped in a cab for the long haul to Dulles. Near the airport, they walked into the unmarked building just after 1:00 p.m. and Lindsey Wheat was waiting. Elaine Shelby joined them and they gathered in a conference room and kept things polite. Less than three weeks earlier, Bruce had stormed out of the building with Nick in tow.

Bruce handed over a document and said, “This is your termination letter, which I did not sign.”

“Excellent,” Lindsey said with a generous smile. “Nice to keep you as a client.”

“Maybe. We need some help, and of course you have been paid in full.”

“Indeed we have.”

“One rather significant condition. You do not ‘infiltrate’ or organize any other scheme to collect information without first notifying me. This is not negotiable.”

Lindsey looked at Elaine, then looked at Bruce. “We don’t usually make this concession because it can handcuff us later. You see, Bruce, we don’t always know exactly where the truth might take us. We have to be flexible and we often are forced to adapt on the fly.”

“You also get people hurt. Brittany being one. Three years ago you came within minutes of getting Mercer hurt, or worse. You make me this promise or I’m leaving. Again.”

Elaine said, “Okay, okay. You have our word.”

Everyone took a deep breath, then Bruce plowed on. “We have met the informant, and the informant has confirmed everything we suspected about Nelson, about Grattin, and about its use of Flaxacill, or E3. Nelson’s math was close—about two hundred million a year for the past twenty years. They desperately want to stop the publication of Pulse, and they murdered Nelson. And Brittany Bolton.”

Lindsey nodded along as if this was what she expected. “Okay, tell us the story.”

12.

When he finished, Elaine said, “You insist on referring to the informant as ‘the informant.’ Meaning that you don’t want to reveal his or her gender. But if he was a man, you’d have no problem referring to him simply as he. Therefore, the informant is obviously a woman.” She smiled at Lindsey who smiled back. Aren’t we smart.

Noelle was thinking the same.

Bruce said, “Okay, it’s a woman, and she’s Ken Reed’s former executive assistant who’s now his third wife. She knows a lot. But because she’s married to the guy, she is not willing to blow the whistle. She is also scared. You cannot reveal her identity until I say so.”

Noelle said, “She thinks there’s an urgency here. The company could simply stop using the drug and no one would ever know the difference.”

“You didn’t hire us to bust the company. You hired us to find Nelson’s killer, right?” Lindsey asked.

“Right.”

Elaine said, “The question is: Does one lead to the other? We can’t answer that, but we do have a very rough plan, one we put together before the, uh, termination.”

Bruce asked, “You wanna share it with us?”

“It involves going to the FBI,” Lindsey said.

Elaine said, “We have contacts in high places within the Bureau, and if we can convince them of an epic Medicare fraud, we think they’ll take it and run, especially with a factual background as unique as this.”

“They’ll love it,” Lindsey said. “I need to make three phone calls.”

Elaine glanced at her watch and said, “I’m starving. Have you had lunch?”

“No. Good idea,” Bruce replied.

Lindsey was on her feet, waving them away. “Go eat. Bring me a sandwich. I’ll make the calls.”

13.

On Lindsey’s recommendation, they spent the night at the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania. The following morning was a perfect spring day, a Friday, and they had been gone for an entire week that they had not planned on spending away from home. They walked five blocks to the main entrance of the Hoover Building and met Elaine and Lindsey. Just inside the door, they were scanned, photographed, ID’d, and told to pose in front of a tiny camera to record their facial features. Once cleared, they were met by two serious young women who escorted them to a conference room on the third floor.

“And who are we meeting with?” Lindsey asked one of the ladies.

“Mr. Dellinger.” She closed the door as she left.

Bruce and Noelle had no idea who Dellinger was, but Lindsey and Elaine certainly did. Lindsey said, “Impressive, the Deputy Director.”

Within minutes, Dellinger swept in with a SWAT team of five assistants, all in matching black suits, black shoes, white shirts, and a variety of bland ties. Rapid introductions were made and all names forgotten in a blur. Dellinger swept his arm at the table and everyone had a seat. A secretary served coffee as Elaine and Dellinger talked about old friends at the Bureau back in the day. As soon as the secretary left and the door was closed, he looked directly at Bruce and said, “First of all, Mr. Cable, thank you for coming forward. I’m sorry about your friend, Nelson Kerr.” It was a pleasant thing to hear, even if it was completely devoid of any warmth or emotion.

Dellinger looked to his right and nodded at Mr. Parkhill, who lifted some paperwork and plunged right in. “I’d also like to say thanks. This appears to be an historic Medicare fraud, and we would not have known about it but for you.”