Fredric Stern - The Endorphin Conspiracy

Geoff sat up abruptly, stared at the envelope containing the information given to him by Suzanne. He would have mailed it, but he didn’t know to whom to send it. Bennington was unavailable, and Lancaster couldn’t be trusted. The contents of the envelope could be Geoff’s ticket to freedom, or his death sentence. He couldn’t let the information fall into the wrong hands.

Geoff bit into his lower lip, drawing blood. The salty taste was strangely reassuring. He looked across the living room, his gaze coming to rest on Kapinsky’s computer. If he couldn’t get through to Bennington at the CIA by phone, what about sending the information by e-mail? It was worth a try.

Geoff sat down at the desk, flipped the power switch on, booted the old Dell computer. The welcome screen appeared after what seemed like an eternity, prompting Howard Kapinsky for his password. Damn.

Geoff looked over towards the couch for his fanny pack containing Stefan’s decoding flash drive, then realized he had left it back at his apartment last night. He was on his own.

He closed his eyes, tried to remember Kapinsky’s password at the hospital. He had seen Kapinsky log on the computer to check lab results and remembered it was a strange one. Something to do with food, his favorite food. Geoff tried several. Deli, corned beef, matzo ball. All were negative. Then, an epiphany.

“Knish,” he whispered aloud.

Welcome flashed across the screen. Geoff maneuvered through the internet, found a government directory. There wasn’t much listed under Central Intelligence Agency other than a central clearinghouse. Geoff felt it would be too risky. He couldn’t get it directly to Bennington that way.

What about the FBI? They’d probably sit on it.

Geoff took a deep breath, logged out, turned off the computer. He still had the matter of what to do with the vials. He needed a back-up. There was only one solution. He’d turn himself and all the information he had into the police. Deliver it all on a silver platter to O’Malley, make the captain the hero of the day.

A street-wise, free-spirited cop like O’Malley couldn’t be in with the CIA. He might be on the take, like a lot of cops in New York, but Geoff couldn’t believe O’Malley would take kindly to an order from above, especially one from outside the department, about how to handle an investigation.

There was only one problem. O’Malley was a cop out to solve a murder— several murders —and all the evidence pointed towards Geoff. And it wasn’t just circumstantial. O’Malley had told him as much over the phone. They had his ID covered with Suzanne’s blood, and his gun had been used to murder the security guard. Walter’s body conveniently disappearing would make Geoff’s version of the truth seem like pure fantasy. No, even though he thought O’Malley would listen, he was just a small fry in the NYPD.

The tape of his conversation with Balassi was powerful evidence in Geoff’s favor, but it could easily be made out to be a fake, or simply disappear. There’d be pressure from high up to scapegoat Geoff and cover up anything else.

But at least he’d have half a chance, especially with the files he had from Suzanne and the conversation with Balassi on disk, which was more than he would have trying to run from the CIA. He’d probably be safer in jail.

Geoff picked up the phone and punched in O’Malley’s number.

“This is Captain O’Malley. I’m away from my desk right now. Please leave a message after the tone, or hold and a dispatcher…”

Voice mail. Shit. The tone came. Geoff hesitated, then put down the receiver.

The sound of the phone ringing just about sent him through the roof. His pulse raced. His heart pounded. Someone had discovered him. Trying to send the e-mail had tipped off whoever was monitoring the phone lines that someone was in Kapinsky’s apartment. Goddamnit.

Geoff stared at the phone as it continued ringing. Maybe it was the wrong number. Maybe they were just checking to see if he’d go for the bait, if he was really there. Whatever the case, he had to get the hell out. Now.

Geoff ran to the kitchen, grabbed the two vials of endorphins out of the freezer and placed them in the envelope. He picked up a marker from Kapinsky’s desk and wrote “Confidential—Hand Deliver to Detective Donald O’Malley, NYPD, only,” on the front in thick black letters, underlined the word “only” in red. He folded the envelope in half, tucked it into his running shorts. He was going to deliver it directly to O’Malley himself.

Geoff’s pulse raced and his heart pounded fiercely as he maneuvered through the underpass and headed up the backside of Fort Tryon Park. The shortest route to the precinct house was straight up Fort Washington Avenue from Kapinsky’s apartment to the south, but he would fool them all by coming down out of the park from the north.

It was a scorcher of a day, and Geoff’s side ached sharply, but his legs continued their pace, carrying him ever closer to his destination. The hill was a killer, but he was in great shape and loved the challenge. His breathing was fine. No tightness.

Geoff could see the exit from the park at Cabrini Circle off in the distance, about a hundred yards away. The path looked clear, no one ahead or behind him, no helicopters overhead. No sign he was being followed.

His feet pounded the hot pavement as he kicked up his pace for the final sprint, the last twenty-five yards. Sweat poured off his head, drenching his body. His shirt clung to him like a second skin. Ten yards to go, then he would bolt as fast as his legs could carry him to the stationhouse just a few blocks down from the park. It would all be out of his hands.

Geoff closed in on the exit, picked up his pace, pushed himself to the limit. The exit was wide open, Cabrini Circle just about empty. No blockades. No police cruisers. He gave it all he had, sprinted past the gate out onto the cobblestone street.

The unmarked Ford that struck him from the left side came seemingly from nowhere as he exited Fort Tryon Park onto Cabrini Circle. He felt crushing pain in his left hip as he was flung onto the hood of the speeding car, his bloodied face flattened against the windshield. Their gazes met. Even in his semi-conscious state, Geoff could not mistake the cold-blooded stare of an assassin. The driver slammed on the brakes, throwing him off the hood onto the ground like a limp ragdoll.

Then all was blackness.

The ambulance came to a screeching halt just outside the entrance to Fort Tryon Park at Cabrini Circle. An unmarked grey patrol car had arrived at the scene first and cordoned off the area, plainclothesman kneeling at the side of the victim, making feeble attempts to assess injuries. The paramedics bounded out of their vehicle, equipment in hand, and rushed to the victim lying motionless in a pool of blood on the hot pavement.

“’Bout time you guys got here,” said the cop, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the medics.

“Took three minutes from the time we got the damn call,” shot back Enrique Santos. “What took so long to call it in?”

“Had to shoo away a couple of grave robbers lookin’ for money, jewelry, stuff like that. These animals don’t care there’s someone dyin’ out on the street. Think they’d maybe lend a hand, do somethin’ good-Samaritan-like? No way. It’s a fuckin’ jungle out here. If you find anything on him, bag it and give it to me.”

“Yeah, sure boss. Good thing we got here when we did, or maybe you would’ve robbed him yourself. Now how about gettin’ out of the way so we can save this man’s life?” Santos said, getting down on his knees to get to work. He closed his eyes, crossed himself, then opened his box and grabbed his stethoscope.