Robin Cook - Vector

“Really?” Jack questioned. “I’d assumed you had. Nevertheless, as a favor to you, since we hold each other in such high esteem, I’m calling you rather than rushing down and informing Dr. Harold Bingham.”

“I appreciate that,” Randolph managed.

“Of course there is a practical aspect,” Jack said. “Connie Davydov is a Brooklyn case. I would assume you’d like to get the body back as soon as possible. I’ll also leave in your capable hands the chore of alerting the proper authorities.”

“Of course,” Randolph said. “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Jack said, thoroughly enjoying himself. “It’s nice to know we can help each other out on occasion.”

Jack disconnected. He couldn’t suppress a broad smile. Revenge had been sweet. It had been easy to tell just how much Randolph had been squirming.

Next, Jack put in a call to Warren. Jack briefly explained what he’d found concerning Connie and asked for Flash’s work number. It took Warren a few minutes, but he found it and gave it to Jack.

Flash worked at a moving and storage company, and it took a few minutes for him to be located. When he finally came on the line he was out of breath. He’d been moving boxes around the storage facility.

“I got the answer about Connie,” Jack said after he’d identified himself. “As Warren suggested yesterday, I think you’re going to have to take your anger out on the basketball court and not Connie’s husband.”

“He didn’t kill her?”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” Jack said. “She apparently died of botulism. Have you ever heard of that?”

“I think so,” Flash said. “Isn’t that some kind of food poisoning?”

“Generally, yes,” Jack said. “It’s caused by a toxin that a specific type of bacteria manufactures. What makes this bacteria particularly dangerous is that it can grow without oxygen. You used to hear about it mainly in connection with canned goods when the food wasn’t heated enough during processing to kill the spores. But in your sister’s case, the important thing for you to understand is that it appears that foul play wasn’t involved.”

“Are you sure?”

“I just got the report back from the laboratory,” Jack said. “The technician assured me they checked the results. I’m personally confident she died of botulism, and except for a few apocryphal stories of the toxin being used to assassinate Reinhard Heyrich, one of Hitler’s cronies, back in World War II, I’ve never heard of the agent being used in a deliberate poisoning. The stuff is not easy to come by. The idea of Connie’s husband using it would be giving him more credit than he deserves.”

“Damn!” Flash exclaimed.

“I tell you what,” Jack said. “Warren and I will let you win at basketball the next time we’re on opposing teams.”

Flashed laughed halfheartedly. “You’re too much, Doc! As competitive as you and Warren are, I can’t see you guys throwing a game, nohow. Anyway, thanks for looking into this mess for me. I appreciate it.”

“I’m glad to have been able to help,” Jack said. “Now I have a question for you. What’s Connie’s husband’s name?”

“Yuri,” Flash said, practically spitting the name. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m afraid I have to call him up,” Jack said. “With Connie passing away with botulism, Yuri is certainly at risk.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Flash said.

“I can appreciate that,” Jack said. “And as your friend, I couldn’t care either. But as a doctor, I feel differently. Would you mind giving me his phone number?”

“Do I have to?” Flash asked.

“I suppose I could look it up,” Jack said. “Or get it from the Brooklyn office. But it would just be easier if you gave it to me.”

“I feel like I’m doing the turd a favor,” Flash complained before giving Jack the number.

Jack wrote it down. They talked for a few more minutes about possibly playing ball that evening before saying goodbye and hanging up.

Once they did, Jack immediately dialed the Brighton Beach number. As the call went through, he mentally outlined what he’d say. He wondered if Yuri Davydov would have an accent, and if he truly was the ogre that Flash believed he was. But Jack didn’t get through. The line was occupied.

In a significantly more buoyant mood, Jack returned to his paperwork. With enhanced efficiency, he completed yet another of his cases. After placing it on top of the completed pile, he tried the Brighton Beach number again. He got the same busy signal.

Jack wasn’t surprised. He imagined the man had a lot of calls to make in the aftermath of his wife’s death. But as the morning wore on, and Jack continued to try to place the call with the same lack of success, he finally lost patience. He dialed the operator and asked for Yuri’s telephone to be checked. A few minutes later the operator returned to say there was no conversation on the line.

“What does that mean?” Jack asked.

“It’s either off the hook or out of order,” the operator said. “I can connect you to repair if you’d like.”

“Never mind,” Jack said. He realized that Yuri was most likely at home but unwilling to talk to anybody. As understandable as it might be for the man to take his phone off the hook, it still frustrated Jack not to be able to get through; sometimes it seemed that nothing was easy. All he wanted to do was contact the man to warn him about possible botulism infection. Having put the case back in Randolph Sanders’s lap, he expected the Brooklyn office to follow up with the case as they were legally bound to do. That meant alerting the Department of Health and ultimately Jack’s nemesis, Dr. Clint Abelard, the city epidemiologist. As Jack had been duly informed on several occasions, it was Clint’s job to do the follow-up, which, of course, included contacting Yuri Davydov. Yet, as a physician, Jack felt honor-bound to notify the widower himself.

Jack absently played with the telephone cord while pondering the situation. There was always the chance that the Brooklyn office could run into trouble by not getting the body back. After all, Jack reasoned, the body could have been cremated. If that was the case and no further samples were available to confirm the diagnosis, a delay would be inevitable. What it all boiled down to was that Yuri Davydov might not learn about his risk in time to make a difference.

Pulling open one of the drawers of his desk, Jack took out a map of New York City. He opened it to the Brooklyn section and searched for Brighton Beach. The assumption it was somewhere on the waterfront helped; he found it next to Coney Island, jutting out into the Atlantic Ocean.

Jack estimated that Brighton Beach was about fifteen miles away. He’d never ridden out to that area on his bike but he’d been as far as Brooklyn’s Prospect Park on several weekend occasions and remembered how to get there. From the map he could see that Brighton Beach was a straight shot down Coney Island Avenue from the base of the park.

Checking his watch, Jack decided a bicycle jaunt to Brighton Beach would be a nice way to spend his lunch hour, even if it turned out to be a two-hour-plus trip. Although Yuri Davydov’s health was his main reason for wanting to go out there, he could also justify the outing as a reward for having made a significant dent in his paperwork and for coming up with a compelling alibi for the previous day’s escapades. But what really clinched the decision was the knowledge that it happened to be a particularly gorgeous Indian summer day with strong sunshine, warm temperature, and gentle wind. As Jack explained it to himself, it might be the last great day weather-wise before winter’s onslaught.

Before he left, Jack looked for Laurie again to tell her about the botulism, but he was told that she was still in the autopsy room. Jack decided he’d see her when he got back.