"That must have hurt," Alicia said, feeling for him. He'd delivered the story so matter-of-factly, but she sensed the lingering pain.
"That it did. Took about a million calls and even a trip to Vermont before it finally got through to me that she really meant it." He straightened and looked at her, as if shrugging off the memories. "But that was then. I got over it. Life goes on."
And now you think you should find someone else, Alicia thought. Please don't set your sights on me, Will Matthews. You've had enough trouble already.
"How about you?" he said. "How's your love life?"
Alicia echoed his earlier comment. "Love life? What's that?" She forced a smile. "Especially when you're married."
He blinked. "Married? I thought…"
For a moment she was tempted to morph her story about a traveling beau into a traveling husband, but she couldn't lie to him. Not after what he'd done for her.
"But you've already met my spouse," she said, smiling as she watched his baffled expression for a few heartbeats. Then she let him off the hook: "The Center. We're inseparable, you know."
"Oh!" He laughed. "Married to the job," he said, nodding. "I know all about that. Got a bit of that problem myself."
It's not always a problem, she thought. Sometimes it's a solution.
She could see him relax. That was good… and that was bad. He probably thought he had a clear field.
They spent the meal and perhaps an hour afterward talking, Will probing for details of her life, Alicia dodging and countering with a steady stream of questions that forced him to talk about himself.
The upshot of the evening was Alicia gathering a portrait of a decent man who liked beer, bass fishing, and basketball; a dedicated detective who'd managed—at least so far—to avoid the deep cynicism that seemed to infect most big-city cops.
And Will? As they left the restaurant, Alicia doubted he knew much more about her now than he had when he'd walked in.
As Will drove her home, Alicia watched his hands where they gripped the wheel. Strong hands, and strong arms. She wondered what those arms would feel like around her. She rarely minded being alone, in fact, most of the time she was too busy to realize that she was alone.
But there came times, at night, mostly, when she felt an urge to cling to someone, to feel protective arms around her, when she simply wanted to be held.
She was feeling relaxed and safe as Will pulled to a stop in front of her apartment. And she was torn: Ask him in or not?… ask him in or not?
And then a beeper sounded.
Will checked his belt. "Not mine."
Alicia fished hers out of her shoulder bag, and felt the mood shatter as she recognized the number on the display.
Hector's floor. Only one reason they'd be calling her at this hour.
"Will, can you take me over to St. Vincent's? Fast? I mean, really fast."
He replied with squealing tires.
SATURDAY
1
After only three hours sleep, Alicia was back in the hospital, this time in the Pediatric ICU. Little Hector Lopez had crashed last night—grand mal seizures and respiratory arrest. She and the house staff had pulled him through—just barely.
Will had hung around for hours downstairs in the waiting area. He didn't know Hector, had never laid eyes on him, yet he'd seemed genuinely concerned. Finally Alicia convinced him to go home.
He'd hugged her and wished her luck, and she'd watched him go, thinking this was someone special.
But now she was watching Hector, unconscious, a slim ribbed endotracheai tube snaking from his mouth to a larger tube, his bony chest rising and falling in time to the hissing rhythm of the ventilator at his bedside.
She heard a knock on the glass partition to her left and turned to see Harry Wolff gesturing to her from the other side. She'd called him in on consult regarding the seizure. He'd done a spinal tap. Hector's central nervous pressure had been up, and the fluid had looked hazy. Not good, not good…
Alicia stepped to the door and pulled her mask down to her chin. "Harry. What have you got?"
His expression was grim. "Candida in the CSF."
Alicia sighed. Damn. That explained the seizure. Although not a complete surprise, she'd been hoping the pediatric neurologist would find something easier to treat.
"Any more seizure activity?" he said.
"No. But there will be if I don't get this yeast under control. Trouble is, his immune system's in free fall."
"I'll keep looking in. Good luck."
"Thanks, Harry."
She turned and looked back at Hector. She was losing him. Damn it, this was her home field, this was the only place in her life these days where she called the shots. But she seemed to be losing here as well.
There had to be a way to turn this around. Had to be…
2
Ramirez showed up a few minutes early, but Jack was ready and waiting at the town house, decked out in his green blazer, white shirt, striped tie, Dockers, loafers, and shit-eating grin.
He'd been here for an hour or so already, familiarizing himself with the place. The house itself didn't need any window dressing; it was in perfect shape. All the closets and dressers were filled with clothes. Whoever had inherited this from the late Dr. Gates hadn't removed a thing.
The only touch he added to the place was a photo he'd picked up in a secondhand shop—two men sitting side by side on a log. He left it in the master bedroom. Then he outfitted the sitting room off the front hall with a card table, and on that arranged manila folders, deposit receipt forms, Xeroxed from the original Hudak Realty form.
Ramirez wore a full-length black leather overcoat. A single, heavy gold chain gleamed through the open collar of his golf shirt. He had broad shoulders and a thick middle. He flashed Jack a bright, wide grin, showing off his caps, but his dark eyes were on the move, taking in every detail of the front hall—the etched glass in the front door, the crystal chandelier, the brass carpet rails on the steps leading up to the second floor.
Jack handed Ramirez a card—an exact copy of Dolores's except that the name had been changed to David Johns—and gave him the tour, regurgitating much of the patter he'd heard from Dolores on Thursday. He watched Ramirez run his hands over the fine wood of the antiques as they went from room to room.
As they returned to his makeshift office in the sitting room off the front hall, Jack mentioned that a condition of the sale was that the closing had to be in thirty days.
"Thirty days," Ramirez said. "Why does this owner wish such a quick closing?"
Jack paused, as if debating how much to say, then shrugged.
"All right, I'll tell you. He's looking for a quick sale because he needs the money."
"He is in financial trouble?" Ramirez said.
"No-no." Jack lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret that should go no further. "He's in the hospital now. The poor man needs the money for medical expenses."
"Really?" Ramirez's tone was properly sympathetic; the sudden gleam in his eye was anything but. "That is too bad."
Jack could almost see the wheels turning in Ramirez's head: in the hospital… medical expenses. . . the photo of two men in the bedroom…
He was making a diagnosis.
"And you say the sale price includes all of the furniture?"
"Yes. All fine, fine European antiques. At the asking price, I assure you, it is quite a bargain."
Ramirez shrugged. "I do not know. It is very old. Have you had much interest in the property?"
"Strangely enough, no. I don't understand it," Jack said slowly, then pretended to catch himself. "Not that there's been no interest. There's been good interest."
Ramirez smiled. "As I said, it is an old house. But I feel sorry for this poor sick man. I will take it off his hands. But not for the asking price, I am afraid."
Jack sniffed. "It's already underpriced."
"I must disagree," Ramirez said.
And then he made a low-ball offer, a go
od twenty percent under the asking price.
You bastard, Jack thought. Jorge had said he'd steal from a dying man, and Ramirez had just proved him right.
Jack had begun thinking of his imaginary client as a real person, so he didn't have to fake being indignant.
"Out of the question. My client would never consider such a price."
"You will call him and ask him?"
"No. It's an insult to the property."
"Well, if you have had a better offer," Ramirez said with a shrug, "then I will go away. But if you have not, I think it is your duty to consult your client."
"I'll do just that," Jack said.
He whipped out a cell phone and called Jorge's number.
When he answered, Jack said, "Mr. Gates's room, please." While he pretended to wait for a connection, he turned to Ramirez. "Even from his hospital bed, I'm sure Mr. Gates will muster some harsh words about your offer."
Another shrug from Ramirez. "I am only offering what I can afford."
Then Jack spoke into the phone. "Yes. Hello, Mr. Gates. This is David. I'm sorry to call you so early, but I've had an offer on the house." Pause. "Yes, well, I'm not so sure you'll say that after you hear it." He gave the figure and waited, as if listening. "But—" he said, then cut himself off, "But…"
Jack frowned, glanced at Ramirez, then turned his back and stepped away.
"But it's an insulting offer!" he said in a stage whisper. "You can't possibly consider it!"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ramirez's caps appearing behind a slow grin. Oh, yes, you bastard. This is your birthday on Christmas, isn't it—getting the deal of a lifetime and screwing some poor sick bastard in the process.
Jack said, "Yes… yes, I see… very well…" He sighed. "I'll tell him."
Jack hit the end button on the phone, took a dramatically deep breath, then turned to face Ramirez.
"Well," he said. "Mr. Gates has expressed some interest—limited interest—in your offer. But he has two conditions if he's going to sell for that price."
"Yes?" Ramirez was keeping a calm front, but Jack could tell he was ready to Macarena down the hall.
"You must close in fifteen days."
Ramirez was polishing his diamond ring against the sleeve of his blazer. "That is possible."
"And…" This was the biggee. This was where Jack knew he'd either reel Ramirez in or lose him completely. "He wants a twelve-thousand-dollar deposit in cash."
Ramirez stopped polishing and looked up. "In cash? That is an unusual request. In my many, many real estate dealings I have never left a cash deposit."
"Yes," Jack said, "you're absolutely right. Most unusual. In fact, it's absurd, and I'm sure you want no part of it."
Now it was Jack's turn to play hard to get. Risky, but the only way he could see Ramirez coming up with the cash. He took Ramirez's elbow and guided him from the sitting room toward the front hall.
"Thank you for your interest, Mr. Ramirez. I'll inform Mr. Gates that you wouldn't agree—"
Ramirez pulled his arm free. "One moment. I did not say it was unacceptable. Just that it was unusual. Perhaps a smaller amount in cash."
"No, I'm afraid not. The twelve thousand is what Mr. Gates said, and twelve thousand is what it must be. If that's too steep—"
The doorbell rang.
What the hell…?
Jack poked his head through the doorway into the front hall.
Someone was standing at the front door. Jack couldn't make out who it was through the etched glass, but he knew it had to be bad news. No one was supposed to be here but Ramirez and him.
Maybe if he ignored the bell…
Another ring.
Clenching his teeth and silently cursing, he stepped into the front hall and pulled open the door.
A stocky Oriental in a way expensive charcoal-gray business suit and black fedora stood on the stoop. He could have been Harold Sakata doing Oddjob from Goldfinger.
"I am looking for David Johns," the man said. "Is he here?"
Who's this? Jack thought. Someone from Hudak Realty?
He had a feeling his little scam was about to crash into ruin. But he couldn't be too evasive… not with Ramirez in earshot.
"May I ask who—?"
He saw the man stiffen as he looked over Jack's shoulder.
"Mr. Ramirez," the Oriental said.
Jack turned. Ramirez was standing in the front hall, staring at the newcomer.
"Hello… Sung."
The scene had a surreal déjà vu feel to it, like Jerry and Newman meeting in a Third World Seinfeld.
When Jack turned back to the Oriental, he saw that the man had slipped into the front hall.
"I wish to see the property," he said.
This was bad—bad because Jack had no contingency for a third player. The new guy wasn't simply a wild card, he was a wild card who knew Ramirez.
"I'm sorry, Mr… Sung, is it? This is by appointment only."
"But I tried to get an appointment. I called three times but no one called back."
"Really?" Jack said slowly, knowing Ramirez was listening. "That's strange. I never got your messages. Perhaps the answering machine isn't working properly." He snapped his fingers as if he'd just had an epiphany. "That's why the response has been so poor! The machine's on the fritz."
"Perhaps," said Sung. "I decided to come over to see if anyone was here."
"And now you have seen," Ramirez said. "I am here, so now you can go."
No love lost between these two, Jack thought. And was that a hint of anxiety in Ramirez's cold dark eyes? Obviously they both had offices in the same building—that was the only way Sung could have seen the flyer.
And maybe they'd butted heads before in a real estate deal.
It hit Jack then that maybe he could stick this wild card in his own hand and play him against Ramirez.
"I'm glad you did, Mr. Sung. Mr. Ramirez was just leaving, so I'll be free to—"
"Wait one minute," Ramirez said. "I made an offer and it was accepted. We have a deal."
"But you said you never leave a cash deposit."
"I said that I never have. I did not say that I never will." He pointed back to the sitting room. "Come. We will talk."
Sung folded his arms across his chest. "I will wait."
Jack stepped back into the makeshift office with Ramirez and closed the door behind them.
"I will give you a check," Ramirez said.
Gotcha, Jack thought.
Now he could play hard to get.
He shook his head. "Sorry. Mr. Gates stated that it must be cash."
"But I do not carry that sort of money with me. No one does. Why does he want it to be cash?"
"I can't explain Mr. Gates's reasoning," Jack said with a shrug. "He's on medication, and perhaps it's affecting him. But if that's what he wants, that's what he'll get."
"But what protection do I have?"
Jack straightened and looked down his nose at Ramirez. "Sir, you have the sterling reputation of the Hudak Realty Company behind any transaction. You will get a deposit receipt. And the money will be put in escrow, of course. But I wholeheartedly agree that these are highly unorthodox terms." He reached for the doorknob. "Thank you for coming."
Ramirez flew into a rage then, stomping around the sitting room and shouting about how they had a deal, how he'd made an offer and the buyer had agreed to it and Jack was not going to get rid of him because he thought he might have a better offer waiting in the front hall.
Amazing, Jack thought, fighting to keep a smile off his face. The harder I try to keep him from giving me the cash, the more he wants to pay it.
"You will have your twelve thousand in cash," Ramirez said, finally winding down. "I will return with it in one hour."
You damn well better, otherwise I've gone to a lot of trouble for nothing.
Ramirez turned at the door. "But I warn you, Mr. Johns. If I return and find out that you have made another deal, there will be se
rious consequences."
"Threats are not necessary, Mr. Ramirez," Jack said softly. He glanced at his watch. "One hour it is."
Ramirez made a hasty exit, pausing only to snarl at the man waiting outside. "Might as well go home, Sung. It is sold."
Sung gave him a small bow. "Congratulations, Mr. Ramirez. But I wish to see the property anyway… in case you change your mind."
"That will not happen," Ramirez said, and then he was gone.
Jack turned to Sung.
"We have a deal," he told him. "No point in your waiting. And I'm afraid I don't have time to show you around."
He turned and stepped back into the sitting room. He didn't feel like playing real estate agent for anyone else. He wanted Sung gone.
But Sung followed him into the room.
"I do not need to see the rest to know that I will meet and exceed the terms you have arranged with Mr. Ramirez."
"How do you know…?"
He smiled. "One could not help overhearing such an excited man."
"Yes, well—"
"You will not have to wait an hour." Sung pulled a long wallet from the breast pocket of his suit. "I can give you the cash deposit right now."
"Those terms were for Mr. Ramirez only," he said as Sung counted out twelve one-thousand-dollar bills onto the table. "The owner is not well, and I fear he agreed too hastily to Mr. Ramirez's offer. If Mr. Ramirez does not return, then new terms will have to be set."
"Does the owner know the name of the man who made the offer?"
"No, but—"
"Then, he will not know that the money comes from someone else."
"But he's sick," Jack said, wondering if he could spark some sympathy in Sung. "And it's an unreasonably low price."
"Here is more," Sung said, and laid three more thousand-dollar bills on the table… but apart from the rest. "If you think the seller should have more, give him this."
Jack was about to laugh at him. An extra three thousand? What was that added to Ramirez's low-ball price? Nothing.
And then Sung added, "I will require a receipt for only twelve thousand, however."
And now the meaning was clear: Sung was another screwmeister, and this was an orgy. Screw the owner, screw Ramirez, let me have the place for the fire-sale price, and the three grand is yours.