Jack hesitated. Hector was a cute little guy, but he was a cute little guy with HIV.
"C'mon, mithter!"
Jack gave the bristly top of Hector's head a quick rub. He didn't like himself for how quickly he pulled his hand away.
"Ithn't it mad?" Hector said.
"The maddest," Jack told him.
Gladys scooted Hector back to his playroom and they moved on to the next area, which wasn't so pleasant. Jack peeked through a window in a door and saw a room full of kids hooked up to IV's.
"This is the clinic area. Kids come in here for outpatient therapy—we infuse them, monitor their progress, then send them home."
And then they came to a huge plate-glass window that stretched from waist level to the ceiling.
"We board the homeless or abandoned infants in there," Alicia said. "We have volunteers to hold them and comfort them. The crack babies need a lot of comforting."
Jack spotted Gia cradling a baby in her arms on the far side of the glass, but he didn't pause. He didn't want her to see him.
"You do a lot here," he said as they moved on.
"Yeah, we've had to become a clinic, a nursery, a day-care center, and a foster home."
"And all because of a single virus."
"But we have to deal with more than the virus," Alicia said. "So many of these kids aren't born merely HIV positive—as if 'merely' can somehow be used with HIV—but addicted to crack or heroin as well. They hit the world screaming like any other baby at the insult of being ejected from that warm cozy womb, but then they keep on screaming as the agonies of cold-turkey withdrawal set in."
"A double whammy," Jack said. Poor kids.
"Yes. Some parents leave their kinds an inheritance, some leave hidden scars; these kids were left a virtual death sentence."
Jack sensed something very personal in that last sentence but couldn't latch onto what it might have been.
"Perhaps 'death sentence' is overstating it. We can do a lot for these kids now. The survival rate is way up, but still… once they get through withdrawal, they still have the aftereffects of addiction. Crack and heroin burn out parts of the nervous system. I won't bore you with a lecture about dopamine receptors, but the result is fried circuits in the pleasure centers. Which leaves our little crack babies edgy and irritable, unable to take solace in the simple things that comfort normal infants. So they cry. Endlessly. Until the strung-out junkie mothers who made them this way beat them to shut them up."
Jack realized she probably gave this spiel to all the visitors, but he wished she'd stop. He was getting the urge to go hurt somebody.
"The lucky ones"—she cleared her throat harshly—"try to imagine a lucky HIV-positive crack baby—wind up here."
She stopped before a windowless door.
"Here's the storeroom where the toys were kept."
She showed him the room, empty but for some Scotch tape and wrapping paper.
"The toys will be wrapped in this paper?" he said, memorizing the pattern.
"Most, but not all."
He pulled open the door to the alley, and checked the alley itself. Easy to see how it had been done. The outer door frame and the surface around the latch were deeply gouged and warped. Looked like the work of a long pry bar in the hands of someone with the finesse of an orangutan.
He saw Dr. Clayton shiver in the cold wash from the open door. She rubbed the sleeves of her white coat. She was very thin—no insulation.
"How are you going to handle this?" she said as Jack closed the door.
Jack said, "Not here. Can we talk in your office?"
"Follow me."
On the way to her office, Dr. Clayton stopped at the front door and peered out at the street. He saw her stiffen, as if she'd seen something that frightened her.
6
Sam Baker had been sitting here in the car, taking his turn on surveillance for a good hour now, testing his memory, and checking out his hair in the rearview mirror.
And he hated looking in that mirror. People would think he was some sort of fag or something, primping and prissing. But damn, his once thick-and-wavy sandy hair was getting thinner and grayer every goddam day. He was only forty-six and he could see his scalp. If this kept up, he'd be bald before he hit fifty.
Baker glanced up and saw someone staring his way through the front door of the AIDS center. He looked closer and resisted the impulse to duck down when he saw that it was the Clayton broad. Not to worry. She could see the car, but not who was in it.
At least this confirmed that she was still there.
Not that he gave a rat's ass where this crazy broad went. But the towel head who was paying him did, and that was what counted. He—
The cell phone rang. Baker grabbed it and hit the send button.
"Yeah?"
"It is I."
Shit. Baker had thought it was one of his men. But it was Ahab the Ay-rab himself: Kemel Muhallal.
"Yes sir."
"I wish to inquire about the status of the object of our mutual interest."
"Say what?"
"The woman. Where is she?"
"Still where she works." Baker didn't want to be more specific than that. Not on a cell phone.
"She has not sought out another lawyer?"
"Nope."
"If she does, I do not want a repeat of what happened to her last attorney."
"All right," Baker said. "We've been over that already. And I told you. Everything will work out fine. Trust me."
He'd been in deep shit since this morning. Christ, he'd thought he'd get high-fived for taking out her lawyer, but no. Kemel the towel head got pissed instead. Really pissed. Said it would draw attention to the case and wanted to know why Baker had done it without authorization.
Hey, why not? he thought. When you hire an ex-Special Forces demolition expert, you get a take-charge kinda guy. You already had me plant one bomb—a big one—so when you tell me this Weinstein jerk's making too many waves, I figure you're saying you've got a problem you want solved. So I solve it. Permanently, just like the other one. That's the way we handled it when I was with SOG in 'Nam. That's the way I've handled all my assignments since I started going out for hire. No complaints so far.
And not to worry. The coke I planted in the car will have everybody looking in the wrong direction.
But still Kemel was pissed. And that wasn't good. Kemel had deep pockets, and Sam Baker wanted to stay on his good side. In fact, he wanted to attach himself to Kemel and ride him back to Saudi Arabia. Because damn, those Saudis needed all the Sam Bakers they could buy.
Sam figured he'd be square with Kemel if the Clayton bitch didn't go out and hire another lawyer and gave up on this house that everyone was so damn interested in. Then he could step up to him and say, See? Blowing up her lawyer in front of her scared her off. Y'gotta believe, man. I know what I'm doing.
"I trust you only when you are doing what you are authorized to do. Watch her and do nothing else."
"Aye-aye, Cap'n. Ten-four, Roger Wilco, over and out." He hit the end button. "Asshole."
Baker ground his teeth. He was pissed, and suddenly realized this was a good time to check his short-term memory. See if talking to that towel head had screwed it up. He closed his eyes and recited the phone number from the sign of the deli across the street. When he checked he saw that he'd got it right.
Good. Sharp as ever. A long time before he wound up like his mother.
He glanced at the AIDS center doorway and caught the Clayton broad slipping back inside.
If Muhallal would let him in on what was going on, he could do a better job. He knew there were two sides here: Alicia Clayton on one side, and her brother Thomas Clayton—one seriously creepy dude—on the other. And their father's will between them. How Kemel Muhallal got involved, Baker had no idea. But it had to do with the house. The brother wanted the house, and Kemel was ready to spend big bucks to see to it that he got it.
They'd hired him to help out. They wante
d the house guarded. No one allowed in unless authorized by Muhallal or the brother. They also wanted to keep close tabs on the sister, but under absolutely no circumstance—and this had been repeated and repeated until he was sick of hearing it—was he to harm her, or even allow her to be harmed by someone else.
Which was hard to figure. If the sister was dead, wouldn't the house go to the brother?
But the Arab and the brother were keeping all their reasons to themselves. Baker figured they had to be after something in that house. And whatever it was, it had to be pretty damn valuable, because they wanted it pretty damn fucking bad. As to what it was, Baker didn't have a clue. Another one of their secrets.
That was okay for now. He had a big payoff coming when the house finally belonged to the Arab. He'd have to share some of it with the crew he'd hired, but there'd still be plenty left over to solve his current financial woes, and even add a little padding to the pitifully thin cushion of his retirement fund.
But before all this was over, Baker was going to know all their secrets. And you could take that to the bank.
7
A chill rippled over Alicia's skin and collected at the base of her spine as she watched a gray car double-parked across the street. It idled there, slightly uptown from her vantage point, its motor running.
The same car as this morning? She couldn't be sure. Was it watching the door of the Center or waiting for someone in one of those stores? How could she know? Hell, between the sun glare and the tinted windows, she couldn't even tell how many people were in it.
Damn, this was scary. What were they waiting for? An explosion?
She shuddered. She'd told Tiffany to let her see all the mail, all the UPS deliveries before they were opened. But what would she do if she came across a package with no return address? Call the bomb squad? Luckily she hadn't had to face that choice—all today's deliveries were from the Center's usual suppliers.
She forced herself to turn away.
This was her fifth—or was it her sixth?—trip to the front since her arrival this morning. Tiffany was beginning to give her strange looks.
She lead Jack Niedermeyer back to her office. Maybe it was just her imagination. Why would anybody follow her? What was the point? She did the same thing every day: from her apartment in the Village to the Center, from the Center to her apartment. A model of predictability.
Relax, she told herself. You're making yourself crazy. Stay calm and figure out where you go from here on the will mess.
"Have a seat," she said as they entered her office.
Raymond stopped by to drop off some papers. She introduced them but said nothing about why Mr. Niedermeyer was here.
When Raymond was gone and they were seated, facing each other, she took a good look at this very average-looking brown-haired, mid-thirtyish man in jeans and a reddish flannel shirt.
This is the guy who's going to get the toys back? Alicia thought as she indicated a chair. Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very much.
"Now, Mr. Niedermeyer—"
"Just call me Jack."
"Okay, Just Jack." And you can call me Dr. Clayton. No, she wouldn't say that. "Ms. DiLauro told me you might be able to help. Are you a friend of hers?"
"Not really. I did some work for her once. Got her out of a jam."
"What sort of a jam?"
He leaned forward. "I believe the subject is missing toys?"
A tiny flash of intensity there. Well hidden, but Alicia had spotted it. Something personal between these two? Or simply none of my business?
When he'd leaned forward, he'd put his hands on her desk. Alicia was struck by the length of his thumbnails. His hands were clean, his nails well trimmed… all except for the thumbs. Their nails jutted a good quarter inch or more beyond the flesh. She wanted to ask him about them but didn't see how she could do so with any grace.
"I wasn't prying," she said. "I'm simply curious as to how one man could possibly find those toys ahead of the whole New York City Police Department."
Jack shrugged. "First off, it won't be the 'whole' department. Maybe one or two robbery detectives—if you're lucky."
Alicia nodded. He was right.
"Second," he said, "I think it's a safe bet that the guys who ripped you off aren't family men stocking up for their own kids' Christmases. And from the look of that door, they weren't pros. I smell a quickie, spur-of-the-moment heist. I'll bet they don't have a fence in place to dump their loot, which means they'll be looking for one. I know people…"
He left that hanging. What people? she wondered. People who buy stolen Christmas gifts? Was he some sort of criminal himself?
She looked at him and realized that his mild brown eyes revealed nothing… absolutely nothing.
"So… you 'know people'… people, I assume, who might lead you to the thieves. And then what?"
"And then I will prevail upon them to return the gifts."
"And if you can't 'prevail?' What then? Call in the police?"'
He shook his head. "No. That's one of the conditions of my involvement: no contact with officialdom. If the police recover the gifts, fine. All's well that ends well. If I return them, it's a wonderful occurrence, a Christmas miracle. You don't know who's responsible, but God bless 'em. You've never seen me, never even heard of me. As far as you know, I don't exist."
Alicia tensed. Was this some sort of scam? Rob the gifts, then charge a fee to "find" them. Maybe even collect a reward?
But no. Gia DiLauro would never have anything to do with something like that. Her anger this morning had been too real.
But this man, this "Just Jack"… he might have involved Gia without her knowledge.
"I see," she said. "And what would you charge for—?"
"It's taken care of."
"I don't understand. Did Gia—?"
"Don't worry about it. All taken care of."
"There'll be a reward."
She'd had calls—businesses and individuals offering to contribute to a reward fund for the arrest of the perpetrators. The total was mounting.
"Keep it. Spend it on the kids."
Alicia relaxed. All right. So it wasn't a scam.
"What I need is some information about the gifts—anything distinctive that'll help me make sure I'm on the right track."
"Well, for one thing, they were all wrapped. We only accepted new toys or clothing—all of it unwrapped—and then we wrapped them ourselves as they came in. You saw the kind of paper we used. Other than that, what can I say? It was a real hodgepodge of gifts, a beautiful, generous assortment…"
Alicia felt her throat begin to lock with rage.
And they're all gone!
The man rose and extended his hand across her desk. "I'll see what I can do."
Alicia gripped his hand and held it. Should she tell him about Thomas and the will and the house, about the bomb that obliterated Leo Weinstein, that perhaps the theft of the toys was connected? No, she didn't want to get into that with this man. And besides, the toy theft felt different.
"What are our chances?" she said. "The truth. Don't think you have to make me feel good."
"The truth?" he said. "Chances for recovery are zip if they've already fenced the toys. Slim if they haven't. If they're not recovered, say, by Sunday, I'd say they're gone for good."
"I'm sorry I asked." She sighed. "But that's the way it goes around here, I guess. These kids are born under a dark cloud. I don't know why I should expect they'll get a break this time."
He gave her hand a little extra squeeze, then released her.
"You never know, Dr. Clayton." He gave her a crooked smile. "Even the worst losers get lucky once in a while."
Maybe it was the smile that did it. It dropped his shields. Alicia saw into this Jack for an instant—a nanosecond, really—and suddenly she had hope. If it was at all possible to find and return those gifts, this man believed he could pull it off.
And now Alicia was beginning to believe it too.
8
>
Instead of heading for the front after leaving the doctor's office, Jack ducked to the left and returned to the infant area. He stepped back into the relative shadow of a doorway across from the big plate-glass window and watched.
Gia sat half facing him, but all her attention was on the blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. She rocked, smiled, cooed, and looked down at that bundle as if it were the most precious child in the world. Someone else's baby, but no one looking at Gia now would know it. Her eyes were aglow with a light Jack had never seen before. And her expression… beatific was the only word for it.
And then Vicky hopped into the picture, an eight-year-old slip of a thing; her dark brown braids bouncing as she hurried a bottle of formula to her mother. Jack smiled. He had to smile every time he saw Vicky. She was a doll and he loved her like a daughter.
He'd never met Vicky's father and, from what he'd heard about the late, not-so-great Richard Westphalen, he was glad. Jack had it on excellent authority that the Brit bastard was dead—he knew the where, when, and how of his death—but the remains would never be found. So it would be years before Richard Westphalen was declared legally dead. Gia had taken back her maiden name after the divorce, although Vicky remained a Westphalen—the last of the line.
Vicky didn't seem to miss him. Why should she? She'd hardly known him when he was alive, and now Jack had more than taken his place. Or at least he hoped so.
He watched a few minutes longer, unable to take his eyes off the two most important people in his life. And it worried him no end that they were both in an enclosed room with HIV-positive infants.
Right, right, right. He knew all the facts and figures about how safe they were, and all that. And that was all fine and good for other people. But this was Gia and Vicky. And the threat was a virus, something you couldn't see, and not just any virus. This was HIV.
HIV had always given Jack the creeps. He wasn't generally given to looking for or finding conspiracies, but HIV was so damned efficient. An infection that attacks the very weapons the body uses against infections… the concept had such an engineered feel about it.