"Enough for what?" Beatrice looked distressed again, and resumed twisting her handkerchief. "What is this about?"
Meyer cleared his throat. "There are illegal activities going on at the Hope Institute, Miss Groves. Only a few people are involved—we think. With your help, we'll find out who those people are and arrest them."
"Illegal activities?" Beatrice sounded more overwrought than stunned. "What kind of illegal activities?"
"For one thing, some of those unmarked containers aren't proprietary medications. At least not the legal kind."
"You think someone at the Institute is dealing in narcotics."
"I don't think it. I know it."
"No." Beatrice wet her lips. "Those medications you're referring to go to our patients. If you're implying that anyone, including Miss Rivers, would give illegal narcotics to our patients, you're wrong. Everyone at the Hope Institute values human life. It's unthinkable."
"I agree, but not because whoever's doing this values human life. They value cash. They don't lose any sleep over the fate of their users. But, no, I don't think they're dispensing their stuff to your patients. Narcotics dealers don't hand out drugs. They sell them. What I do think is they're probably camouflaging the stuff by storing it with the unmarked containers of medication the Institute wants to patent—at least until they can turn it over to their contacts and get paid."
"Do you think Miss Rivers is guilty?" A shrug. "Someone is. Our job's to find out who." "And once you do, what will happen to the Institute?" "I honestly don't know," Meyer said frankly. "That depends on who's involved. Hopefully, your clinic will survive the scandal and go on providing the top-notch health care you described. But the point's moot. Because right now, those services are being used to cover up a felony. It's our job to catch whoever's committing that felony."
Sad realization crossed Beatrice's face. "This isn't just speculation on your part," she murmured, more to herself than to Meyer. "You're sure."
"Yes," Zach told her quietly. "We're sure. Someone's making a lot of money doing ugly, illegal things. And it's obviously not just drug money we're talking about. Think of what you saw on Monday. Why would families be told their loved ones had just died, when they'd actually passed on months ago? Because the fees paid to keep those loved ones on at the Institute would stop coming the minute news of their deaths arrived. So why not keep everyone believing they're alive as long as possible?"
"I thought of that horrifying possibility. But if it's true, where are the bodies being kept?" Beatrice's face was chalk white, a sure indication that she had no idea cremations were taking place on the premises.
"Miss Groves . . . Beatrice, listen to me," Zach said, ending the conversation by gesturing for Meyer to hand him a glass of water. "The less you know, the better. We want to keep you safe. But we need your help. I need your help."
"All right. But what can I do?" Her hands were shaking as she took the cup Zach pressed into them.
"You can be my nurse. My exclusive nurse."
Meyer's "Huh?" mingled with Beatrice's "I don't understand."
Victoria understood, only too well. She and Zach had conceived and reviewed this plan during the wee hours of the morning.
Now they had to convince Meyer to act on it.
Clearly, Zach wasn't giving him a choice. He shot the agent an unyielding look. "Give me a few minutes with Special Agent Meyer," he told Beatrice. "Then I'll explain. Suffice it to say, I'm about to become the newest patient at the Hope Institute."
* * *
28
"Forget it." Meyer folded his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair and scowling. "I knew we'd have to get someone on the inside. But it's not going to be you."
"Yes, it is." Zach stood, his back against the door, staring Meyer down. Victoria remained seated, hands folded neatly in her lap—for now. Beatrice had been escorted out for a cup of coffee.
"I know more about the ins and outs of what's going on at the Hope Institute than any of your agents," Zach reminded Meyer. "I've also got the business, the legal, and the technical background to pull this off. That's everything the job requires."
"Except agent training."
"You'll provide that. I'm a quick study. I'm intelligent and I'm motivated. I can master whatever skills you think I'll need for the short period of time I'll be in there."
"Yeah? So, tell me, Hamilton, how's your acting ability?"
A corner of Zach's mouth lifted. "I've convinced you I like you, haven't I?"
"Cute." Meyer pursed his lips, eyeing Zach speculatively as he considered the validity of his arguments. "Let's say I agree to send you in. What kind of identity am I creating?"
"Identities," Victoria corrected, pouncing like a cat, speaking up for the first time since Beatrice left the room. "Two of them. One, a filthy rich, neurotic computer software genius who's CEO of his own company; the other, a high-powered corporate attorney who represents him and shows up to sign his admittance papers."
Meyer's head snapped around, and his scowl returned, "Forget it, Ms. Kensington. You're not getting involved."
"I'm already involved, Mr. Meyer. I have been since the day Audrey fell at my feet in Central Park and I started investigating the Hope Institute. I'm being followed and wiretapped. Someone drove me off the road Saturday night, erased my answering machine, and God knows what else. He's now hot on my heels, waiting to see what I'll do next. My father is your key suspect, not to mention being legal counsel for the Hope Institute. My life's in danger, my sister's life's in danger, and now, thanks to his association with me, Zach's life's in danger. Could I be any more involved? Besides, we're racing the clock. You need a real attorney to pull this off—a sharp one who's familiar with the case, not a field agent you'd have to bring up to speed."
Pausing, Victoria pulled out some notes and passed them calmly across the desk to Meyer, one page at a time. "Here are some details on our chosen identities. We're from California—Silicon Valley, to be exact, given Zach's occupation. He's a technology wiz who designs computer chips for military satellites. He did his job, then went off the deep end. All the pressure the government laid on him—you know how pushy those feds can be—and the poor guy cracked up. The Hope Institute was referred to him by a source he won't divulge. He also won't go anywhere else. His security clearance will restrict the information I can provide, which gives me a great fall-back position."
She passed that page to Meyer, skimmed the next. "That brings us to me. As I said, I'm going to be the one to admit our gone-over-the-edge CEO. I'll be present to protect his interests, which are immense. He's a billionaire. And with that knowledge, and a fat check, the Hope Institute is bound to welcome him, vacant rooms or not. They'll give up one of their offices if they have to. Convincing them of that is my job. Your job is to bring this guy to life, right down to his bank and brokerage accounts."
She glanced over the final page, then handed it to Meyer. "I'll be easier, since I won't be staying. I just need the usual driver's license, social security number, passport, birth certificate—nothing too elaborate. Except a name that's listed in the Martindale-Hubbell Law Directory and that can be verified by the California Bar Association. I'll be newly admitted in New York, so they won't expect my credentials here to be listed yet. But give the New York Bar a call and get their cooperation, just in case the Institute should run a phone check. Oh, as for Zach, he'll need psychiatric coaching, although I can give him some pointers on nervous breakdown symptoms. I'm familiar with a variety of mental illnesses; my uncle's a psychiatrist. Still, your experts will do a better job."
She leaned back, refolded her hands in her lap, and gave Meyer a professional nod. "I think that's enough of a start."
The agent's jaw was practically touching his desk. He blinked, looked down at her copious notes, then turned to Zach. "Stubborn? Loyal? Try a bulldozer."
Zach's lips twitched. "Effective, isn't she?"
"If you want to call it that." Meyer shot Victoria a look.
"Tell me, Ms. Kensington, did you leave any of the details to us?"
"Of course. I only wrote the profiles, with Zach's input, of course. The hard part—making us real people—I'll leave to you. Oh, and our names can be chosen at your discretion, as well, depending on what's unused—or, in my case, used but borrowable." She paused, reconsidered. "Actually, make Zach's first name David. I think it's a fitting tribute, don't you?" She angled her head in Zach's direction.
"Yes," he agreed quietly, a profound current of communication running between them. "Very fitting."
"David. That was your father's name," Meyer muttered. "That much I get. Fine. That's doable. Any other instructions, Ms. Kensington?"
"Not right now," she returned dryly. "But if I think of anything, I'll call you. I've got a secure cell phone, and your private number."
"Great." Meyer rubbed his forehead. "I'll need a day or two to make mis happen, But we can't afford to wait. Especially now that Miss Groves is aware of our investigation. She might be on our side, but she's also scared. That's bound to show. I doubt it would be long before someone at the Hope Institute became suspicious. We've got to have this whole thing wrapped up before that happens."
"Fine," Zach agreed. "How about getting me admitted on Friday? The only commitment I have between now and then is the keynote speech I'm delivering tomorrow at the SCIP conference. That leaves me plenty of time to be briefed on who I am and how I should behave, and Victoria time to make preliminary phone calls setting things up with the Hope Institute."
"Friday." Meyer folded his hands in front of him, stared Zach down. "Hamilton, let me explain something. Being briefed is just part of what you've got ahead of you. If we decide to shoot for Friday, you're going to need every minute between now and then to learn the skills you lack— from breaking into locked rooms to making it look like you haven't. This isn't James Bond. It's for real. And it's dangerous."
"I'm aware of that," Zach replied soberly. "I'm not taking the challenge lightly. I'm neither cocky nor a fool. I realize I've got a lot to absorb. I'll spend day and night at the field office, if I have to. But, Meyer, if I didn't think I was the best person for this job, I'd say so. I want these bastards caught as badly as you do. Maybe more."
Meyer nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know you do." He studied his folded hands. "I'll call our Los Angeles field office to get a Hollywood makeover expert and arrange to fly him in from LAX on the red-eye. Touch-ups aren't going to cut it. You'll need to be unrecognizable. New faces, new builds." Meyer arched a brow at Victoria. "What if your father's there when you bring Zach in to be admitted?"
"If my father's there, it won't be a problem. He scarcely sees the people he looks at, unless they're of benefit to him. He'll walk right by me." She brought her voice down to a slightly huskier pitch, punctuated it with a Californian accent. "I'll be a total stranger."
"Speaking of that, let's ask Miss Groves for a photograph of herself," Zach put in. "We'll let one of the FBI artists have at it."
"Why?" Meyer demanded.
"To make her look like someone else—someone who strongly resembles Beatrice but isn't." Amusement curved Zach's lips. "You want to see acting ability? I'll show it to you. That picture is going to become David Whoever's deceased mother. And when he sees Beatrice Friday morning at the Institute, it'll be like having her back again."
Again, Meyer nodded. "Make enough of a fuss and Ms. Kensington can insist that Beatrice Groves is assigned to you."
"As my sole caretaker. That'll eliminate the problem of anyone guessing I'm in disguise. It'll also make it easier for me to get around the Institute. I'll be in such pathetic shape, no one will guess I'm capable of causing problems. Beatrice can just wheel me around, supposedly for mental stimulation, a change of scene, an hour in front of the TV. Hell, I'll be practically invisible."
"Yeah, well, you'd better be. For everyone's sake. Especially yours."
Thursday, April 27
10:30 a.m.
It was almost time.
Victoria sat in the living room of Zach's hotel suite, star- ing at her secure cell phone. Zach was at the SCIP conference. She wasn't due at Waters, Kensington, Tatem & Calder until noon. She'd intentionally scheduled herself that way: a few hours today, a few tomorrow. It would fulfill her two-day-per-week commitment while leaving this morning free for phone and FedEx arrangements and tomorrow morning free for getting Zach admitted to the Hope Institute.
Meyer had called an hour ago to advise her that their profiles were complete and had been installed in the necessary computer databases. Full identities had been established, including, in Zach's case, tax returns, bank accounts, and brokerage accounts, the gross dollar value of which would make heads spin. His medical records, photo and bio, and signed power of attorney were being messengered to the Hope Institute as they spoke, along with a check for $250,000.
Everything was a go.
Victoria eyed the clock: 10:32. She'd give the powers that be at the Hope Institute another five minutes to read through the material, look at the check, and pick themselves up off the floor. Then she'd call.
She and Zach had memorized their identities, knew them through and through. Zach was David Karr—president and CEO of Karr Technology, Silicon Valley, California. A brilliant electrical engineer and innovator, Karr had exclusive government contracts, the most recent of which was designing specialized computer chips for the U.S. military. The details of the contracts and the designs were classified. Four months ago, after completing a particularly high-pressure segment of the assignment, Karr became ill and took a leave of absence.
That's where the psychiatric files kicked in.
The confidential medical records that had been delivered to the Hope Institute that morning diagnosed Karr as suffering from chronic adjustment disorder brought on by an overabundance of stress. His specific symptoms were work. inhibition and withdrawal from reality, and were complicated by a neurotic fear of unknown and unfamiliar people. The medical section of the records began with a long list of Karr's allergies, including an acute intolerance and/or severe negative physiological reactions to most tranquilizers and sedatives. In bold, black letters, the records stated that, as a result of that intolerance and/or reactions, Karr should not receive medication of any kind.
That was the safety net the FBI had thrown in to make sure Gloria Rivers didn't try out any drug cocktails on Zach.
The records concluded by stating that psychotherapy had been employed, with a modicum of success, although the patient was still highly symptomatic. He was nonviolent, however, and harmless to himself and to others. A temporary change of scene, complete with R and R, was recommended.
It was the ideal depiction, given what Zach needed to accomplish.
As for Victoria, she was Catherine Hughes, rising partner at Brandes & Steede, a prominent corporate law firm in Silicon Valley. That identity switch had been easier than expected. Not only did Brandes & Steede actually exist, the FBI had contacts there—contacts who'd assured the feds of their cooperation. To add to that, Ms. Hughes was real, too—or rather, she had been real. She was a fine attorney who, unfortunately, had died of an aneurism just last week. Using her identity made everything much cleaner and easier to pull off. All her colleagues had to do was stick to the truth, other than the pretense that Ms. Hughes was still alive and that she represented the interests of David Karr.
Besides, Victoria only had to play her role once or, at worst, twice if for some reason she had to make a return trip to the Hope Institute. Zach had to live his role for several days—or for as long as it took him to find the evidence they needed.
Victoria massaged her temples. She was beat. She'd spent six hours at the FBI field office last night for the initial part of her training, and she had another six to go tonight, when the makeup artist finished his work. How Zach was holding up was beyond her. The amount of time he'd spent at the field office was double hers—all day and night yesterday, with another twelve hours scheduled there today. The on
ly reason he'd left at all was to return to the Plaza Athénée each night.
Part of that was to catch some sleep. Part of that was to be with her. And part of that was to convince Mr. Cigar that nothing suspicious was going on, that they were falling into bed each night like good little lovers should. It was the only way to keep his focus where they wanted it. As for staying at the hotel, that was also for Mr. Cigar's benefit. From there, they could slip in and out of the service entrance and into the FBI's unmarked car without being spotted—something they could never pull off if they stayed at Victoria's apartment, especially not as David Karr and Catherine Hughes. The instant an unfamiliar face walked out of 170 East Eighty-second Street, Mr. Cigar's warning bells would go off.
So the Plaza Athénée it was.
Victoria shot a last purposeful look at the clock: 10:38. Time for her to call the Hope Institute and start the ball rolling.
Correction. Time for Catherine Hughes to call the Hope Institute and start the ball rolling.
Taking a slow, calming breath, she punched up the number.
"Hope Institute. How may I help you?"
It was that pit bull, Miss Evans.
"Good morning." Victoria made sure to use her huskier voice, and the more pronounced, drawn-out West Coast syllables. "This is Catherine Hughes. I'm David Karr's attorney. I trust you've received the documents and cover letter I messengered over?"
"They arrived a little while ago, yes." Miss Evans sounded wary, curious, and flabbergasted, all at once.
"Excellent. Then I trust your physicians have had time to review the records. I'm tied up with meetings all this afternoon, but Mr. Karr would like to begin his stay with you first thing tomorrow morning. Shall we say ... nine-thirty?"
Miss Evans cleared her throat. "Ms.... Hughes, did you say?"
"Yes. Catherine Hughes. Just as it says on the power of attorney."
"I ... we ... appreciate that Mr. Karr chose the Hope Institute for his convalescence. However, I have a few questions I must ask. First, who referred Mr. Karr to us? We do require references. And second, while we're pleased with Mr. Karr's faith in us, we must ask what made him select the Hope Institute. We're thousands of miles from Silicon Valley, and Mr. Karr's illness doesn't require the degree of critical care we provide."