If I Should Die (16 page)

Hagen picked up a cup and saucer, his hands still trembling – though almost certainly more from the effects of the flu, Joe thought, than from emotion or guilt – and then he set them
down again on the table before him.

“I’ve been prouder, Lieutenant Duval, of my role in producing pacemakers than of anything else I’ve ever done in my life.”

Joe nodded. “I can imagine that, sir.”

“As to Howard Leary, did he say anything else of consequence?” Hagen gave a wan smile. “This is a rare opportunity to learn a little more of what my colleagues think of
me.”

Joe noted the use of the word colleagues instead of employees. He had no sense that it had been used for effect.

“He referred to your college career.”

“To my lack of qualifications.”

“To your dropping out.”

Hagen smiled again, less bleakly this time. “Howard’s never dared say it to my face, but he’s always enjoyed feeling superior. Olivia’s the only one of us he respects,
because he has no choice – she’s easily our best brain.”

“How does he feel about Fred Schwartz?” Joe asked.

“He trusted him well enough, until this happened, but even then, I felt it was his effectiveness he mistrusted, not his innocence.”

“Mr Schwartz has been the most obviously distraught since this began,” Joe said.

“I’ve always been fond of Fred.” Hagen shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of him as a potential suspect too.”

“But you’ve rejected the idea?”

“I think so.” Hagen leaned back heavily. “I’d much rather think we’ve had an enemy working for us somewhere on the line, someone from a rival firm,
perhaps.”

“That’s still a possibility, of course, sir, though it seems increasingly unlikely,” Joe told him.

Hagen looked very tired. “We really are getting nowhere, Lieutenant, aren’t we? Hagen Pacing has been shut down, and you’ve found neither the perpetrator nor the method –
we still don’t even know how many devices have been tampered with.”

“We may not know that until we find the person, or people, responsible.”

“And in the meantime, they’re presumably laughing at us.”

“Presumably.”

“I’m not laughing,” Hagen said darkly.

“No, sir. I know you’re not.”

“Do you?” Hagen shook his head. “I don’t think you know much more than you did when you came in here, Lieutenant.”

Joe didn’t answer.

“How much longer,” Hagen asked, “before we’re forced to go public?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Leary’s right about that much, you know. It would be a nightmare.”

“There may be no alternative.”

Hagen made an effort, and stood up.

“Do something for me, Lieutenant.”

“If I can.”

“Put an end to it.” Behind the glasses, Hagen’s eyes glinted with what Joe thought might almost be tears. “Stop pussyfooting around us all, stop being so damnably
polite
, and get a result.”

Fred Schwartz’s apartment building was not too much further north on Lakeshore Drive than Al Hagen’s, yet in social and economic terms Joe knew it might as well
have been a continent away. It looked okay, brownstone and solid enough, but Joe guessed that the residents probably fought a running battle against the things most ordinary solid citizens had to.
In a place like The Carlyle, if something went wrong with the electricity or air-cooling system or elevators, or if someone found a nest of bugs in a supply room, Al Hagen would doubtless never
have to know about it. Schwartz’s building would probably have had a string of residents’ action committees, aborted one at a time through a mixture of apathy and a case of too many
chiefs. Hagen lived on the thirty-third floor of The Carlyle. Schwartz lived on the twenty-second of his building. Hagen’s terrace overlooked Lake Michigan, with the Magnificent Mile a few
hundred yards over to the right. Schwartz’s side-facing apartment had no balcony, but if he leaned right out of his sitting room window, he could probably see the lake, too. The interiors
might be vastly different, Joe mused later on, and he didn’t know if Schwartz had ever been inside his boss’s home, yet there was no question in his mind that Schwartz had gotten as
close to Hagen’s lifestyle as possible, though whether it was a case of flattery or of envy, he could not tell. It was, at least, interesting. It was, at least,
something
.

“It’s kind of you to have agreed to see me, sir,” Joe said at the front door.

“I’m happy to see you, Lieutenant. I’ve seen no one except my doctor since I left the factory on Friday.”

If Hagen had looked like hell, Schwartz looked worse. He, too, wore a silk dressing gown, though his had a paisley pattern and looked old, if scrupulously clean and pressed. His wispy, mousy
hair was carefully combed, the unremarkable, small-featured face looked pasty, the whites of his bleary hazel eyes were pink, and his forehead and upper lip were beaded with perspiration. He wore
burgundy pyjamas beneath the robe, and he smelled of menthol, as if he’d been rubbing his chest.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Joe asked, genuinely concerned.

“I felt worse in bed,” Schwartz said, and stepped back. “You should keep your distance, Lieutenant. You don’t want to catch it.”

“If I haven’t caught it yet, I’m hoping I may be immune.”

For such a quiet, modest man, Schwartz had a startlingly opulent apartment. Joe stepped over Persian rugs as the other man led the way into his sitting room. There were bookshelves – books
had been surprisingly absent at Hagen’s, but maybe Carlyle apartments had their own libraries – and heavy drapes, and a central, glittering chandelier. Music played softly from two
speakers in a thirties-style mahogany wall unit. Opera. Joe smiled inwardly. Another shared love. Or another imitation.

“You have quite a place, Mr Schwartz.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Won’t you sit down?” Schwartz gestured to a brocade-covered armchair. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thank you, sir.” Joe, sat and looked up at an ornately framed portrait hanging above the sofa. “That’s a beautiful woman.”

“My mother. Painted by my father.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.” Schwartz, too, sat down, grimacing a little, as if his joints pained him. He took a white linen handkerchief from his dressing gown pocket and mopped his forehead.
“This is damnable,” he said. “I haven’t been sick in years.”

“Detective Lipman went down with it last night.”

“Poor lady, I’m sorry,” Schwartz said.

Joe hesitated. “Shall I come straight to the point, sir?”

“I’d be grateful.”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that you really do know more about the current range of Hagen pacemakers than anyone else, including Mr Hagen.”

“That’s probably true.” Schwartz was matter-of-fact.

“I know you still believe that this can’t have happened in your factory.”

“You mean I don’t want to believe it,” Schwartz said.

“Perhaps. Though I want you to know we’re looking elsewhere, too.”

“I’ve never doubted that you’d have to.” Schwartz wiped his face again, then coughed and cleared his throat before continuing. “I know the factory as well as I know
this apartment, Lieutenant, and I’ve found not a shred of evidence of anything untoward – and your Detective Valdez is a very thorough man, too.”

“And you all – including Valdez – insist that the devices are impregnable, once sealed.”

“That’s correct.”

“Yet the cardiologists and thoracic surgeons involved in the three cases so far,” Joe went on, “all maintain that they would have known if the pacemakers had been tampered
with.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe that,” Schwartz said.

“They say that pacemakers are always visually examined and handled prior to every implantation.”

Schwartz shrugged. “What else would you expect them to say?”

Joe smiled. “Maybe you’re right.” He paused. “I’d like to ask you a favour, sir, if you’re up to it.”

“Anything that will help, Lieutenant.”

“If you’re too sick, or too exhausted, just tell me.”

“Of course.”

Joe sat forward. “If it were you, Mr Schwartz – if you had done this thing – how would you have done it? If you wanted to turn one of your pacemakers into a bomb, knowing all
that you do, how would you go about it?”

Schwartz showed no sign of being offended. “I take it this is on the assumption that I would do it before the devices were sealed?” He watched Joe nod. “And also assuming I had
full access to the production area.” He paused only briefly. “I’d use the battery. It’s the most combustible component in the generator box – the part of the pacemaker
implanted in the chest wall.”

“Go on.”

“It was the first thing Leary and I talked about at the beginning, since lithium batteries are potentially explosive under certain circumstances. I shared the knowledge with Detective
Valdez, of course.”

“Certain circumstances being extreme heat or flames, for example.”

Schwartz nodded. “Which might feasibly have caused the fireman’s death, but which does not, of course, explain the other fatalities.”

“Could enough explosive be inserted into the batteries to cause the deaths?” Joe asked.

“In theory, I imagine so. I’m not an explosives expert.” Schwartz began to cough again, a longer attack than before. His face reddened, the veins on his neck and temples stood
out.

“Can I get you some water?” Joe stood up.

“Please.” Schwartz pointed to the door, trying but failing to control the coughing. “Kitchen’s to the right.”

Joe went back out over the Persian rugs. There were two closed doors. He opened one, hoping not to get the kitchen first time. Schwartz’s bedroom was warm and stuffy, the bed tidied but
uncovered. A large box of Kleenex, a bottle of red capsules and a tumbler of water stood on the bedside table, and that same menthol smell filled the air. He heard Schwartz coughing, closed the
door and found the kitchen, fastidiously clean and neat. The cupboards were glass-fronted, everything clearly visible and in its place. Joe opened the big old refrigerator. There was nothing of
interest, no sealed containers that might have held sinister substances, a few cans of sardines, two cartons of skimmed milk, a bottle of German beer, half a Saran-wrapped roast chicken, a
supermarket pack of ham, some Diet Fleischmans margarine and three eggs. Not exactly the dream refrigerator of a master bomber.

Joe ran the cold water faucet, filled a glass and took it back into the sitting room. Schwartz was mopping his face again with his handkerchief, and his breathing seemed more laboured than
before. Joe gave him the glass.

“I couldn’t find any bottled water.”

“I never bother with it.” Schwartz sipped a little. His hands trembled. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing. You’re sick, and I should be letting you rest, not picking your brains.”

“I’m not unflattered. Or should I be wary?”

Joe sat down again and smiled. “Not unless you did it.” He paused. “You were about to try to tell me how the plastique explosive could be inserted into the pacemaker
batteries.”

“In itself, in theory again, I guess that would present no great problem.” Schwartz paused. “Aside from the obvious hazard of being seen to do it. But it would mean opening the
sealed outer case and welding it closed again afterward, which would be noticeable on checking.” He shrugged, weakly. “If it was the batteries, it’s more likely that they would
have been tampered with during their production.”

Joe nodded. “We’ve been checking that out. To date, it doesn’t look likely.”

“Okay. But even that would only give us a part of the picture – I’m sure our bomber would have found many more complex problems than inserting the explosives.”

“Such as?”

Schwartz shrugged again. “The possibilities are endless.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. You’re asking more of my brain than it’s fit to give you
today. Surely your explosives technicians must have come up with something by now?”

“Not much more than you and Valdez. Traces of plastique, the possibility that the batteries were tampered with, and minute traces of electronic circuitry that mean timers were probably
used.”

Schwartz nodded. “Time bombs,” he said, softly, dully.

“None of them went off before they were in the patients.”

“And I suppose no one’s been able to make a connection between the three victims.”

“Nothing except for their Hagen pacemakers.”

Schwartz shook his head again, slowly and painfully, and the dampness of his pasty cheeks glistened. “It goes from bad to worse, doesn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“We’ll get there,” Joe said.

“But how many more people may die before you do?”

“Let’s pray none.”

“How much longer will the factory be shut?”

“I can’t answer that, Mr Schwartz.”

“It’s dreadful for Al Hagen.”

“And for many others,” Joe said.

“But Al’s always cared so deeply about Hagen Pacing. More than any of his other companies.”

“You care, too, Mr Schwartz.”

Schwartz nodded. “It’s been my life for the past ten years.”

Joe rose from his chair again.

“You and Mr Hagen have a lot in common.”

Schwartz’s smile was wan.

“I guess we do.”

On Monday morning Hugo drove Lally to the hospital in Holyoke for her eight-day check-up. Persuaded that there would be no invasive procedure on this occasion, he came into the
laboratory with her and held her hand while Lucas Ash, Joanna King and Bobby Goldstein checked her over, ran a final X-ray and used their magical electronic gadgetry while Lally alternately sat,
jogged on a treadmill, lay down and walked, to ascertain that her pacemaker was properly programmed for the individual needs of her heart.

“One hundred per cent,” Dr Ash pronounced when it was over.

“Really?” Lally, nerve-racked, icy limbed yet clammy, looked suspicious.

“I’ve told you before, Lally, I don’t lie to my patients.”

“I’m sorry.” She flushed.