Nowhere to Run (28 page)

Agents Lyons and McGillicuddy sat at the rear of the room, there to watch the results of their investigative handiwork. Up front, Dr. John Lee sat beside his attorney as Christopher Neuman pleaded his client’s case before the federal magistrate.

“Dr. Lee is a respected doctor, journalist, and concerned citizen whose only aim was to inform the American public of the dangers of anthrax and the availability of that deadly substance. He should be released immediately, on his own recognizance.”

The assistant U.S. attorney was having none of it. He stood to rebut. “On the contrary, Your Honor. There is probable cause to bring serious charges here. Dr. Lee unlawfully obtained a weapon of mass destruction, and the government will prove that the anthrax stolen by Dr. Lee was the same anthrax that infected Mr. Jerome Henning, killing him. We have a good-faith basis to believe that Dr. Lee is a killer. He is a danger to the public at large, and any potential witnesses in this case could also be in danger. The risk of flight is great.”

In the current climate, the magistrate wasn’t inclined to take any chances.

“Hold him,” she ordered, “pending a detention hearing on Friday. A decision on bail will be made then.”

Lee hung his head in despair and considered how his plans for glory had gone so terribly awry. He shouldn’t be on his way to a six-by-ten cell with a bunk bed in a federal jail next to the Brooklyn Bridge in lower Manhattan. It was all a mistake. He hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt.

“Don’t worry, John,” his attorney tried to reassure him. “They have to prove that you intended to do something—that you intended to harm Jerome Henning.” The lawyer patted Lee’s arm. “Your intent was to educate the public, John, not to use anthrax as a weapon. The government is going to have a damn difficult case to make. Unless they can prove that you
intended
to do harm to Jerome Henning, you’ll never face criminal conviction.”

Lauren and Gavin were out on shoots and Wayne was nowhere to be found, but Russ Parrish was in his office, watching a movie on his monitor. Meryl Streep performed her magic on the screen.

“Russ, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“I figured you would make your way in here sooner or later. Come on in, Annabelle.” Russ clicked off the monitor. “Actually, I’m starving. Want to get some lunch? We can talk in the cafeteria. I have something I want to ask you about and something I want to confide in you as well.”

Russ and Annabelle sat in a booth at Station Break, their bowls of lentil soup untouched on the table.

“I read over your shoulder yesterday…the stuff about me growing up poor and growing to love the good life, acquiring a cocaine addiction along the way,” Russ said.

Annabelle answered with silence.

“Why were you writing that, Annabelle?”

She mentally debated if she should tell Russ about Jerome’s manuscript. At this point, it made no sense to hold back the information, especially since she had already turned over her notes to the FBI. Jerome was dead and there was no secret to keep now.

“I was re-creating what I could remember of a manuscript that Jerome had been working on about behind-the-scenes kind of stuff at
KTA,
” she explained.

Russ laughed with cynicism. “I gather it wasn’t a valentine to our happy little broadcast.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Did Jerome have a publisher for this manuscript?” he asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Well, I guess I can be grateful for that,” Russ said softly. “You know, Annabelle, I realize it sounds like I’m making excuses for myself, but it was Jerome who introduced me to cocaine.”

“I’m sure he didn’t stick it up your nose, Russ.”

“True, but he was very generous with the stuff until I was nice and hooked. Then, when he got off it, he didn’t want to have anything to do with me. He dropped me like a hot potato.”

“That makes sense. Why would Jerome keep hanging out with an addict when he was trying to kick his own addiction?” Annabelle had no inclination to show Russ any sympathy.

“Maybe you’re right, but I’ll tell you one thing. If the tiny part I read about me is indicative of the type of hatchet job he was doing on other people in his book, there are lots of us who should be glad that Jerome Henning is dead—and worried that you could pick up his torch. You better be very careful, Annabelle.”

“The chairman of Wellstone was taken off in handcuffs this morning….”

Gavin’s heart beat faster as he sat in the back of the crew car, listening to the report on the radio.

“…faces possible imprisonment and multimillion-dollar fines for unloading Wellstone stock at a giant profit while having insider knowledge of confidential company developments.”

As the radio report ended, the KEY sedan parked in an NYPD space near the entrance to the Columbia University Business School. Gavin walked ahead, while B.J. unloaded the camera gear.

He was killing two birds with one stone. Getting an interview for tomorrow morning’s Wellstone scandal piece with one of the lawyers who worked on the congressional briefing books for the Securities and Exchange Commission investigations and, at the same time, ascertaining his own legal situation. He’d made a hefty profit on his Wellstone stock, but he had planned to sell it anyway, even before he’d gotten the early news. He could prove that if he had to.

The law professor and Gavin waited as B.J. unwound wires and set up lights. In the guise of small talk, Gavin took the opportunity to get in his burning question before the interviewee was miked.

“Go over it with me, will you, Roger?” Gavin asked. “Are there any exceptions to the insider trading rules? Could someone who had important nonpublic information ever sell his stock, take his profit, and still be within the limits of the law?”

The professor frowned. “It’s a tricky question, and the courts have disagreed. But the rules permit someone to trade when it’s clear that the information was not a factor in the decision to trade. For example, if the person had instructed his broker in advance to sell when the stock hit a certain price.”

Gavin registered a mental
yes
!

He would be okay on this one.

After lunch, the bulletin came from the Associated Press.

“Another anthrax death confirmed in New Jersey,” Dominick O’Donnell shouted to the newsroom.

All hands clicked on their computers to bring up the story on their screens.

“Holy crap,” Linus whistled.

“God help her,” whispered Beth.

Collateral damage. That’s what Clara Romanski’s death was: collateral damage. Like the civilians who were mistakenly killed in military battles or the pedestrians wounded in gang-war street fights. In conflicts, the innocent often got hurt. It was unfortunate, but it went with defending the territory.

Edgar Rivers was collateral damage too.

Not two, but three deaths now.

Soon to be four.