Pulse (13 page)

“Sure you don’t have it at Twin Palms?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I looked for it after … Figured it was in here.” She pawed again through the mound of documents.

“Maybe he left it somewhere to be repaired. Any unexplained receipts among his personal effects?”

She shook her head. “He was always so careful with it. It belongs to Billy now.” She looked tearful. “It’s tradition among the men of the family. Daniel’s mama finds out it’s gone, she’ll rip me from here to hell and back.”

“How valuable is it?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know in dollars, but to the family, it’s priceless, irreplaceable.”

He wondered if the timepiece vanished with some sticky-fingered cop, rescue worker, or ambulance attendant in the confusion after the shooting. He had heard of such things happening. Or had Alexander liquidated it along with everything else? The history of the watch would command a much better price for it.

“It’ll probably turn up,” he said briskly. This was no time to obsess over a pocket watch, even a family heirloom. “We have more important problems to face.”

“Oh, I know what you’re saying.” She gestured dismissively, her tone matter-of-fact. “Daniel’s estate ain’t worth a bucket of warm spit. Me and Billy are dead bang broke.”

He replaced the contents in the box. “I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. Let’s get out of here.”

*   *   *

Rory hid behind her dark shades, unusually silent during the drive back to Twin Palms. His mind raced, trying to find some explanation for the missing assets.

Once inside the house, Rory started to cry. She stepped out of her high heels and slumped into a chair, tears streaming.

“I know it’s a shock,” he said quietly, “but all’s not lost yet, we can still try to track the money.”

She glanced up, confused, face flushed. “Oh, hell, you think I’m worried about the money? That ain’t it! I kin always git a job. Sure, I cain’t fly again, ‘cuz of Billy, but I’ll find somethin’ … It’s Daniel. Don’t you see?” Her face crumpled again. “Now I know why. Somethin’ happened. Daniel lost our money somehow. A bad business deal or some lousy investment. He was ashamed, didn’t want me to know.” Her shoulders shook. “He was so proud of being a wonderful provider,” she gasped. “He sacrificed his own life to leave us the house and the insurance money. That was the last thing he could do for us.” She gulped back a sob.

“He did it.” She took a deep shuddering breath and clenched her fists. “Oh my God, Daniel! He did it! He killed himself! I never believed it until right now.”

Frank leaned forward, put his arms around her and stroked her hair, enveloped in her sweet scent and her anguish, as she sobbed into his neck and shoulder.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” She rubbed a fist at her nose and eyes. “We could have worked it out. We could have started over.” Frank offered his handkerchief and she blew her nose. “It was his pride,” she added furiously. “It had to be his pride and his goddamn ego.”

She began to cry again, her pain as fresh as if Daniel still lay bleeding upstairs. Her raw misery was contagious, stirringup long-suppressed sorrows buried in Frank’s youth, in the graves of his parents.

What if she begins to grieve all over again, he wondered, and stops opening the mail?

He leaned her gently back into her chair.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

“Hell, no. I need something stronger. There’s a bottle of brandy in that cabinet.”

He thought of his mother. “Billy will be home from school soon.”

“It’s only ten o’clock.” She began to rise. “If I ever needed a drink, I need a big one now.”

“Sit. I’ll get it.” His hands shook as he splashed two inches of brandy into a water glass.

She took tiny sips, her hiccuping sobs producing a strange echo-chamber effect in the glass.

He ached to help, but was clueless as to how, so he simply sat there.

Finally she sighed and handed him the empty glass. “I’d like that tea now,” she said in a small voice.

They drank it in the kitchen. “How about some toast or soup?”

“No. You’re so sweet.” Her eyes and nose were red and swollen, her lipstick gone; a long lock of hair had come loose from the swept-up style and straggled down the graceful curve of her neck to the tender hollow of her throat.

She looked so beautiful, utterly vulnerable and so forlorn. He wanted to hold her, cheer her, murmur words of comfort.

“I should talk to Ron Harrington,” he said instead, his voice brisk. “Daniel’s partner. You say they were close, they built the business together. Daniel must have discussed his plans with him.”

“Why?” she asked wearily. “What does any of that matter now?”

“If Daniel was cheated out of the money some recovery may be possible through legal recourse. If he lost everything in a legitimate business deal, you need that information for the IRS, otherwise you face big problems there.”

He felt heat radiate from her body as she brushed his arm reaching across him for his empty cup. He could not leave her alone, but had to get her out of the house and into a public place he thought. He was only human. Her raw emotion had unleashed a surprising wellspring of feelings in him. He could not remember another woman stirring him as deeply. He insisted on taking her out to an early lunch. He opened the sunroof and drove leisurely. Who could wallow in despair on such a blue-sky day, awash in golden light, soaring gusts of wind and fast-moving white clouds? They drove to South Point Seafood House, a rustic wooden building at Miami Beach’s southern tip.

They climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor, a private place to talk with the best views of sea and sky, and ships navigating the deep-water channel from the port of Miami to the open Atlantic. Diamonds twinkled all around them, reflections of light off the water.

He ordered some chowder, she nibbled at a shrimp appetizer, fretting again about the old pocket watch more than the money.

“If you’re absolutely certain it’s missing, we can circulate a description or a picture to antique dealers. They must have a trade magazine. A police report should be filed as well. We’ll need an estimated value for a tax write-off. Any idea when it was last appraised?” He jotted a reminder in his pocket briefcase and looked up expectantly.

“Always the accountant, aren’t you? I jist want to findit.” She paused. “Only family heirloom I ever had was a gold locket, belonged to my grandmother. The burglar took it.”

“Such things are nice to have, but they’re only things,” he said. “A man once told me never to love anything that can’t love you back. It was good advice.”

“A wise man.” She sniffed and lifted her chin. “Did you know your grandparents?”

He shook his head.

“On either side?”

“No, they all died in Hungary.”

“Hungary? What were they doing there?”

He laughed. “I was born in Budapest.”

She squinted at him curiously.

“My father’s name was Imre Huszar. My mother’s maiden name was Aranka Korsos. And my name was Janos.

“My parents were freedom fighters. They went through hell over there. Fighting the communists. The people made a brave stand. The cause was noble, but the Russians rolled in tanks, marched in tens of thousands of soldiers. Killed indiscriminately. Murdered young girls, executed teenagers. Went into hospitals and killed patients in their beds. My maternal grandfather was one of them. A communist reign of terror began. We got out through Austria, came to this country in fifty-eight. I was four.”

“Janos!” The deeply etched dimples flashed. “How did you git to be Frank Douglas?” Crying had made her voice seductively husky.

“My dad was a determined man—hopelessly in love with America and its promise. Arrived as a penniless immigrant and started out salvaging and reselling junk from trash piles. Used to take me with him on his rounds. His first business was something called Hub Cap City. Then he opened his own small pawn shop. He never would have been successful, notin that business anyway. He refused to buy stolen goods and was a sucker for a sob story. His dream was for us to be the all-American family and I was to be the all-American boy. He wanted me to speak only English, so I wouldn’t be different from the other kids in school. He applied for citizenship, pored through phone directories, newspapers and history books, picked out our new names and had them legally changed before I was enrolled. I became Franklin D. Douglas, after two of his heroes.”

“Roosevelt? And … ?”

“General Douglas MacArthur.”

“How neat!”

“I’m just lucky his heroes weren’t Spike Jones and Fats Domino.” He smiled. “He was enthralled by the American dream, the possibilities.”

“And then he was killed,” she whispered, hand to her mouth. “How horrible.”

“More so for my mother than me. She was a lost soul. Hadn’t learned much English. Even though she had become a citizen, her world revolved around my father. She was left alone in a strange new country, with no friends or family.”

“What did she do?”

He shook his head, staring out at the silver and turquoise sea. “Looked for companionship in neighborhood bars. She died my first year in college.”

“And look who you’ve become,” Rory whispered. “I’m so lucky you were here when I needed you.” She reached for his hand, then glanced up at the open sky. “Look!” A formation of pelicans glided smoothly toward the shoreline in a perfect V. “An omen,” she said. “That’s the sort of job I need. I love workin’ with birds and animals. I volunteer at the Pelican Harbor Seabird Station, though I haven’t done much since Daniel … I need to get back into that, it’s goodfor the soul. Maybe I can find me a job in a related field. Lemme see. Zoo, vet, pet store, what else is there … ?”

“Dog catcher?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’d take all the strays home.”

“Park ranger?”

“Not baaaad. I would love that! Workin’ out in the ‘glades, defendin’ wildlife. Probably has good benefits and I would get to wear a uniform!”

“Seriously,” he said. “I know a lot of people in business downtown, I’m sure I could help you find a good—”

“An office gig?” She hooted in derision. “Pu-leeze, I want the badge, the hat and the airboat—and my own guard gator. I am serious. I’m gonna find out what I need to qualify.”

Her resilient spirit, her plans for the future, cheered his heart.

The mail waited at Twin Palms. Tucked among the bills, the supermarket circulars and the Victoria’s Secret catalog was an insurance company check for half a million dollars.

“Look at all them pretty zeros!”

“Don’t go crazy,” he cautioned. “Remember, you’re broke. The tax man cometh. Not only will you owe taxes on that money, but you’re still facing other major tax consequences.”

“How kin anybody have this much money,” she demanded, “and still be flat broke?” She pouted. “Kin I just hold it for a while?”

“ ‘Til we get to the bank.” He checked his watch. “No point in losing even a day’s interest on that kind of money.”

“You’re gittin’ your twenty-five big ones back first thing,” she announced. “Right off the top, plus the bail-out for my car.”

“Let’s just wait,” he said. “No rush.”

Ron Harrington had also received his insurance check, he told Rory when she called him at the Miami restaurant.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, “just a little sore throat. An accountant is here helping me with Daniel’s affairs. He wants to talk to you. I’ll put him on.”

“Frank Douglas here. I’d like to meet with you, Harrington, about Alexander’s financial records.”

“Rory didn’t tell you?” The voice was tight and cold, with traces of a New York accent. “Danny and I were no longer partners.”

“I’m aware of that, but we need your help to clear up some confusion.”

“I sent all his papers over to Rory after Danny died.” The man sounded harried and distracted. “I’ve got people waiting for me right now. Nothing I can help you with.”

“I only need a few minutes of your time.”

“Look, my sympathies are with Rory, her kid and her troubles, but there’s nothing—”

“Well, we need your help, otherwise the IRS is gonna be all over us both. I just need twenty minutes, a few simple questions.”

Harrington sighed. “How’s Monday sound?”

“No window in your schedule before then?”

“Look, I tol’ ya, I’m up against it right now, up to my ass in alligators here.”

“What time?”

“Five, six o’clock. We’re closed Mondays. I come in when it’s quiet, to catch up on the paperwork. The place’ll be locked up, I’ll be in the back office. An alley runs alongside the building, there’s a door. Rory can tell you where it is.”

“See you then, between five and six. If you can see a way to make it sooner, give me a call.”

“Sure. Gotta go, tell Rory I said chin up.”

“Sure.” He hung up and turned to her. “Is this guy always so warm, friendly and eager to help?”

“Oh, that’s just Ron. Always uptight, stressed out. Pressure gets the best of him. Daniel was forever calming him down. That’s why they were such good partners.”

She kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said solemnly, “for openin’ my eyes and gittin’ me on the right track.” She clearly believed at last that her husband was, indeed, a suicide. And for the first time, Frank felt dead sure he was not.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Y
ou know I don’t like this stuff, don’t play well with others,” Frank protested as he started the car.

Kathleen patted his knee. “This is good for you, for us,” she said earnestly. “An important step.”

He eased down the driveway, past the splashing fountain, the blazing bougainvillea and the long chains of jade vine adorning the gate with its aquamarine flowers.

“Why do we have a house with no name?” he asked.

“Where on earth do you come up with these ideas?” Kathleen looked amused.

“I’m serious.” He grinned at her.

“You mean like Tara? Mount Vernon? Or would you prefer Camp David? Or, wait, I thought our house did have a name. Remember? Back when we were renovating? Whatwas it that you used to call it? Oh, I remember, the Incredible Money-Sucking Pit.”

The support group met in a bright comfortable room at the hospital. Chairs arranged in a circle, a wooden table at the back laden with napkins, paper cups, homemade cookies and a carrot cake brought by members. Bottled water, flavored teas and sodas chilled in a tub of ice.

A cheery young social worker in a sweatsuit doled out name tags, red for recipients, blue for family members.

He felt uncomfortable in this room full of strangers. Most wore bracelets like his. Not all had new hearts; some owed their lives to donated livers, or kidneys, even lungs.

They began with a moment of silence, for those to whom they owed their survival. He had no trouble remembering Rory and her dead husband; he’d been thinking of little else.

As members introduced themselves, they announced what vital organs they had had replaced, as though strangers’ components functioning in their bodies had become integral to their identities. He felt embarrassed when they applauded him. What for? Surviving? Becoming one of a growing army of human beings kept alive with body parts from dead people?

A woman in her thirties wore red stretch pants and a T-shirt proclaiming
I Love My New Liver.

She urged them all to do the same, to educate strangers about the critical shortage of organ donors. Frank shared the sentiment, but passed on the T-shirt.

“Now, any problems?” chirped Audrey, the perky social worker.

Hands shot up. Harry, a kidney recipient, related a long sad litany. His wife of four years, devoted and nurturing throughout his long illness, dialysis and surgery, had growncold and left him since his recovery. The heartbreak of the pending divorce so affected his work that he lost his job as a radio station engineer. He had to lie about his health history in order to land even a lesser-paying job. Now living alone and depressed in a small apartment, he feared that his negative feelings and self-neglect might cause his new kidney to fail.

His medication could be contributing to his depression, Audrey advised. His dosage might need adjusting, she said, and suggested he see his doctor. Emma, a liver recipient, urged him to listen to self help tapes on positive thinking. Two members zeroed in on the fact that Harry had already been sick when he and his wife met and married. His illness, they said, might have made him attractive to her. When he survived, became healthy and no longer needed her constant attention, her interest waned. They suggested that the relationship was not a healthy one to begin with.

An advertising man, recipient of a kidney donated by his brother, was now on the list for a new pancreas. His doubts and personal problems spilled over, pouring out as he expressed his fears.

The stories went on, and Frank zoned out, a technique perfected during unpleasant medical procedures. They all would be dead without organ transplants, he thought, studying the others. He identified with their endurance. Survivors, all of them, but still strangers. He had never been a joiner. He always felt more comfortable alone or interacting with others one on one.

He had once tried to explain those feelings to Kathleen, describing himself as a “loner.” He quickly dropped the word after she correctly pointed out that it was the one always used by former neighbors to describe serial sex killers or massmurderers. Frank genuinely liked people, he just didn’t want them around him. He liked socializing, but on his own terms.

Those quirks, Kathleen insisted, were the crippling legacy of his childhood. No denying his early life had left its mark, but he disputed the negative interpretation.

So he didn’t play golf, cards, or Trivial Pursuit. The game of life was what counted, and it was dead serious and too short, as he well knew. First he had worked his way through school, then succeeded in business; when his heart failed, survival had become his goal. Even the exercises he had always enjoyed, racquetball and running, were a means to an end, staying in shape, training to win. At this moment he would rather be hot on the trail of Rory’s missing money.

Patience, he told himself, and gazed longingly at the door. Had there ever been a successful escape from one of these sessions? How much longer could they go on?

To his surprise, Kathleen suddenly spoke up.

“I would like to hear what you all think,” she said, “about the advisability of initiating personal contact with your donors’ families.”

Audrey reiterated the program’s policy of confidentiality, then opened the topic to the floor.

“Not a good thing.” Andrew, a liver recipient in his fifties, waggled his index finger for emphasis. “I heard about one several years ago. The mother of the donor turned out to be a very domineering woman who had lost her only son. When she met the fella who received his liver, she wanted to run his life, stick her nose in his business. He and his family finally had to move to get away from her.”

Others nodded. “There was a family we were told about,” one woman said. “When the recipient visited to thank them, they asked for money, said they were behind in their house payments.”

“That’s wrong,” chimed in the woman in the red stretch pants and T-shirt. “It’s like putting a price on human life.”

“But don’t you think,” Frank asked, unable to resist, “that it’s a small price to pay for life? That if there is a need, and you might be able to help them somehow, that it’s the right thing to do?”

“Anonymity is best,” the woman said flatly, as the others agreed. “Better to send an unsigned thank-you note through the program.”

“Some people find it impossible to accept a gift without reciprocating.” The social worker smiled sweetly at Frank. “We all have to learn how to take.”

“And what about sleep disorders and psychological problems?” Kathleen tried to sound casual but fooled no one, he was sure.

“Commonly encountered by transplant patients.” Audrey nodded.

The room murmured acquiescence. “We’ve all been through it,” a kidney recipient said.

“The trauma of life-threatening illness, the stress, then finally going home. I cried every time I saw a face I knew,” Andrew confessed.

“It’s the medication, the steroids,” said the soft-spoken middle-aged wife of a kidney recipient. “There was a gentle, mild-mannered little man in our first group. He loved his wife dearly, she was an absolute angel, nursed him through everything. Three days after she brought him home from the hospital, he chased her through the house with a butcher knife. She had to call nine one one.”

“But,” Frank said, “that all ends when the patient is weaned away from the initial high dosage.”

“Medically, that should be the case, and that’s a matter that every individual should discuss with his or her own physician,” Audrey said, “but many patients indicate that psychological upsets often continue beyond that period.”

Frank was uncomfortably aware of Kathleen leaning forward in her seat. “In what form?” she asked solemnly.

“Uncharacteristic mood swings, personality changes.”

He felt humiliated and conscious of their stares. Kathleen had embarrassed him in front of strangers. “Maybe,” he said, “those patients always had problems but were too sick to act on them. Maybe that fellow never really liked his wife.”

Negative murmurs swept the room. Hell, he thought, what kind of support group is this?

“What about children?” he asked mildly. “Do recovered recipients often feel shut out of the family unit because their authority and parenting styles have been undermined by a spouse? Isn’t it singularly important for parents to maintain a united front, instead of one conspiring with the children, keeping secrets from a spouse now eager to resume his, or her, role as a parent?”

The majority agreed this time.

Kathleen’s face was brick red as Audrey cheerfully announced a break for refreshments. His wife avoided him, mingling with others, so Frank joined a small group of recipients at the back of the room. Turning away when two men unbuttoned their shirts to compare scars, he came face-to-face with Audrey.

“You must hear everything,” he said, twisting the cap off a chilled bottle of Evian water. “Do you ever meet recipients who believe they experience a spiritual link to the donor or feel as though they have taken on some of the donor’s memory or personality?”

“Ah, the metaphysical.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow and smiled easily. “Patients do report all sorts of side effects while their medications are still being adjusted.”

“But what if it has nothing to do with the medication? What if the mood swings actually are emotions and characteristics transferred from the donor?”

She chuckled. “In other words, if your transplant took place in Paris, you’d wake up with a taste for escargots? Or if your donor was a concert pianist, you’d suddenly play Chopin? I don’t think so.”

Kathleen remained silent until inside the car. “You know I’m the only full-time parent our girls have had for years,” she said, her voice tight.

He turned the key in the ignition.

“First you were always at work, then you were always sick. Now you have the colossal gall to talk about parenting styles and embarrass me in front of all these people.”

“I only brought it up,” he said, backing the car out, “because you were embarrassing me. You know I don’t like airing our private lives with strangers. For a minute there I thought you were going to ask their advice about our sex life.”

“Maybe I should have.”

“Oh, what’s wrong with it?” Me and my big mouth, he thought. Now he’d stepped in it. What the hell did she mean by that? She refused to answer.

“This is what you wanted, Kathleen. You wanted to go to the damn meeting. Happy now?”

Weary as he was, he slept poorly again that night. Not only because they had quarreled, but because he felt a sense of urgency, time was running out. On whom? Or what? What the hell was happening? Someone, something, was there, waving a red flag just beyond his peripheral vision. What the hell was it?

*   *   *

He felt ready to burst out of the gate like a race horse by Monday afternoon. Tough and businesslike, that’s how he would play it with Harrington. Was the man’s initial reticence sinister, or was he merely protecting the reputation of a dead friend? He’d know when he looked the man in the eye. Frank had to convince him that Rory and Billy were the ones who needed protection now.

He put his laptop in the trunk, just in case. A light rain fell, snarling rush-hour traffic. A drive that would normally take twenty minutes took thirty-five instead. Frank was still early. A car veered sharply away from the curb and sped off as he approached, leaving a space open in front of the restaurant. A “Closed Mondays” sign hung in the front door, no lights were visible inside.

He pulled up his jacket collar against the chilly rain and turned in to the alley. The acrid smell of rotting vegetables in several Dumpsters made his stomach churn. Lights illuminated the Dumpsters and the side door. He pushed the button, heard the buzzer inside, but no one answered. The gloomy afternoon was about to segue unnoticed into night. He glanced toward the traffic sounds in the street. Standing alone in the alley, he realized, made him a sitting duck for any passing mugger. He hit the buzzer again, two sharp bursts.

The rain fell harder. He had intended to make a crisp, forceful impression. Looking drowned wouldn’t do it. He leaned close to the door, a stubborn finger on the button. The only sound from inside was the buzzer’s long bleat. A derelict paused at the mouth of the alley to stare at him, matted hair streaming, his baggy trousers secured by a makeshift belt fashioned from a rope. Swell, Frank thought. He grimly avoided the man’s eyes, rapped his keys sharply on the metal door, and hit the buzzer again. They had an appointment, goddammit. He would not give up and leave. He glanced back at the derelict, who appeared about to approach him. Frank glared and shook his head. The man shuffled on. Maybe he should go to the front, Frank thought, and peer in through the plate glass windows. He rattled the doorknob in annoyance.

It was unlocked.

How stupid, he thought. He’d been standing in the rain all this time, and Harrington had left the place open for him. The interior was dark and he hesitated. “Harrington!” he called. “Frank Douglas here.” He stepped inside and shook the rain off his jacket. He was in a kitchen area, surrounded by grills, walk-in refrigerators and freezers, and huge sinks. Dim light filtered in from the plate glass windows in the front dining room. Tables were stripped of linen, the chairs stacked. A light glowed in the back.

“Harrington?” The man had to be crazy, leaving the door unlocked. Anybody could walk in. He turned and twisted the dead bolt in the steel door behind him.

He called again, making his way toward the light. The only sound was his own breathing. He thought he saw someone and was startled for a moment, but it was only a starched waiter’s jacket hanging empty on a clothes rack. The office door stood ajar, spilling light into a storage area stacked with crates.

“Are you there?” he said. The phrase echoed oddly in his head. He had spoken those words before, in a similar setting. Was the memory his, or someone else’s? The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open.

Desk drawers were pulled out, the contents scattered. A wall safe gaped open. A man lay on the floor sprawled at a grotesque angle. A small rug had been tossed over his face. He looked like a pile of crumpled and discarded clothes, except for the blood, exploded bone and brain matter.