Blood Debt (11 page)

“We're a lot busier later in the day,” Amanda explained as she led the way along an empty corridor. “Our morning programming's all educational tapes from UBC, so we operate with a bare minimum of staff until about noon.” She shot him a wry glance. “And little more after that.”

“Yet Ms. Chou was here first thing.”

“She'll be here last thing, too. Our little Patricia would like to be Geraldo Rivera when she grows up.”

“And you were here . . .”

“I am always here.” Stopping in front of an unmarked steel door, she raised a hand and lowered her voice. “You must have been pretty persuasive to get Patricia to talk to you at this hour, and you look like you can handle yourself, but I couldn't live with my conscience if I didn't warn you about a couple of things. First, if she invites you to call her Patricia, that's exactly what she means. Patricia, never Pat. Second, nothing you tell her is off the record. If she can find a use for it, she will. Third, if she can find a use for you, she'll use you as well, and, given that you're not exactly hard on the eyes, it might be smart to present a moving target.” She rapped on the door and stepped aside, motioning for Celluci to enter. “Good luck.”

“I feel like I should be carrying a whip and chair,” he muttered reaching for the door handle.

“A cyanide pill might be more practical,” Amanda told him cheerfully. “We need her. We don't need you. Remember, keep moving.”

As the door closed behind him, he heard her humming, “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead,” then he heard nothing at all as the heavy steel cut off all sound from the hall.
So I can assume no one will be able to hear me if I scream
.

The room had originally been one large cinderblock rectangle, but bookcases had been used to divide it into two smaller work spaces, one considerably smaller than the other and windowless besides. Betting on what seemed like a sure thing, he walked into the larger of the two.

The woman working at the computer terminal didn't acknowledge his presence in any way although she must have heard both her producer's knock and his entrance. Celluci got the impression that it wasn't a deliberate slight but rather that he simply wasn't as important as her work in progress. Marginally
more
insulting upon consideration. After a dozen years in police work, however, insults meant little unless accompanied by violent punctuation.

Hands clasped behind his back, he looked around.

Bookcases made up not only the dividing wall but covered two of the other three and rose to the lower edge of the windows on the third. Their contents seemed about equally divided between books, videos and binders with a number of framed photographs propped up in front.

Patricia Chou accepting something from Vancouver's Mayor. Patricia Chou being congratulated by the current Premier of British Columbia. Patricia Chou with a serenely smiling man Celluci recognized as the right-to-lifer who'd put a high velocity, 7.62-mm rifle bullet into a 57-year-old obstetrician because he objected to the doctor performing legal abortions at city hospitals. Although Ms. Chou was still smiling in that particular photograph, her expression as she gazed at the handcuffed gunman seemed to suggest she'd just squashed something unpleasant she'd found under a rock and was happy to have done it.

Detective-Sergeant Celluci personally believed the world would be a significantly better place and his job one hell of a lot easier if the victims were given the kind of coverage criminals usually got and if criminals were ignored by the press, their names and pictures never appearing outside of rap sheets and court documents. He didn't approve of giving them time on talk shows no matter how local the market.

“You're Michael Celluci.” When he turned, she tossed a silken fall of midnight hair back over her shoulder and continued before he had a chance to speak. “You wanted to talk to me about yesterday's show.” Her tone suggested he not waste her time.

Studying her face, Celluci discovered what the cameras had camouflaged; she was young. Not long out of university. Not long enough for the sharp edges of ambition, intellect, and ego to have been dulled by the world.

A lot like Vicki when they first met.

Been there. Done that. Got the scars.
“As I said on the phone, Ms. Chou, I have a friend who wants to know why you think the body found in Vancouver Harbor was an organ-legging victim.”

“And as I said on the phone, I'd like to know why your friend wants to know why.”

“My friend thinks much the same thing you do.”

“Your friend is the only other person in the city who does. You don't.”

Celluci shrugged, the gesture carefully neutral. “I try to keep an open mind.”

“An open mind?” The repetition fell barely to one side of mockery. “Why doesn't your friend want to talk to me? Why send you?”

“She was busy.”

“Busy,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at him for a long moment then one ebony brow lifted. “You're not with the local police department, are you?”

He matched her brow for brow, beginning to regret giving her his real name. “What makes you think I'm with any police department.”

“First, your gaze is constantly going flick, flick, flick around the room. Second, in spite of styles, your cuffs are loose enough to access an ankle holster. Third, although it's less obvious in person, over the phone your voice mannerisms are pure law enforcement. Forth, you're not local or you would have identified yourself earlier.” Her gaze grew fiercely speculative, almost sharklike. “You're federal, aren't you? This is bigger than I thought, isn't it? Maybe even international.”

Her ambition burned so brightly he could almost feel the heat. If Tony's theory was correct, and Patricia Chou was looking for a story big enough to get her a network show, she seemed to believe—for reasons unclear to Celluci at the moment—that this was the story. Although who the hell she thought he was, he had no idea.

“If I tell you what
your friend
wants to know,” she continued, leaning forward, eyes blazing, “I get exclusive rights to this story when it breaks.”

Celluci sighed. “Ms. Chou, there might not be a story.”

“Exclusive rights,” she repeated with no room for negotiation.

He knew when to surrender—especially when it didn't make a damned bit of difference to him. In his opinion, there was as much chance of the John Doe in Vancouver Harbor having been killed by organ-leggers as there was of Henry Fitzroy winning the Governor General's Award for fiction. “All right. The story's yours.” Raising a cautioning hand, he added, “As soon as there is a story.”

She nodded and sat back. “So you want to know why I think that missing kidney is the reason for the young man's murder. Simple, there're a lot of people who need them, giving an organ-legger a large database to chose their buyer from—a database that's fairly easily tracked given that every one of them is on dialysis.”

“Wait a minute.” An uplifted hand cut her off. “You said buyers.”

“They're hardly going to give them away, Mr. Celluci. And, considering that it can lead to infections, stroke, heart attacks, and peritonitis, I think I can safely say dialysis sucks. I'm sure they could find people willing to pay big bucks to get off it. What's more, because kidney transplants have a 98% success rate, you can pretty much guarantee your product. Which is why they only took a kidney and not the heart and lungs and corneas and all the other things people so desperately need. The left kidney—the one missing from the body—is the one most often used for transplant purposes. Also, it's one of the easiest transplants to perform, giving you a larger database of doctors to choose from, and the more doctors you have, the better the odds you'll find one who can be corrupted.”

“That's two completely different computer systems to access; it can't be that easy.”

“These are the ‘90s, Mr. Celluci. Twelve-year-olds are hacking into international defense systems every day.”

Unfortunately, he couldn't argue with that. “The newspaper reported that the surgery to remove the kidney was well on the way to being healed.”

She picked up a pencil and bounced the eraser end against her desk. “Your point?”

“Why do you think they kept him alive for so long? Why not just take the kidney and let him die?”

“I expect that they kept him alive long enough to be certain that the buyer's body didn't reject the kidney. If it did, well, with him still around, they'd have a spare and could try again.”

“So why remove the hands?”

“Fingerprints.” Her tone added a silent:
Don't play dumb with me.
“An identity makes it much easier for the police to gather the information that could lead to the person or persons responsible.”

“And what does Mr. Swanson have to do with it?”

“Swanson was just the mouthpiece of the BC Transplant Society. I was trying to get someone in a perceived position of expertise to admit the possibility.”

Ms. Chou apparently had an answer for everything, but that was by no means a complete answer. She reminded him more of Vicki every second. “And?”

She leaned a little forward, and her teeth showed between parted lips. “And I've decided I don't like him. When I was researching him for that interview, I discovered that not only is he filthy rich but he has absolutely no bad habits. He works very hard, he gives a lot of money away, and that's it.”

“The rich aren't allowed to be nice, hardworking people?”

“Not these days. Now, I'm not saying he's a part of this organ-legging thing, but he certainly has, as you people would say, motive and opportunity.” She raised one emphatic finger after another. “His wife died of kidney failure waiting for a transplant. He has more money than most governments, and with enough money you have the opportunity to do everything.”

“He also seems to think this organ-legging thing isn't possible. His arguments made a great deal of sense.”

She sat back and waved a dismissive hand. “They would, wouldn't they? Did you know he funded a private clinic where people in the last stages of renal failure can wait for a kidney?”

Celluci spent a moment hoping she'd never decide she disliked
him.
“No, I didn't. I take it the police found your theories less than helpful?”

Her lips curled into a sneer. “The police as much as accused me of sensationalizing an urban myth for the sake of personal gain.”

How could they possibly have come up with that idea?
Celluci asked himself dryly. “You've a lot of conjecture, Ms. Chou, but no facts.”

“And what does your friend have?”

He half smiled, acknowledging the hit. “More conjecture. But she also says that since we have bugger-all else, we have to start somewhere. Thanks for your time.” Holding out his hand, he added, “The moment we get a fact, I'll let you know.”

Her hand disappeared in his and yet gave the impression that she was fully in charge of the gesture. Standing, she was a great deal shorter than her personality suggested. When she smiled, she showed enough teeth to remind him that many of the people he'd run into over the last couple of years weren't exactly human. “See that you do.”

It was pleasantly enough said, but a threat for all of that.
Dick me around, and you'll be the story. It won't be fun
.

Under other circumstances, he might have reacted differently, but short women made him vaguely uncomfortable, so he merely showed himself out—counting on his fingers in the corridor to make sure he'd gotten them all back.

A few moments later, he was sitting in the van going over what he had.

A handless body short one surgically removed kidney had been found in Vancouver Harbor.

Patricia Chou's information on why the kidney could have gone to an illegal transplant was entirely plausible even if her dislike of Ronald Swanson was not.

Organized crime did have a history of using dead men's prints which would explain the missing hands. And Vicki was right about organized crime always looking for a new way to make a buck. Some sort of criminal bodyshop made more sense than a well-respected, socially conscious businessman selling used organs like they were high-priced radios ripped out of parked cars.

According to Patricia Chou, there
was
a market out there for kidneys.

Resting his forehead against the top curve of the steering wheel, Celluci closed his eyes.
Great, now they've got me beginning to believe it.
 . . .

Six

“KEEP your ears open
 . . .”

Tony stuffed another cartridge in the rewinder with more emphasis than was absolutely necessary. So far he'd overheard a totally unbelievable excuse about a destroyed tape, a conversation that could be used to script a bad made-for-TV movie, and three long-winded reviews from a retired office machinery salesman who expressed opinions on his weekend rentals every Monday. Not exactly the buzz on the street.

“Vicki says you're the best
 . . .”

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, staring out the window. While he wasn't stupid enough to wish himself back into cold and hunger and fear, he couldn't help feeling cut off from the one thing he did well.

On the other side of Robeson, two teenagers leaned against a bank building soaking up the sun. One was thin and black. The other, thin and white. Skin color their only visible difference. They both wore filthy army pants, old scuffed Doc Martens, and sleeveless black T-shirts—one faced with a red peace symbol, the other with an ivory skull. Steel rings glinted in both noses above moving mouths.

Eyes narrowed in irritation—lipreading was
not
as easy as it looked on TV—Tony started to ad-lib the words he couldn't hear. “You know about that gang selling organs? Yeah, man, like I'm droppin' off a kidney tomorrow.”

“What the hell are you talkin' about, Foster?”

Tony jumped and whirled to face his boss who'd returned, unnoticed, from the store room. Squelching the lingering instinctive street response to growl,
“None of your business,”
he muttered. “Nothing.”

The older man shook his head and handed him a pile of boxes to reshelve. “I've said it before, and I'll say it again; you're a weird one. Get back to work.”

“
Vicki says you're the best
 . . .”

It wasn't so much that he was letting Vicki down, more that he'd lost a part of himself.

Scooping up the boxes, he came around the end of the counter just as one of the teenagers across the street held out his hand to the other. It was such an unusual gesture that it caught his attention and he stopped for a moment to watch. They shook hands formally, uncomfortably, then moved apart. As one of them turned to face the store, the ivory skull smiled.

Tony rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and looked again. It was a T-shirt, old and faded and nothing more.

Of course the skull was smiling, you idiot Skulls always smile. Tony Foster, you have been hanging around with vampires too long.
But a line of sweat dribbled icy cold down the center of his back, and the hand that set the video boxes on the shelves was shaking.

“You got my money?”

The driver's smile was so nonthreatening it was almost inane. “It's in the bag.”

The bag had been printed with a cheap rip-off of the Vancouver Grizzlies logo. There were at least a million of them around the city. After a brief struggle with a zipper that seemed intent on snagging, it opened to show several packets of worn tens and twenties.

“All right!” Considering how many dreams it held, the bag weighed next to nothing as it lifted off the floor. “Hey? What the fuck are you grinning about?”

The driver's smile broadened as he guided the dark sedan onto the Lion's Gate Bridge heading for North Vancouver. “I'm just happy when someone gets off the streets.”

Thin arms tightened around the bag. “Yeah, like you're a real fucking Good Samaritan.” He scowled at the dashboard. “Hey, weren't you in a gray car before?”

“You don't think I'm using my own car for this, do you?” The tone was mocking, superior.

“No. Guess not.”

They drove in silence along the North Shore, the only sound the quiet hum of the air-conditioner fan. When the car turned off Mt. Seymour Parkway onto Mt. Seymour Road, the teenager in the passenger seat shifted nervously. “Shouldn't I be like blindfolded or something?”

“Why?”

“So I can't, you know, tell anyone about this.”

“Tell who?” the driver asked quietly.

“No one, man. Fuck . . .” Contrary to romantic belief, those who lived on the street actually learned very little about life. The one and only lesson the survivors learned was how to survive. If they failed to learn it, then by definition they were just another sad statistic. The boy in the car figured himself for a survivor. He knew a threat when he heard one. There was suddenly more to the gorilla behind the wheel than those big, friendly, doggy eyes.

Palms leaving damp prints on the cheap nylon bag, he stared unfocused through the tinted windshield and built a pleasant fantasy of beating the driver's smug, self-satisfied face in. His eyes widened a little as they passed a security gate and turned onto a private road. They widened further as the clinic came into view.

“This don't look like no hospital.”

“That's right.” A sign by the edge of the drive read Staff Only. “Our clients don't like to think they're in a hospital, and they pay big bucks to maintain the illusion they aren't.”

“Fuck, what kind of clients you got?”

The driver smiled. “Rich ones.”

Rich ones. His right hand patted the rectangular bulges stretching the side of the bag. Rich ones like him.

Standard police procedure maintained that a personal visit elicited more information than a phone call. Not only were facial expressions harder to fake, but the minutiae of surrounding environmental clues were often invaluable. As Mike Celluci pushed open the door leading to the offices of the British Columbia Transplant Society, he recognized that no aspect of this “case” resembled standard police procedure, but when it came right down to it, he didn't have anything else to do.

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the reception desk at the BC Transplant Society fixed him with the steely-eyed, no-nonsense gaze of the professional volunteer. Celluci felt as though he were being assessed for potential usefulness and could almost hear her thinking:
How nice, muscle. I'm sure we have something around that needs moving
.

“Is Ronald Swanson in?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this about that dreadful woman?”

“If you mean the cable interview . . .?”

“Look, you're the fourteenth person who's asked about it since I came in—although the other thirteen were satisfied with a phone call.” Two spots of color blazed through the powder on her cheeks. “I'll tell you the same thing I told them; there is absolutely no truth to anything Patricia Chou said, and she should be prosecuted for spreading such a horrible, horrible story. Donated organs go to the most needy person on the list. They are not ever sold to the highest bidder. Ever.”

Somewhat taken aback, Celluci spread his hands and arranged his features into his best information eliciting expression. “Not within the system, no, but if someone were to circumvent . . .”

“That doesn't happen.”

“But it could.”

“I believe Mr. Swanson made it perfectly clear that such a horrific concept is impossible.”

“No, ma'am. He merely said it would be difficult and expensive. Which is why I wanted to speak with him.” He'd been half tempted to wander into one of the rougher sections of the city and see if he could find some gang action, but upon reflection decided he'd rather live a little longer. While he had no doubt he'd survive the gangs, Vicki'd kill him for taking the risk.

Her nostrils pinched shut, the receptionist laid both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “We are extremely fortunate that a man of Mr. Swanson's wealth and social standing is willing to do so much work for the society, but given the demands on his time, he does not spend his days here. If you want to speak with him, you'll have to call his office. You'll find Swanson Realty in the Yellow Pages.”

It was as efficient a dismissal as if she'd hung up on him. Thanking her for her time, Celluci turned and left the office.

I pity the fifteenth caller
, he thought as he waited for the elevator.

Swanson Realty actually was in the book, and from the size of the accompanying ad, Ronald Swanson was indeed doing very well for himself. Unfortunately, there was no way a company that size would put through a call to the owner unless the caller identified himself as a homicide detective. Too bad he was just a guy on vacation.

Frowning, Celluci let the phone book fall back into its plastic case and left the booth. For the first time, he had a good idea of how Vicki'd felt when her deteriorating eyesight pushed her off the force. He didn't much like the feeling.

Fortunately, it wasn't important he speak to Ronald Swanson. He'd mostly wanted the meeting for his own peace of mind. Since the man had obviously given some thought to the impossibility of setting up an organ-legging operation, Celluci'd hoped he could get him to expand on his reasoning.

Patricia Chou had almost convinced him Vicki was right about the organ-legging, and that meant—Ms. Chou's personal vendetta aside—Swanson was as much a suspect as the faceless crime lords of Vancouver.

But one body, one kidney, wasn't going to generate much in the way of profit.

So, somewhere, there had to be more bodies.

Or there were going to be more bodies.

He didn't much like either option.

The room was small with a single window up near the ceiling. The bottom four feet of the walls were a soft pink and so was the blanket on the bed. He guessed it was supposed to be soothing, but it made him think of Pepto Bismol and he didn't much like it.

He didn't much like the pajamas either, but the driver had made it perfectly clear he was expected to shower, then put them on.

At least the son of a bitch hadn't stayed to watch.

He locked the bathroom door behind him before even unlacing his boots and got in and out of the shower as fast as he could, unable to cope with an extended vulnerability. Unfortunately, the pajamas left him feeling little safer.

At least they don't have a hole in the front for my dick to fall out of.

Bag of money clutched tight against his side, he tried the exit. Locked. But he'd expected that. They wouldn't want him roaming around bothering their rich patients.

When the handle began to turn under his fingers, he hurriedly released it and backed toward the bed, heart pounding. He relaxed only slightly when the familiar form of the doctor entered the room pushing a stainless steel cart.

“Good afternoon, Doug. Are you comfortable?”

“'S okay. What's that for?” He eyed the equipment laid out on the top shelf suspiciously.

“Donor specific blood transfusions enhance graft survival. So . . .” She ripped open a cotton swab with brutal efficiency. “. . . I'm going to need to take some blood.”

Later, when it was over and he was lying in bed feeling weak and dizzy, his fingers plucked at the bag searching for reassurance.
It wouldn't be so bad
, he thought, refusing to acknowledge the fear that closed his throat and lay cold and clammy against his skin,
if I could only see out the window
. . . .

Jerked out of sleep, Celluci scrambled across the king-sized bed toward the ringing phone. The clock beside it said 7:04 P.M. Forty minutes to sunset. He'd lain down at three for a half-hour nap but was obviously more tired than he thought. The dainty, ladylike receiver almost disappeared in his hand, but eventually he got the right end to his ear. A quick glance at the call display showed him a familiar number. “What've you got for me, Dave?”

On the other end of the line, his partner, Detective-Sergeant Dave Graham, sighed deeply. “I'm fine, Mike. How are you? I got the names and addresses you wanted.”

“Thanks. How come you're calling from home?”

“Maybe I was on my way out of the office when you called. Maybe pulling these things off the system took a little time and I wanted to spend what was left of the evening with my family. Maybe I thought you didn't want the whole office wondering why you were suddenly interested in Vancouver gangs and real estate salesmen. You choose.”

Celluci grinned. “What were those options again?”

“Fuck you, too, buddy. Got a pencil handy?”

“Hang on.” He hit the hold button and headed into the kitchen where he'd seen a pad and a jar of pens beside an extremely expensive replica of an old-fashioned wall phone. “Okay. Go ahead.”

“You'll notice I'm not asking why you want these things.”

“And I appreciate that, Dave.”

“I mean, I'm willing to believe that you're just making some exciting vacation plans and are not being drawn into one of Vicki's weirdo, made for Fox TV investigations.”

“Thanks, Dave.”

“Yeah, well, I'm gullible that way. Try not to get yourself killed.”

The first half of the list, from the firmly entrenched to the up-and-coming, was longer than he'd thought it would be. There was nothing about Ronald Swanson at all. The man didn't have so much as an outstanding parking ticket.

Henry woke angry, but that was to be expected as Vicki's scent—the scent of an intruder, a competing predator—still clung to the bedroom. He'd been lying with his upper lip half lifted in a snarl, and it took him a moment to peel the flesh off air-dried teeth.

“I bet Brad Pitt never has this problem,” he muttered, reaching for the light.

The handless ghost waited impatiently at the end of the bed. The body in the morgue had been less disturbing—it was only dead. This spirit had moved beyond death, and shadows clung to it.
Eldritch shadows
, Henry found himself thinking and shook his head to dislodge the thought.
Oh, that's just what I need
—
now I'm channeling adjectives from H.P. Lovecraft
.

The ghost began to lift its mutilated arms, but before it could open its mouth to scream, Henry snarled, “That was you at the morgue, wasn't it?”