Blood Lies (14 page)

“Okay. Thanks, Alex.” Promising to be in touch soon, I hung up.

Why would Marcus be so interested in me
?

My thoughts drifted back to what Emily had told me about him the very last time I saw her. My blood still boiled thinking of the history Marcus and Emily had shared. And it occurred to me that I had been present the first time they ever met.

Six years earlier, Emily and I were at one of the hospital’s social functions I’d attended since signing on as a staff member at St. Jude’s. I felt compelled to work the crowd, pumping hands and paying my respects to the more senior physicians. Among the throng of doctors and their spouses, I became separated from Emily and I didn’t make it back to her for almost half an hour.

I spotted her across the crowded floor. Gorgeous in a black knee-length cocktail dress with a slit running up the side, Emily beckoned me over with a small two-fingered wave—our signal that she needed rescuing.

As I closed the gap across the floor, I saw Emily chatting with Alex’s husband, Dr. Marcus Lindquist. Alex had joined St. Jude’s three months after I did, but I’d already met her husband, as he was one of the staff hematologists. He was pleasant enough when he came down to the ER for consults, but his manner always struck me as slightly condescending and just a little too slick.

As soon as I reached them, Emily tucked her arm in mine and nestled her head into my shoulder. The whiff of her Calvin Klein perfume as her lips brushed warmly over my cheek sent a small erotic tingle through me, but I knew the show of affection was more than just for my benefit; she was establishing her status to Marcus as taken.

Emily pointed her water glass at Marcus. “Dr. Lindquist was just trying to find out what I am like in bed,” she said. “Maybe you can answer that better for him.”

Unfazed, Marcus offered me a confident smile. “Your lovely girlfriend’s account isn’t wholly accurate.”

I fought off the surge of jealousy. “Maybe, then, you can set the record straight, Marcus?”

“Surely.” He toasted me with his sloshing scotch glass before taking a long sip. “I told Emily that she carried herself like a dancer.”

“And?” Emily prodded with a small laugh.

His eyes widened playfully. “And I told her that every woman I’d ever met who danced well, fucked even better.” He chuckled. “So, I was trying to establish if she is as good a dancer as I think she might be.”

I smiled through gritted teeth. “You’ll have to take my word for it, Marcus. She’s a mind-blowing dancer.”

Marcus raised his glass in another toast.

“Here comes your wife,” I pointed out, as a visibly pregnant Alex approached. “Maybe you would like to tell her how good a dancer you think Emily is?”

I sat in the very last row of the bus, staring out the window as we crossed north over the Granville Street Bridge. The clouds had cleared and Vancouver’s downtown skyline sparkled in front of me, framed by the dramatic backdrop of snow-dusted mountains. Nestled between the ocean and the mountains, Vancouver, with its world-class natural beauty, could legitimately compete with my beloved Seattle. I remembered how Aaron once described his relocation from Seattle to Vancouver as having moved from Eden to paradise. But he’d always planned to return to Seattle. He had said as much to me two years earlier—the last time we spoke.

A few days after his final visit to Seattle, Aaron left a message on my machine reiterating his intent to follow through with the rehab program I’d offered to arrange. We played phone tag for days, but we finally hooked up two weeks after our initial conversation. When I saw
VANCOUVER, CANADA
appear on my caller ID, I answered the phone on the first ring. “Hey, little bro,” Aaron said, using our long-standing inside joke.

“You doing okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said. “Sorry about the melodramatics at your house a couple weeks ago.”

“No one does melodrama better than the Dafoes.” I laughed, relieved by how upbeat he sounded. “And that problem you mentioned with your ‘colleagues’?”

“Pretty much all sorted out.”

“You’re still going ahead with rehab, right?”

“No ifs, ands, or buts,” Aaron said. “For what it’s worth, I haven’t touched anything for the past two weeks. Of course, that won’t last unless I get some professional help. Is your friend still willing to have me?”

“Absolutely. Gary loves lost causes.”

Aaron laughed. “Oh, he’s going to love me plenty.”

“When should I line it up for?”

“Can you give me another two weeks or so?”

“Done.”

Aaron cleared his throat. “Ben, um, do you think there would be room for two at this clinic?”

“You mean Kyle?”

“No, he’s still recovering from his bone marrow transplant. I mean my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” I laughed. “You don’t have girlfriends. You have dates. Some of them don’t even last long enough to qualify as that.”

“Funny,” he grunted. “It’s different now. I’ve met someone.”

“Who also has a drug habit?”

“No worse than mine,” he said distantly.

“Come on, let’s have it,” I said, trying to ease the sudden tension on the line. “Tell me about her.”

“She’s a sweetheart, Ben. Smart and beautiful. And she’s even more determined than I am to get clean. We want to start over again in Seattle. Together.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jenny.”

“Hmmm, Jenny. I like the name.”

“Ben, you’ll love her. She reminds me a lot of Emily. Same passion, same weakness.”

After avoiding Emily’s name for three years, he’d now mentioned Emily in consecutive conversations. And the comparison brought a pang of melancholy. “It won’t be a problem,” I said. “I’ll talk to Gary. We’ll make sure there are spaces for you and Jenny. In two weeks, right?”

“Two weeks.” He laughed. “Thanks, Ben. I wouldn’t want to have anyone else for an identical twin.”

The bus pulled into the downtown depot, and the memory of Aaron’s last words faded. I disembarked with the others, working as hard to avoid eye contact as I had during the ride.

I’d discreetly counted the bills Kyle gave me. His generosity (in the form of twelve hundred Canadian dollars) would make life easier in the short term, but with only two changes of clothes, no food, no transport, and no roof over my head, his donation would be stopgap at best. I was determined not to risk blowing my cover or bringing attention to Alex by dipping into her ATM accounts, except in the case of a dire emergency.

Walking out of the station, I spotted a Royal Bank across the street. I decided that my first order of business was to establish my existence—or Peter Horvath’s, anyway—in Vancouver. I would start with a bank account.

I stepped into the branch and walked over to the customer service counter, where a perky young Asian clerk named Cindy Lo greeted me. Her blue blazer and navy skirt ensemble seemed out of place on her, making her look like a girl who had dressed up in her grandmother’s suit.

Cindy led me from the counter to a little office. Put at ease by her naïve eagerness to please, I breezed through the steps of setting up a checking account. Until she asked to see my identification. Resisting the familiar fight-or-flight impulse, I dug Peter’s license out of my wallet and passed it over to her. I hoped my face didn’t betray my sudden panic.

Cindy studied the driver’s license then looked up at me quizzically. I was just about to launch into a spontaneous cover story about the photo, when Cindy asked me, “Dr. Horvath, do you still live in Seattle?”

“Oh, no,” I said, feeling my pulse slow. “I’m in the process of relocating here. I just don’t have a permanent address yet.”

She pointed at the license with a happy smile. “Okay if we use this one?”

“Perfect.”

Cindy passed me back the license. She typed at her computer for a minute or two, printed out two sheets of paper, and had me sign the forms in three places. Fortunately, my signature was so illegible that it amounted to not much more than a Rorschach inkblot test for the reader. Still, I tried to make the opening B look more like a P for Peter Horvath. The process reminded me of the many pitfalls I would face as an impostor, even in the most mundane little tasks.

Cindy took the forms from me. She pulled a new bankbook from her desk drawer and had me sign it with the invisible ink pen. Her grin widened. “And now, Dr. Horvath, can I interest you in a Royal Bank Visa or line of credit?”

Yes, you can!
I wanted to shout, but I knew that an application would trigger background credit checks I couldn’t chance. I shook my head. “That’s too much like moving in together after the second date. Let’s try the checking account and see how the relationship works out from there.”

She giggled and handed me the bankbook along with a temporary ATM card and a few blank checks.

“Cindy, do you happen to know where the nearest YMCA is?” I hurried to add, “I was hoping to squeeze in a workout.”

“It’s only about four blocks from here.” She insisted on escorting me to the door and pointing out the street that would lead to the YMCA. I thanked her and headed off in the warm autumn day, satisfied I’d passed my first public test as Dr. Peter Horvath.

As soon as I turned onto Burrard Street, I found my bearings. At the top of the hill stood a familiar complex of red brick buildings, St. Paul’s Hospital. Eight years earlier, during my ER residency, I had done a six-week elective at the hospital, renowned for its HIV and inner-city medicine program. Living up to its billing, the hospital serviced a disproportionate number of intravenous drug users and alcoholics who offered some of the most bizarre medical conditions I had ever encountered. Like the gang at St. Jude’s in Seattle, the staff at St. Paul’s managed to maintain their compassion and sense of humor, which made the working environment surprisingly tolerable.

Burying my nostalgia, I ducked into the YMCA two blocks shy of the hospital. I registered at the front desk, disappointed to learn that the room was going to set back me about fifty dollars a night. My stay here would have to be short.

I followed the stairs to the fourth floor. The narrow room smelled of cleaning products with a trace of lingering cigarettes, though smoking wasn’t permitted. The room was barren aside from the twin bed, tight closet, and a small translucent window. The nearest bathroom was at the other end of the hallway. As I dropped onto the bed, exhaustion swept over me. Though it was only five in the afternoon, I stripped off my clothes and slipped under the sheets. I fell asleep almost as soon as I pulled the blanket over me.

At 9:15
P.M.
, I woke up and ventured out for a twelve-inch vegetarian sub, an impulse born not out of principle but economics, as the meatless choice saved me a few dollars. I returned to the room and fell back into bed.

With my body clock thoroughly upended, I woke up a few minutes before four in the morning. unable to get back to sleep. I tiptoed down the hallway, relieved to find the bathroom empty. I had a long hot shower, working to scrub away the last three days of my life.

I changed into my alternate outfit, a pair of jeans and a navy long-sleeved T-shirt. I sat on the bed, reviewing my situation. Doubts began to creep to mind. Maybe Aaron
was
dead. I remembered reading an article on how blood products could be freeze-dried indefinitely. Maybe someone had frozen Aaron’s blood, or mine. But even if the conspirator had access to such high-level technology, who would plan a murder two years in advance? And if Aaron were still alive, was he more involved than I was willing to accept? Perhaps desperation, drugs, or whatever motives had kept him underground all this time also drove him to participate in Emily’s murder.

No! Not Aaron
.

I wanted to punch walls. I wanted to cycle up a never-ending incline. I wanted out of this nightmare.

I hopped off the bed and paced the room like a caged rat wired on amphetamines. Time crawled by. Finally, light began to seep through the windows. At 7:30, I again ventured out onto the street. I walked past the hospital to the gas station on the corner. I knew from the time of my elective that the station served passable cheap coffee and had a selection of newspapers. I downed two cups as I scoured the local papers, relieved to see I had not hit their radar screens yet.

Outside, I found a phone booth tucked behind the gas station. I checked my watch, which read 8:50. I waited five minutes, guarding the phone, and then I dialed my own cell number, collect.

Alex accepted the charges. “Ben?”

The sound of her voice grounded me. Affection welled. With longing, I pictured her reassuring smile and her warm almond-brown eyes. I fought off the emotion. “Alex, where are you?” I asked, businesslike.

“A mall, in downtown Tacoma.”

“Perfect. You know the drill?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “I put you on hold, call the precinct, and then link you up to Helen using the conference call function on your phone.”

“And at the first sight of anyone official, you press the number sign three times, then hang up and get the hell out of there. Right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Alex, are you sure you want to do this?”

“I didn’t drive an hour to this mall to buy iron-on-photo T-shirts,” she grumbled. “Hang on. I’m going to get her.”

Twenty seconds later, the line buzzed and I heard Helen’s voice. “Hello?”

“Helen.”

Silence.

“Helen?”

“Benjamin?” she said slowly. “Where are you?”

“I can’t say.”

“You can and you should, Ben,” she sighed. “You really should.”

“So you can arrest me?”

“Yes,” she said. “And maybe also help you.”

“Help me?”

She was quiet again. I pictured Helen covering the receiver with a hand, as she barked out orders at her subordinates to start tracing the call. “Yes, help. Or at least try to help prove you didn’t do it.” She grunted a laugh. “God knows, you’re doing a piss-poor job of convincing anyone of that.”

“But you’re already convinced I did do it.”

“Never said I was convinced,” she said. “Everything I know about you tells me you don’t have those two murders in you. Problem is, all the evidence points to you.”

“So what do you do?”

“Roll up our sleeves and get down to some old-fashioned detective work. Like Baretta, before he offed his wife.” Her tone turned dead serious. “But I can’t do any of that while we’re spending all our time and energy searching for you.”

Her logic began to sway me. “How do I know you’ll keep looking for anyone else once you have me in custody?”

“Ben, have you ever known me to do a half-assed job with an investigation?”

I smiled at the phone. “No.”

“So trust me on this one, okay?”

“What about Mark Bellon?” I said, remembering the young seminary student she had told me about.

“Forget Mark. Life’s not that cruel. A detective doesn’t get two Bellons in one lifetime.” She paused. When she spoke again her voice filled with empathy. “Ben, you have to know how badly I don’t want you to turn out to be our guy.”

“But in your heart, you think I am.”

“Listen, Ben, I promise you: If you come in on your own accord, I will do everything in my power to get to the bottom of this.
Everything
.”

I wavered a moment. Then I heard three rapid beeps in succession—Alex’s warning—and I snapped back into focus. “Helen, I didn’t kill anyone.”

Alex hung up the line before Helen could reply. I listened to the dial tone, hoping Alex escaped safely and that our little stunt might keep the S.P.D. off my trail for a while longer.