Prayers for the Dead (39 page)

Years since Rina had been there. It hadn’t changed at all. A time warp of yesteryear when land was still an available commodity. A velvety green lawn hugging the foothills, dotted with several picnic benches. In the distance were the outdoor tennis courts. The sky was gray, the weather was cool, and the nets were empty. Since it was a school day and the park didn’t have a playground, there weren’t any children around. She and Bram owned the place.

He parked the Volvo, walked away from the car without a word. If she had had the keys, she would have driven home. Instead, she had no choice but to follow.

He turned to her, his face wan, his voice a shadow. “I am so sorry, Rina. I don’t know what… forgive me.”

She didn’t answer.

He ran his hand over his chin, surprised to find it roughened with stubble. “Are you all right?”

“I’m alive. It’s a good start.” She approached him tentatively. “Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not.” His eyes met hers. “What on God’s green earth were you thinking, showing up like that? The LAPD doesn’t have enough problems? You can’t
do
things like that, Rina. If you get dragged into this mess, you take your husband down at the same time.”

“I just wanted to talk… to help if I could—”

“You can’t.” He moved away from her, leaned against a giant budding sycamore and looked upward. “Go home, Rina. Just… go home.”

She came toward him. “Bram, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but what they’re saying is absurd. You’re no more capable of murder than I am.”

“You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re not… that way.”

“That
way
? You mean
gay
?”

“Why are you torturing me?”

He spun around, rage in his eyes. “Because you don’t know a
damn
thing about me. And you never did. Because if you had had even the tiniest clue, you would have never told me to go to Rome.”

Rina’s mouth dropped open; she was stunned and stung. “So suddenly I’ve become responsible for your regrets?”

“I would have moved mountains for you.” His eyes moistened. “All I wanted was some kind of… sign—”

“So why didn’t you
ask
for one?”

“Oh believe me, I asked in a thousand ways! You just never bothered to
listen
!”

His voice was seething with bitter fury. It was hard not to respond in kind. But Rina bit back her tongue. Because a harsh word delivered couldn’t ever be taken back.

There were so many different ways she could have answered his accusations. But what was the point? He was in trouble, he was hurting, and he was lashing out at her. Had she been a little less scared, a little less agitated, Rina knew she would have taken his anger for what it was — a backhanded compliment. He felt safe with her, secure enough to express himself. But she was too blinded by emotion.

Wiping wetness from her eyes, she said, “I did what I thought was right in the past. And I’m doing what I think is right in the present. If I am wrong now… like apparently I was wrong back then… then, I’ll kindly
butt
out!”

Softly, Bram said, “I think that’s a very good idea.”

They both stood in silence.

Rina said, “I need the keys to my car.”

“Oh.” Bram rummaged through his pockets, pulled out her keys. He was about to toss them to her. Instead, he walked over to the Volvo and opened the driver’s door. She sighed, dragged herself over, and scooted behind the wheel. She held out her hand and he dropped the keys into her open palm.

He whispered, “Next time you pray, ask Yitzy to forgive me for endangering your life.”

She glanced at his face, blinking back moisture from her eyes. “Did you have feelings for him, Abram?”

Bram stared at her, not believing his ears. “
What?
”

“I know you didn’t do anything.” She forced herself to look at him. “But did you have feelings for him?”

Bram’s face turned stony, his voice permeated with anger. “You can think whatever you want about me. I don’t care. But don’t you dare call yourself a religious woman. Yitzchak was my best friend. And a truly religious woman knows what real friendship is all about. For you to ask me such a question is reprehensible. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He slammed the door and stomped off, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her fears, and her tears.

Oliver knocked on
the open door, then walked inside Berger’s office. Marge followed.

The place was half-empty or half-full, depending on one’s perspective. The diplomas and certificates had been taken off the walls, but the books were still shelved. On the floor rested a dozen half-packed boxes. Berger was on a step stool, depleting the top shelf of its contents.

In Oliver’s mind, it appeared as if Berger was planning to bolt. Which gave all the more credence to his Fisher/Tyne conspiracy theory. But Berger offered a different explanation.

“Three of my associates have been murdered, Detective. I don’t plan to stick around to make it an even number.”

Marge said, “So you’re running out on the hospital—”

“Not at all.” Berger stood on his tiptoes and extracted the larger medical tomes from the highest shelf. “I’m not running out on anyone.” His voice was remarkably steady. “I’ve applied for a much deserved sabbatical. And I’m taking it whether or not it’s approved.”

“Leaving the hospital in the lurch,” Marge said. “New Chris has already lost Sparks and Decameron. Without you, it’s going to fold.”

“Better that than the hospital providing me a hero’s burial.” He stepped down, holding an armful of books. “You two don’t have a smidgen of empathy regarding my plight, do you?”

“I have a smidgen,” Oliver said.

The doctor shook his head, kneeled down, and placed the texts in a box. “Figures. The police are noted for their lack of human compassion.”

Oliver said, “Why were you and Shockley fudging the Curedon data?”

Berger jerked his head up. “Come again?”

“You and Shockley had hacked into Fisher/Tyne’s data banks and were doing funny business with Kenneth Leonard’s Curedon numbers. I want to know why.”

“You’re crazy. You’ve got no warrant. Get out of here.”

Marge said, “We’ve traced a cuckoo’s egg to your computer, Dr. Berger. Ordinarily, computer hacking’s a federal crime. Meaning you’d plea your case to the FBI. But since we’ve got the rather major matter of a couple of murders—”

“I had nothing to do with them!” Berger snapped. “Look, people! Open your eyes! I’m
terrified
! What the hell do you two
want
from me.”

“How about some answers to some questions.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

“I think you do,” Oliver said. “I think you knew that Kenneth Leonard was on to you and Shockley.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea to what you’re referring. You’re talking gobbledygook.”

“Look, sir,” Marge said patiently, “why don’t you just start at the beginning. Because, at the very least, you’re going to get hit with charges of scientific fraud.”

Berger’s eyes darted from side to side. “Get out of here! Both of you! And take your disgusting accusations with you.”

Oliver held up a dozen sheets of computer paper. “Know what these are?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care.”

Marge said, “They’re the latest Curedon data trials, Dr. Berger. Does that pique your interest?”

Berger stopped packing, ran his tongue across his teeth.

Oliver said, “The latest report given to the FDA by
Decameron himself
. After he ran the data.
Decameron
ran it.
Not
Fisher/Tyne. Know what? These numbers looked very promising. Which is particularly puzzling. Because the numbers Fisher/Tyne had been giving the FDA hadn’t been all that hot. And Gordon Shockley had told us that
his
numbers hadn’t been too good, either.”

Marge said, “Which means there was a discrepancy between Decameron’s statistics and what Fisher/Tyne was reporting to the FDA.”

Berger got up, wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “You two burst into my office, making all sorts of ridiculous claims, holding up generic data charts—”

“They’re not generic. Come take a look for yourself.” Oliver proffered Berger the results.

Berger hesitated, then snatched the papers and skimmed them. He held them aloft. “Where’d you get hold of these?”

Though he hated to admit it — even to himself — the sentiment was there:
God bless Farrell
. Oliver said, “None of your business.”

“This is confidential information,” Berger said. “There is no way you could have gotten this unless you did something illegal. I could have your badges for this.”

Oliver grinned. “I don’t think so.”

Again, Berger looked at the papers. “For all I know, you could have made up some numbers—”

“We got the numbers directly from the FDA,” Oliver interrupted. “That can be verified.”

“So… Reggie doctored the data. I’m not surprised. He’s a worm. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

“And why would he doctor data?”

“I guess we’ll never know. Now get out of here with your horrid slander. Because we all know that both of you two aren’t capable of understanding
any
results, let alone interpreting them properly.”

“No, they can’t interpret the data, Myron. But I can.”

Berger whipped his head around. Elizabeth Fulton was at his door, arms folded across her chest. “I accessed your files this morning, Myron—”

“That’s illegal—”

“It’s peanuts compared to what you did. Snowing all of us… me, Reggie, Azor. Hacking into the Fisher/Tyne data network and changing the numbers. You made them look worse to get the Curedon trials stopped.”

“You’re finished, Liz!” Myron cried out. “I’m bringing you up on charges with the medical ethics board—”

“I saw your hidden research, Myron,” Elizabeth said venomously. “You and Shockley were working on your own chemically related T-cell inhibitor. You were trying to undercut Azor, undercut the entire Curedon project!”

“I’m a goddamn scientist in my own right. And I’ve got a right to work on whatever I damn well please without someone
spying
on me.”

“But you have no right to falsify
our
data to further your own research!” She walked up to him, spit in his face. “How could you do such a low—”

“Fuck you, lady!” Berger shouted. “Who do you think brought Curedon to fruition in the early years? Who do you think actually took the drug from something theoretical and developed it into something that’s marketable? You think Azor developed the drug? Lady, let me tell you something. The bastard stole my research—”

“What are you
talking
about, Myron. All your research came from Azor’s lab. I was there.”

“Lady, you came in after
I
handed him the drug on a silver platter. Because no one was interested in what Myron Berger had to say about T-cell inhibitors. Only what the great Azor Sparks had to say. Meanwhile, Azor didn’t give a flying fuck about Curedon. All Azor was interested in was Jesus and harvesting hearts. Him and that stupid CB radio, trying to outrun the ambulances to the fatal car accidents, hoping to walk away with some poor brain-dead bastard’s heart—”

“You’re an asshole!”

“And you’re a stupid bitch. A washed-up one at that. Because I’m filing charges on you for scientific espionage—”

“Doc, I don’t think you understand the severity of the charges against you,” Marge said. “Because you’re under arrest for murder—”

“How dare you imply—”

“She’s not implying, she’s doing,” Oliver stated. “Now put your hands behind your back.”

“Get out of here!”

Marge said, “Doctor, don’t make this hard on us.”

Berger screamed, flailing his arms about. “Get out of here!” He threw a book at Oliver. “
Out!
”

Oliver flung him against the wall, kicked his feet apart, and attempted to hold him still while Marge swung Berger’s arm around his back. But the doctor continued to resist, trying to break free of Oliver’s grip.

Marge clamped on the right cuff, but was having trouble securing it to his left arm. “Sir, please stop moving!”

“Get out—”

Oliver pressed his body into Berger’s, trying to immobilize him. He broke into a sweat, struggling to keep Berger steady. Motherfucker was surprisingly strong. “Got it, Marge?”

Berger screamed.

“I think you’re hurting him,” Elizabeth said meekly.

Oliver was dripping rivers from his face. “Got it?”

“Just… about… damn!” Water rolled off Marge’s forehead. She jerked up Berger’s left hand. “I swear I’m gonna break—”

“Easy, Detective.”

Berger let out another shriek.

Again, Elizabeth said, “I think you’re
really
hurting him.”

Oliver jammed Berger against the wall. “Got it?”

“I…” Marge heard the double lock click into place. “Got it.”

“Oh God!” Berger moaned out. “I swear I didn’t kill anyone. I swear, I swear, I—”

“I’m gonna read you your rights,” Oliver said.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God! Liz, I swear I never killed anyone—”

“Will you kindly shut up?” Oliver said.

“Don’t talk, Myron,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t say anything until you’ve talked to a lawyer.”

“You believe me?”

“Of course. Scientific pilfering is one thing. But murder?”

“Will you both shut up so I can Mirandize him?” Oliver yelled.

“I want my lawyer,” Berger blurted out.

“If you don’t let me get this out, you ain’t gonna have anything, Doc.”

Finally, Berger fell quiet. Oliver took a deep breath, then read the doctor his rights. At the conclusion, Berger again requested a lawyer.

“No problemo, Doc,” Oliver said. “You can have your lawyer. Let’s go.”

But Berger resisted walking. “Elizabeth, please help me!”

“Let’s go,” Oliver said, pushing him forward.

“Myron, who should I call?” Elizabeth asked.

“Gold and Brown,” he shouted out.

“You can tell them we’re going to book their client at the Devonshire Substation,” Marge said.