The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller (5 page)

The place was packed. I asked the hostess if she had a reservation for Barnes. She said she did, but the party of three wasn’t expected until seven and the table wasn’t ready, so I found a spot at the bar and ordered a scotch. The cop in me scanned the place doing a threat assessment, the other guy in me who didn’t give a shit decided that no threat in Pico’s could match what Billy had hanging over his head. So, I ordered another scotch and tried to focus on the TV over the bar.

The news was on. The sound was turned down, but the picture said it all. They were airing scenes from someplace in Africa. They were doing a piece on Ebola. It was spreading throughout Liberia and getting worse every day. They were showing the squalor of a makeshift hospital where it was dirtier inside than out. At least they had the good taste not to film the people suffering and dying. They were interviewing some doctor. He was wearing a mask. The reporter was too. I asked the bartender if the game was on. He changed the channel, and I watched the Philles get their butts kicked over a third scotch.

Jimmy showed up at 7:00 p.m. on the dot. He wasn’t alone. The third in our little party of three was a woman, a real looker, a cop. I could tell by the way she carried herself, by the look in her eyes, by the piece under her jacket. I caught Jimmy’s eye and waved, downed my scotch, and followed them to a table in the back.

I introduced myself. “I’m Bam Matthews. Call me Bam. Nice to meet you.”

“Isabelle Aimée. Nice to meet you too,” she said.

We shook hands. I liked her firm grip. I liked her accent too.

“French?” I said.

“Belgian,” she smiled.

I looked at Jimmy.

“Sit down, Bam,” he said, “and we’ll fill you in.”

The waiter came to take our drink orders. Isabelle asked for a Chimay.

“Beer drinker, eh?” I said.

“The average Belgian drinks eighty-four liters of beer per year,” she said. “I like to think of myself as above average.”

“I’ll try one of those, too,” I said to the waiter.

Jimmy went along for the ride.

“I’m assuming we can talk freely,” I said. “You are a cop. Right, Isabelle?”

She pulled out her ID and handed it to me. I squinted at it. “What’s a Veiligheid van de Staat?” I asked.

“Veiligheid van de Staat is the Belgian State Security Service. I’m Special Agent Aimée.”

“Is that like the Belgian CIA?”

“More like your FBI, but our jurisdiction is wider.”

“Okay. I’m guessing you’re here because of François Birot.”

“I was assigned to his security detail.”

“Where were you when he keeled over in the Hyatt?”

“You haven’t changed much in five years, Bam,” Jimmy said.

“Has it been that long?”

“Yeah, it has.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m not very good at the whole friendship thing.”

“This isn’t an interrogation, you know,” he said.

“Good. My coworkers tell me I’m not too good at that either.”

The beers came. I raised my glass.

“My apologies,” I said. “Here’s to you, Agent Aimée.”

“My friends call me Izzy.”

“Okay, Izzy it is.”

“And I was in New York when it happened.”

“What the hell was he doing in Philly, and how the hell did he contract Ebola?”

“His father lives in Philadelphia. We assume he was coming to visit.”

“And we still don’t know if he had Ebola,” Jimmy said. “This beer’s a little strong for my tastes.” He called the waiter over and ordered a Bud. The waiter asked if he wanted to ditch the Chimay, but I told him I’d drink it. It had a nice kick to it.

“It will get you looped very fast, if you don’t take it easy,” Isabelle said.

“We’ll see,” I said. “So, how come you weren’t with him?”

“Birot had a bad habit of sneaking off. It was mostly for the women. That’s where we were looking in New York when the embassy got the call.”

“Has he been to Philly before?”

“Only once he came to Philadelphia to see his father during my assignment, and I’ve been with him for two years.”

“Been to Africa with him?”

“No, and I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t see how that can be.”

“Why not?”

She seemed embarrassed. I figured covering up for a whoring diplomat’s exploits would do that, so I gave her a hand.

“He wasn’t into African women?”

She nodded.

“Then, how’d he get Ebola?”

“Still no word from the CDC, and they haven’t started the autopsy, Bam,” said Jimmy.

“What’s the holdup?”

“They’re just trying to be careful.”

“There are other kinds of viral hemorrhagic fever, Marburg, for one,” Isabelle said. “That one is European. It first showed up in Germany in the sixties.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s just as deadly.”

“Oh.”

“Lassa fever and yellow fever are two others, but they, like Ebola, are primarily African.”

“You seem to know your killer diseases pretty well.”

“Only what I read.”

“So, you’re saying that even if it isn’t Ebola, it’s probably something just as bad. Is that what I should tell Billy?”

“I’m sorry,” Isabelle said. “Jimmy told me about your partner. I am praying for him.”

I looked across the room at two guys arguing over something stupid, pondered the idea of going over there to knock some sense into them, and let it go. “Thanks.”

The waiter came and we ordered dinner.

“What have you been up to lately?” Jimmy asked me.

“Not much. We didn’t do our homework on a guy we were tailing who was in deep with a New York mob, and he got whacked right under our nose yesterday.” I gave them the Cliff’s Notes version of the story of Gyro and Carmine. “We have the perps in custody on a weapons charge, but given our track record, they’ll get off with a fine and a slap on the wrist. Fidelity, bravery, and integrity — that’s our motto, but only because they couldn’t fit stupidity on the badge.”

“That’s a very cynical attitude,” Isabelle said.

“Yeah, well, when you don’t do such a hot job in the protect and serve department, people die. Sometimes they’re scumbags, sometimes they’re your friend.”

If murdering a conversation were a crime, I’d be doing twenty to life in Leavenworth. We nursed our drinks till the food came. The food at Pico’s is pretty good after a few scotches and a couple beers. Jimmy tried to resurrect the get-together.

“How’re the kids?” he asked.

“Brian, Jr. is working as a ranch hand in Montana. Four years of college to learn how to rope a steer. Go figure. Peggy lives out in Omaha with her mother. She was getting married, I heard, but that was right after the divorce. I’m not sure how it panned out.”

“Doesn’t the father give the bride away in this country?” Isabelle asked.

“I was talking about my ex-wife. I send each of the kids a birthday card and a check every year. They never call, never write.”

“You should have your own reality show, Bam,” Jimmy said. “Call it ‘The Loser.’”

I gave Jimmy the same chin flick that Carmine had given me and realized just then that Tree Trunk had no intention of trying to get away after he’d killed Gyro the Greek. He wanted to get caught. He wanted us to know that he’d done it and that we couldn’t prove a damn thing. He was rubbing our nose in it. It was a vendetta, pure and simple. If he weren’t so stupid, he’d be long gone. And the only reason I’d gotten under his skin at the interrogation was because I get under everyone’s skin.

“So, now that I’ve told you my life’s story,” I said, “what’s the scoop on you, Izzy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you a cop?”

“My father was one,” she shrugged.

“Let me guess. He died in the line of duty and you’re following in his footsteps like a good little girl.”

“Bam,” said Jimmy. “You’re way out of line. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that Billy Driscoll is sitting in an isolation unit, waiting for the Grim Reaper to show up.”

“My father is retired,” said Isabelle. “He and my mother have a house in the country. I majored in theater at university because my mother wanted me to — she always said I was a good actor — but I joined the force after graduating because I wanted to make a difference. I’ve already said I’m sorry once, but I will say it again. I’m truly sorry, Bam. I let Birot out of my sight one time too many and put your partner’s life in jeopardy. I want to make it up to you.”

“Fair enough. Are you heading up the investigation? Because I want in.”

“We are,” said Jimmy. “Izzy is here to help us through any diplomatic channels.”

“What about NYPD?”

“They’re in on it too.”

“What have you got so far?”

“Nothing to speak of. We contacted his father, Jacques Birot. He seemed devastated by the news and pretty upset that we wouldn’t release the body. We haven’t told him yet about the Ebola thing. We only said his death was suspicious and required an autopsy that we’re waiting on.”

“Jacques is a nice man, and they were close,” said Isabelle. “They spoke by phone once a week like clockwork, and he often came to New York to visit when his son was in assembly.”

“Yeah, what did they do together?”

“They liked the museums. They went to plays. Birot liked the opera.”

“I guess I should have tried that with my kids.”

“According to Izzy, Birot had no other relatives and all his friends are back in Belgium,” said Jimmy.

“Except the hookers,” I said. “Are you tracking down which one he was with after he disappeared?”

“We are,” Isabelle said. “So far, nothing.”

“How long ago did he drop out of sight?”

“The General Assembly went into recess two days ago. He took a ride with the French delegation and told us to meet him back at the embassy. He said he was going to have lunch with a friend. They dropped him off on 8th Avenue. That was the last anyone saw of him.” She shrugged, “That’s how it usually went with Birot. He’d show up a few days later and everything would be back to normal.”

“Where on 8th?”

“West 33rd.”

“That’s Penn Station. Did he take a train to Philly?”

“Possibly,” Jimmy said. “NYPD is working that angle.”

“Did you check with the car rental places?”

“I’ve got a guy on it. Nothing yet.”

“How many could there be?”

“Have you ever looked in the Yellow Pages under car rental in New York City? Everyone and his mother rents cars there.”

“What about the hotel? Was he registered at the Hyatt?”

Isabelle and Jimmy looked at each other.

“Find out,” I said, “and check with the barkeep in a joint called Flanagan’s on the first floor. He’ll know which hookers work the place. Christ. A train.”

“We don’t know that,” Jimmy said.

“And Ebola is only spread by bodily fluids,” said Isabelle.

“Right. I get on the merry-go-round with a whore who’s been in bed with someone who brought it back from Africa, and I get it. You’re in the seat next to me on the train, I cough on you, and you get it. Two days later, you’re all sweaty from the fever and you shake hands with your boss after telling him you’re going home sick, and he gets it. He’s at the club a couple days after that having a drink to settle his stomach and he sneezes on his golfing buddy, and his buddy gets it. All of a sudden, it’s everywhere, and nobody knows where it came from.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” she said.

“Then, why are all the doctors watching over Billy wearing spacesuits? Tell me I’m wrong, but unless your buddy Birot was traveling with a NASA convention, we could be in some serious shit here.”

“The CDC sent a contact-tracing expert to New York,” Jimmy said. “They’ll be working that angle as soon as he gets there, but you’re right. We can’t possibly track down everyone he came in contact with if he took the train.”

“What about the French guys in the car? Do we know if any of them took sick?”

“I called the French embassy,” Isabelle said. “Everyone is fine.”

“I need another drink,” I said.

The conversation turned to beer, Philly nightlife, tourist sights, anything but Ebola. Turns out, Izzy wasn’t such a bad egg after all. She’d worked her way up from beat cop to detective, applied for the intelligence job, and been assigned to U.N. duty all in the span of four years. Her orders came from higher up to give Birot a long leash. She didn’t like it, but orders were orders. I figured he was a first-class jerk, but he was good for the country. She’d stuck with him for two years. That took some moxie in my book. Her parents’ house in the country was a little farm. They grew turnips and flowers, a funny combination. When I told her I lived on a farm, too, she wanted to know what I grew.

“I used to grow Christmas trees and sell them. You know, a cut-your-own place? But I stopped doing it. People put their trees up after Thanksgiving now. That’s when the stores let them know Christmas is here. Pretty soon, it’ll be on Halloween. They come at all hours, day or night, and expect you to drop everything and go out in the rain and snow to help them pick out the perfect tree. I just got tired of it.”