Miracle Cure (1991) Read online

  When she arrived at the Lowell mansion a few hours later, she grabbed a b owl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.

  "Good morning, honey," John Lowell said.

  Cassandra looked up. Her father was wearing a charcoal turtleneck, hi s h air neatly groomed, his cheeks flushed. Her father was still a g ood-looking man, she thought, but he had not had a serious relationshi p w ith a woman since her mother's death almost ten years ago. A shame an d y et Cassandra wondered how she would feel if another woman were to ligh t u p her father's eyes the way her mother had.

  Spiteful, probably. That would be typical of her.

  "Good morning," she replied.

  "Have you heard from Sara?"

  "No. Should I have?"

  Her father shrugged.

  "I called the hospital. They told me Michael checked out this morning.

  I called their house, but all I got was the answering machine."

  "Did you try Dr. Riker?" she asked.

  Dr. Lowell nodded.

  "He hasn't returned my call. I don't think he will."

  "Why not?"

  "Let's just say that Harvey Riker and I are not exactly buddies."

  Cassandra lowered her eyes. She felt something peculiar, something, sh e g uessed, akin to shame.

  "Still," Dr. Lowell continued, "it's quite strange."

  "What is?"

  "Michael has hepatitis B, which means he'll have to be hospitalized fo r a t least three weeks. Why would he check out?"

  "Maybe they moved him to another hospital." "Maybe," Dr. Lowell sai d d oubtfully.

  Cassandra remembered how quickly Harvey had hustled out of the apartmen t a fter Eric's call yesterday morning. She had not picked up much of th e c onversation, but Harvey's tone had been grave, nervous.

  She had also heard him mention Michael's name before hanging up an d r ushing out the door without so much as a goodbye.

  Is something seriously wrong with Michael?

  "I have to go," her father said.

  "If your sister calls, tell her she can reach me on the car phone." He k issed Cassandra on the cheek and walked toward the door. He had no t a sked where she had been the past five nights or with whom. When it cam e t o sexual matters, her father liked to pretend nothing was amiss easie r o n the of' morals than the truth.

  Cassandra thought about Harvey. She wondered why she had ended up in be d w ith that Neanderthal marketing director (what the hell was his name?) when things had been going so well ... too well?... with Harvey.

  Well, c'est la vie. It could be that she and Harvey were never meant t o l ast. Or it could be that she had too much to drink.

  Or it could be ... or it could be that you're a worthless whore , Cassandra.

  She closed her eyes. When she heard her father drive away, Cassandr a s tood and crept down the corridor toward his study.

  It was time to put last night behind her. There were other matters, mor e i mportant matters, to consider.

  She knew that what she was about to do was wrong. She knew that he r f ather's study was off limits, that she had no right to pry into hi s p rivate affairs. But Harvey's words and maybe the need to make up fo r l ast night propelled her forward: "It seems strange to me that the sam e d ay your father denied knowin g s anders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he li e t o us? What was he trying to hide?" Indeed, she thought. What was or i s h e trying to hide?

  Could he really be connected with Reverend Sanders? Could her fathe r r eally have something to do with the trouble at the clinic?

  She reached the door to his study, turned the knob, and entered. He r f ather's office was her favorite room in the house.

  So spacious, with high ceiling, dark oak everywhere, thousands of book s l ike Henry Higgins' study in My Fair Lady. She crept behind the larg e a ntique desk and pulled the side drawer. It would not open. She tried i t a gain. Locked. She sat back in the plush leather swivel chair. Now wher e d id he hide that damn key? Her hand felt around the underside of th e m iddle drawer. A few moments later she felt something cool, metallic.

  Bingo.

  Her fingers closed around the small key and ripped away the ipe. Sh e u nlocked the desk and began to rifle through its on tents In the botto m r ight-hand drawer, she found his file of personal letters. She skimme d t hrough them until she found one that piqued her interest. It was fro m d r. Leonard Bronkowitz, the chief trustee at Columbia Presbyteria n h ospital: Dear John, I know this is going to upset you immensely, but the boar d h as decided to go ahead with Sidney Pavilion.

  Despite your rather persuasive arguments, a slim majority of the boar d m embers seems to feel that AIDS is an illness which has been ignored fo r f ar too long.

  While many members agreed with your point that the pendulum has swun g t oo far in the other direction now that the world has recognized th e s everity of the illness, the board also believes that Dr. Riker and Dr.

  Grey could make some serious headway into developing a vaccine for th e v irus. Aside from the benefits for mankind, such a vaccine could brin g t he hospital additional prestige, and in turn, finances.

  I realize that this will hinder your own programs at the Cancer Center , but I hope you will support us in this new and exciting endeavor.

  Sincerely, Leonard Bronkowitz, M. D.

  And there was a letter from Washington dealing with the same subject: Dear Dr. Lowell, The medical disbursements for this fiscal year hav e b een allocated and I regret to say that there will be no funds for th e n ew wing at the Cancer Center. We realize and respect the importance o f y our work, but the fact remains that New York City and, mor e s pecifically, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center have already receive d m ore than a lion's share of funds, most of which have gone to th e c enter's new AIDS clinic, operated by Dr. Harvey Riker and Dr. Bruc e g rey.

  Personally, I believe your work is crucial and am disappointed in thi s d ecision, but since you are a former surgeon general, I am sure you ca n a ppreciate how these things sometimes work. The AIDS virus seems to m e t o be the public's "Disease of the Week" or "Flavor of the Month." It's the new "in" cause for everyone to rall y a round. I am confident that the public's interest will wane and tir e s oon and then they will have the ability to view this disease mor e r ationally.

  Take heart and know that there are others who feel as we do. I would b e h onored if during your next visit to Washington you would call me s o t hat we can discuss the world of medicine. I very much value you r o pinion on a broad range of subjects.

  Yours, Raymond Markey, M. D.

  Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Service s c assandra felt ill. There was really nothing shocking in the letters.

  She knew her father had been against the clinic from its inception, tha t h e had complained bitterly about the "waste" of funds. What she had no t k nown was the direct effect the Sidney Pavilion had had on his ow n c ancer research. It was an either/or situation either the AIDS clinic o r t he new wing at the Cancer Center. Cassandra knew how much the Cente r m eant to her father, but how far would he go to get funding?

  Surely, he would never ... The sound of a car pulling up the drivewa y m ade her jump.

  A loud diesel engine. Her father's Mercedes. He was back already.

  Shit! I thought he was going to be out all day!

  Cassandra put the two letters back into the folder, put the folder bac k i nto the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. In the background sh e h eard the purr of the electric garage door opener.

  What did I do with that damn key?

  Her eyes scanned the desktop for the key. Nothing. She looked on th e f loor. Still nothing. The Mercedes was pulling into the six-car garag e n ow. She had to get out of the office before he saw her. Damn it, wher e w as that key? When she saw it a second later in the desk's keyhole, sh e w anted to slap herself for not looking there earlier. She wrenched i t o ut as she heard her father turn off the engine and slam the car doo r s hut.

  She ripp
ed a piece of scotch tape out of the dispenser on the desk an d t aped the key back under the middle drawer. She moved quickly now , getting up from behind the desk, slipping quickly to the door, openin g i t, turning right, and heading down the hall.

  If she had turned left instead, she would have seen her father standin g a t the end of the hallway, watching her with a stunned look on his face.

  Donald Parker stood with stiff back, perfect posture, and a dark blu e s uit at the end of the hall. Forty years in the news business had take n h im across all seven continents. Parker had covered the inauguration o f e very president from Harry Truman to George Bush. He had witnessed th e f irst moon launch, the Tet Offensive, the Beijing massacre, the openin g o f the Berlin Wall, Operation Desert Storm. He had interviewed Gandhi , Malcolm X, Pol Pot, Khomemi, Amin, Gorbachev, Hussein. There was littl e h e had not accomplished.

  As Sara limped toward him, Donald Parker caught her eye and smile d g ently. His eyes were bright blue, piercing and probing. The eyes of th e p erfect interviewer.

  "Hello, Sara."

  "Hello, Donald. Did you get my notes?"

  He nodded.

  "This is quite a story, Sara. The story of the year maybe. Why are yo u g iving it up?" "I'm too close to it," she said.

  "Personal involvement?"

  She nodded.

  "Does this have something to do with the statement your husband i s m aking before the show?"

  "I'd rather not say just yet." "Fair enough," he said.

  "Any new developments?"

  "Another patient, a Riccardo Martino, was murdered last night on th e h ospital grounds."

  "What?"

  "I have all the details here."

  He took the piece of paper and read it.

  "Good work, Sara."

  "There's one other thing."

  "Oh?"

  "You can't mention Senator Jenkins' son on the air."

  "I don't understand." She explained. He listened intently, nodding.

  "Okay," he said when she finished, "I'll leave that part out."

  "Thanks, Donald. I really appreciate it."

  "And let me get something else straight. This Dr. Riker does not want t o b e on television?"

  "Right. Dr. Riker wants to keep his anonymity. His assistant Dr. Eri c b lake will handle the interviews."

  "Okay then, I better get this thing wrapped up. Thanks for laying al l t he groundwork, Sara. You've left me with the easy parts."

  "No problem," she said, walking away.

  "And thanks for understanding about Bradley Jenkins."

  Donald Parker watched her hobble away, leaning heavily on her cane.

  Sara was a mesmerizing girl, an awesome beauty masking an awesom e i ntellect. She was good at her job and Donald found his respect for he r g rowing every day.

  Unfortunately, he knew, her respect for him was about to be tested.

  After tonight's show she would be more than disappointed with him. Sh e w ould be furious. But Donald Parker had been in this business a lon g t ime, and he had developed a certain code of ethics over the years. He d id not believe in ignoring important aspects of a story for th e c onvenience of others no matter what the possible consequences.

  And he was not going to leave Bradley Jenkins out of his report.

  Chapter 13.

  Cassandra was about to say something she would later regret.

  She had come to Harvey's office to tell him about the letters she foun d i n her father's drawer. Instead, unplanned words poured out of he r m outh.

  "I have something to tell you," Cassandra began.

  "Oh?"

  She kept her head low, her eyes afraid to meet his.

  "I spent last night with another man."

  A brief flash of grief rushed through him, widening his eyes.

  "The, uh, marketing director?"

  She nodded.

  "I see," Harvey said, his face calm now, showing nothing.

  He circled back to his desk, sat down, and began to jot notes in a file.

  "Is that all you're going to say?" she asked.

  "What do you want me to say?"

  "It doesn't bother you?"

  "Do you want it to bother me?"

  "Stop answering my questions with a question."

  "I don't know what you want from me, Cassandra. You come in here an d t ell me you slept with another man. How do you want me to react?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why did you tell me?"

  "What do you mean, why?"

  "I would never have found out," he said.

  "Why did you say anything?"

  She opened her mouth, stopped, began to shrug, stopped, then said in a h esitant voice, "I wanted to be up front with you."

  "Fine. You were up front. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of wor k t o do."

  "Wait a second-"

  "I'm sorry, Cassandra. I really am. I thought we were happy together. I t hought I don't know I thought we had something special."

  "We do."

  "Then we have different ideas about special. I can't afford to get m y h eart squashed again. It hurts too much. It affects my concentration, m y w ork "

  "It won't happen again. I swear. I never meant to hurt "

  "It doesn't matter. I should have never let it come this far anyway.

  It was a mistake from the beginning. I was a goddamn fool to think yo u c ould ever ..." He shook his head.

  "Goodbye, Cassandra." He lowered his eyes and began writing.

  "Harv?"

  He did not look up. His voice was more firm now.

  "Goodbye, Cassandra."

  She felt something odd, something hard and painful, form inside her ow n c hest. She wanted to say something more, but his cold expression stoppe d h er.

  She turned and left.

  "Michael's giving a press conference in five minutes."

  Reece Porter stopped lacing his hi-top Nikes and looked up at his coach.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Coach Richie Crenshaw crossed the locker room, stepping over strew n s neakers, jockstraps, and long legs. The Knicks were in Seattle's k ingdome, preparing to play a preseason scrimmage against th e s upersonics. thrust what I said. Michael is making a statement at th e s tart of Newsflash."

  "What kind of statement?" Reece asked.

  "Hell if I know."

  Jerome Holloway exchanged a confused glance with Reece.

  "And it's being covered on national television?"

  "That's right," Coach Crenshaw replied.

  "I don't get it," Reece said.

  "What the hell could Mikey have to say that a prime time news show woul d w ant to cover live?"

  "Something about his hepatitis, I guess."

  Reece shook his head.

  Sports Channel or ESPN might be interested in covering something lik e t hat but not CBS."

  "Besides," Jerome added, "the press already knows about his hepatitis."

  Coach Crenshaw shrugged.

  "Beats the hell out of me. Turn on the TV, Jerome, and we'll find out."

  The rookie walked over to the set and flicked the switch.

  Michael's teammates and coaches stopped what they were doing and turne d t heir attention to the screen. Most of their faces displayed a sense o f r elaxed curiosity. But not Recce's. Something didn't make sense to him.

  An athlete, no matter how popular, does not make a live statement on a n ews show unless it is big news. Really big news. Something tha t t ranscended sports.

  As Reece Porter watched Michael and Sara walk toward the podium, a n a wful feeling of dread flooded his chest.

  George was in the middle of doing his third set of one hundred push-ups , his muscles bunching and swelling with each repetition, when he hear d t he advertising teaser: "Stay tuned for a very special episode of Newsflash. What's th e c onnection between a surprise statement from basketball great Michae l s ilverman, the Gay Slasher, and the story of the year about the AIDS e pide
mic? Watch Newsflash and see. Next o n c BS."

  George froze. Michael Silverman, husband of Sara Lbwell, son-in-law o f j ohn Lowell. Silverman had been at the charity ball on the night tha t g eorge killed Bradley Jenkins. Now he was going to make a surpris e s tatement on live television.

  George wanted to hear what he had to say. He wanted to hear very much.

  Of course an announcement by someone like Michael Silverman was hardl y r eason for concern, but what else had the TV blurb said? Something abou t a connection to the Gay Slasher.

  Well, that should be interesting. And then there was the last thing tha t v oice on the TV had said the story of the year on the AIDS epidemic.

  George shook his head. It was too much of a coincidence.

  Michael Silverman, the Gay Slasher, the AIDS epidemic.

  Someone had tied a few loose ends together.

  The real question for George concerned Michael Silverman's announcement.

  The police already knew about the connection between the murder victim s a nd the AIDS clinic, so it had only been a matter of time before i t l eaked to the press. But what did it have to do with Sara Lowell's h usband? Was Michael Silverman connected with the murders? And if so , how?

  Careful, George. Your job is to eliminate them, not figure out why.

  True, but a man had to watch his back. George was being forced to tak e g reater risks than normal. The Gay Slasher had become high-profil e s tuff. Now that the scrutiny was intensifying, logic dictated that h e s hould learn more about the "why" of these killings in order to protec t h imself.

  Damn it, why hadn't he checked this whole thing out beforehand?

  Sloppy work, George. Very unprofessional.

  George sprang up off the floor as the commercial ended. He' sat on th e e dge of the large bed and watched as Michael an d s ara walked toward the podium. Sara Lowell was very beautiful.

  Incredible looking. Turning his gaze to Michael, George felt a shar p p ang of envy.