Natural Causes (24 page)

Jeremy Mallon mumbled something to Matt about being in touch and led his two stunned associates from the shop. Debbie ran upstairs to leave a note instructing her mother to meet them at White Memorial.

Sarah, suddenly only marginally less pale than Kwong had been, sank onto the cane-back chair. Matt brought her a glass of water.

“You did an amazing job there,” he said.

“I’m grateful Dr. Blankenship was here. He’s the best.”

“You’re the one who thought of using the opium, remember? Is the old guy going to be okay?”

“I don’t know. He—he’s so frail. It’s as if he’s turned old just since the last time I saw him.”

“Not like he was then?”

“Not at all. Matt, I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“Well, that depends. Do you believe Kwong was giving you the wrong stuff all this time?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe.”

“Well I, for one, smell a rat. What was that opium doing on the shelf like that?”

“Tian-Wen may be getting senile. He could have put it in the front window if that’s the case.”

“I don’t buy it. At least not yet. An anonymous call to the drug hot line? Give me a break.”

“What about the noni herbs? If Peter’s right, and I think he is, how do you explain that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the old guy
has
messed up there. Maybe that part’s legit. The opium part seems too neat, though. Too packaged.”

“But you have no idea how to prove that Tian-Wen was set up—if in fact he was?”

“Not a clue.”

“So I’m in trouble either way.”

“Well, I will allow as how we’ve got some hard work
ahead of us,” he said grimly. “But hard work never scared me. We’ll be all right.”

At that moment, Kwong’s black, long-haired cat stretched to its feet, padded over to where Matt stood, and settled down on his shoes.

T
HE BALL STARTED RIGHT, RUMBLING DOWN THE ALLEY
not an inch from the gutter, much closer than Leo Durbansky would have liked. Ten men—the five on his perennial doormat Precinct Four team and five from Dorchester, the perennial Police and Fire League champions—held their collective breath as the English on the ball began to draw it back toward the one-three pocket. It was taking forever to reach the pins.

“Go, baby,” Leo heard Mack Peebles whisper. “Go, baby. Go, baby.”

The whole thing was straight out of
Wide World of Sports
, Leo kept thinking. The last ball of the last match of the season. The championship on the line, the Never-Won-Anythings versus the Always-Win-Everythings. And up steps Leo Durbansky, with his one-fifty average, to roll the three-game series of his life. Two forty-five, two sixty-eight, and now, maybe—just maybe, a—

Leo’s maroon Brunswick slammed into the pocket with authority, exploding through nine of the pins like a howitzer shell. But the ten-pin remained standing, ticking
from side to side like a metronome. Several teammates groaned. One reached over and patted Leo on the shoulder. Then suddenly, from out of nowhere, one pin clattered back onto the alley and began spinning across it in excruciating slow motion.

The teams froze. The renegade pin, as if pulled by an invisible string, clicked against the tenner. The moment was right. The stars were right. The ten, slightly on one edge at impact, tilted past its center of gravity, teased for an interminable second, and then toppled over.

The screaming and cheering were unlike anything Leo had ever experienced. He was a twenty-year veteran patrolman who had done nothing to disgrace himself over those two decades, but little to distinguish himself either. Now his name and his heroics tonight would be immortalized. Mack Peebles promised to submit the story to
Sports Illustrated
for their “Faces in the Crowd” segment. Joey Kerrigan spoke about calling his cousin, who wrote sports for the
Herald
. Even the Dorchester team bought him a beer.

It was after eleven when Leo decided it was time to head home. He had already called Jo and told her about the incredible evening and that she shouldn’t wait up. But maybe, just maybe she had. The night was cool and moonless. Knowing he had had a couple of beers, Leo was driving with even more care than usual. Had he been going faster, he might have missed the movement in the darkened basement doorway just ahead of him and to his right.

Leo tapped the brakes on his Taurus and instinctively cut the lights. One man, being pushed by another, stumbled up the short stairway. The second man, blond, was half a head or so taller than his victim. He had his hand in the pocket of his windbreaker, angled in such a way that Leo had no doubt he held a gun. Leo cut the engine, unlocked his glove compartment, and withdrew his service revolver.

Had he been in the cruiser, protocol would have demanded
an immediate call for backup. But his own car had no C.B. Protocol in
this
situation called for him to take whatever cautious action seemed appropriate. Other nights, there was no telling what he might have decided to do. But for him, this night was charmed. He checked the cylinder of his revolver and watched as the shorter man was pushed, head to the floor, knees on the seat, into the passenger side of a black or dark-blue late-model Olds. It was a position in which the victim was virtually helpless and easy to control. Using it suggested that the taller man might well be a professional. Leo moistened his lips.

He recited the license number of the Olds to himself as he followed it through the South End and onto the expressway. His mouth was dry, his palms damp. Still, in spite of himself and the situation, he kept reliving his moment of triumph at the Beantown Lanes. In his mind, the approaching ball sounded like a timpani crescendo, its impact on the pins like a landmine explosion.

As they crossed the Neponset Bridge, he saw some movement through the rear window of the car ahead and wondered if, perhaps, the guy on the floor had just bought it. He shrugged at the notion. If it had happened, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. But if it hadn’t, then this magical night held in store more than just a bowling trophy for Leo Durbansky.

Leo was imagining how proud his wife would be of his departmental citation, when the Olds pulled off the bridge and down a dark, sparsely settled street. He slowed and dropped back. This would not have been the first corpse to be dumped in this particular area. But now, fate had decreed that it just wasn’t going to happen. His uniform was folded on the backseat. Without taking his eyes off his quarry, Leo felt around for his cuffs and slipped them into his pocket.

The lights on the Olds had already been cut, but Leo could still easily make out its silhouette against the glow from the city. It was parked by the wall of a burned-out
building. Leo spotted a couple of ways he could get close without being seen. The interior light flicked on for several seconds as the hitman opened the passenger door, shoved his captive onto the ground, and followed him out.

Perhaps not such a professional after all
, Leo thought. A real pro never would have allowed the automatic interior light to go on. He reached up and flicked his to the “off” position. Then he eased his door open, slid out, and quickly dropped to one knee. He could hear the voices of the two men but was too far away to pick up any words.

With no idea how soon the hit was going to be completed, he had to get close in a hurry. His stomach was churning. An unpleasant jet of beer and bile washed up into his throat.

Be careful
, he warned himself.
Just keep your cool like you did on alley nine, and you’ll nail this sucker to the wall.

He cradled his revolver, finger on the trigger, and quickly closed to within thirty yards.

“P-p-please, d-don’t d-do this. I’m n-no danger t-to anyb-body.”

“You’ve got just one minute to tell me who you’ve talked to about this. That’s only sixty seconds.… Make that fifty.”

“P-p-please. P-please.”

The victim, stuttering almost every word, was on his knees, moaning and sobbing. Leo moved to the corner of a decaying wooden fence. He was no more than fifteen yards from the pair now. He wished to hell he had kept a flashlight in the Taurus. As it was, he had a more than decent advantage. Add a powerful flashlight beam in the blond man’s eyes, and the whole thing would be a lock. He moved five feet closer. Then another five.

“Time’s up,” the gunman said.

“Freeze,” Leo barked, his heart pounding mercilessly. “Not one move. Not one fucking—”

The blond man turned his head just a fraction. But somehow Leo knew in that moment that there was no way he was going to give up without a fight. Leo’s finger was tightening on the trigger when the gunman dove to one side, spinning in the air. Leo fired a moment before he saw a pop of flame from the hurtling shadow. He heard the firecracker snap of his adversary’s gun almost on top of the man’s screech of pain.

Gotcha!
Leo thought.
Gotcha!

The gunman had fallen heavily and was clutching his leg, writhing from one side to the other. His stuttering victim had scrambled away and was now on his feet, sprinting off.
Probably some smalltime punk
, Leo reasoned as the man disappeared into the darkness. The prize he wanted—the headlines and the departmental citation—was rolling about on the ground in front of him.
Probably wanted
, he thought.
Maybe on the big list
.

“Okay now, asshole. Stay right where you are and don’t move. I’m the police!”

Leo barked out the words. But strangely, he didn’t hear any sound. He felt suddenly dizzy … detached … nauseous.… Only then did he become aware of the stinging on the right side of his neck, just beneath his ear. Awkwardly he reached up to touch the spot. Warm, sticky blood spewed over his hand and arm. The dizziness and nausea intensified. He sank to one knee. Then, ever so slowly, he toppled over onto his side.

The last sound Leo Durbansky heard was the enormous rumble of a thousand Brunswick bowling balls, thundering down a thousand alleys, spinning right into a thousand one-three pockets.

J
UST AFTER TWELVE NOON
, S
ARAH CROSSED THROUGH
the Public Garden and headed onto the Boston Common toward the spot where she was to meet Matt. The day, which had dawned hot, was sultry now. Businessmen in short-sleeved dress shirts, their ties loosened, ate their lunches beneath broad shade trees, their suit coats carefully folded on the ground beside them. All across the field where Minutemen had once trained for the Revolution, pockets of mothers in shorts and tank tops chatted languidly, their children racing about them on the rich summer grass.

Sarah wished she could just stretch out and relax. She wished that she and Matt were meeting for a picnic of pesto turkey sandwiches from Nicole’s and then a leisurely stroll along the Charles. Almost anything at all, in fact, would have been preferable to what lay ahead of her. At one o’clock, she and Matt would be in a room on the second floor of the Suffolk Superior Court Building, facing a medical malpractice tribunal.

Matt, who had served on three such tribunals over the past few years, had explained the process to her in some detail, including the option that she not attend at all. He
emphasized that physicians being sued seldom chose to be present at this proceeding, especially when, as was the case today, the decision was likely to go against them. But with a flexible outpatient rotation at the hospital and an almost morbid need to experience her legal battle firsthand, there was no way she could stay away.

The tribunal system, begun in Indiana and eventually adopted by Massachusetts, was an attempt to do away with frivolous litigation against physicians. It was hoped that the screening procedure would one day lower the horrific insurance premiums that continued to drive many doctors out of clinical practice. The premiums and retroactive surcharges, totaling over $100,000 annually for some specialists, were a major cause of spiraling health care costs. And adequate coverage was mandatory in the state for licensure. Those physicians who wished to continue practicing in Massachusetts had no choice but to increase their patient load and order more and more “defensive” laboratory tests.

The tribunal, made up of a judge, an attorney, and a physician of the same specialty as the defendant, was not set up to determine guilt or innocence, Matt explained. The only question to be answered today was: Assuming Lisa Grayson’s allegations are true, has malpractice occurred?—or in legal terms: Do she and her attorneys have a
prima facie
case?

“The tribunals find in favor of the plaintiff much more often than not,” Matt had explained. “But even in cases where they lose in tribunal, plaintiffs can proceed to trial if they are willing to post a bond—in Massachusetts it’s six thousand dollars—to cover court costs and the defendant’s legal fees. And even then, the judge can waive the bond if he doesn’t believe the plaintiff can afford it. That’s obviously not an issue with the Graysons.”

A scuffed, grass-stained baseball bounced off the lawn and rolled over the sidewalk, just in front of where Sarah was walking. She picked it up and threw it overhand to
the teen who was chasing it. The youth, possibly Hispanic, gloved the toss with reflexive ease and smiled shyly at her from beneath a Red Sox cap.

“Not a bad arm for a girl, huh, Ricky?” she heard Matt call out.

He waved to her from across an expanse of grass and then left the group of boys he had been playing with and loped over. He had on sneakers, a Greenpeace T-shirt, and the trousers to his suit. As he spoke, he gestured with his well-worn mitt as if it were part of his hand.

“Ricky, thanks for the catch,” he said as he passed the youth. “That fork-ball of yours is really starting to move. Hey, maybe I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“He’s cute,” Sarah said.

“He’s a felon,” Matt replied. “Just kidding … sort of. Those kids out there are a gang.
Los Muchachos
. A couple of years ago, the court assigned the defense of two of them to me. Nothing too serious, fortunately. Anyhow, I showed them some of my press clippings—only the good ones, of course—and we sort of got to be pals. Now the whole gang is playing ball, and a number of them are working with younger kids, Ricky, there, actually made his high school team. He’s got some talent.”