Terminal (A Medical Thriller)
Terminal: Chapter 7

March 6

Saturday, 4:45 A.M.

As soon as Sean’s eyes fluttered open, he was instantly awake. He couldn’t wait to get to the lab to unravel more of the medulloblastoma mystery cure. The little work that he’d been able to do the night before had merely whetted his appetite. Despite the early hour, he slipped out of bed, showered, and dressed.

When Sean was ready to leave for the lab he tiptoed back into the dark bedroom and gently nudged Janet. He knew she’d want to sleep until the last possible moment but there was something he wanted to tell her.

Janet rolled over and groaned: “Is it time to get up already?”

“No,” Sean whispered. “I’m off to the lab. You can go back to sleep for a few minutes. But I wanted to remind you to pack some things for our overnight trip to Naples. I want to leave this afternoon when you get off work.”

“Why do I have the feeling you have some ulterior motive in this?” Janet asked, rubbing her eyes. “What’s with Naples?”

“I’ll tell you on our way there,” Sean said. “If we leave from the Forbes we’ll beat the traffic out of Miami. Don’t pack a lot of stuff. All you’ll need is something for dinner tonight, a bathing suit, and jeans. One other thing,” Sean added, leaning over her.

Janet looked into his eyes.

“I want you to get some of Louis Martin’s medicine this morning,” he said.

Janet sat up. “Great!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “How do you expect me to do that? I told you how hard it was to get Helen’s samples.”

“Calm down,” Sean said. “Just give it a try. It could be important. You said that you thought the medicine all came from a single batch. I want to prove it’s impossible. I don’t need a lot, and just some from the larger vial. Even a few cc’s will do.”

“They control the medicine more carefully than a narcotic,” Janet complained.

“What about diluting it with saline?” Sean suggested. “You know, the old trick of putting water in your parents’ liquor bottles. They’re not going to know the concentration changed.”

Janet thought about the suggestion. “You think it could hurt the patient?”

“I can’t see how,” Sean said. “More than likely it’s designed with a wide safety margin.”

“All right, I’ll try,” Janet said with reluctance. She hated being deceptive and devious with Marjorie.

“That’s all I can ask,” Sean said. He kissed her on the forehead.

“Now I can’t get back to sleep,” she complained as Sean headed for the door.

“We’ll be sure to get lots of sleep over the weekend,” he promised.

As Sean made his way out to his 4×4 there was only a slight hint of dawn in the eastern sky. To the west the stars twinkled as if it were still the middle of the night.

Pulling away from the curb, he was already preoccupied with the work ahead in the lab and oblivious to his surroundings. Once again he failed to notice the dark green Mercedes as it too pulled out into the light traffic several cars behind.

Inside the Mercedes Wayne Edwards was dialing his car phone, calling Sterling Rombauer at the Grand Bay Hotel in Coconut Grove.

A sleepy Sterling picked up on the third ring.

“He’s left the lair and is heading west,” Wayne said. “Presumably to Forbes.”

“Okay,” Sterling said. “Stay with him. I’ll join you. I was just informed a half an hour ago that the Sushita jet is winging south at this very moment.”

“Sounds like game time,” Wayne said.

“That’s my assumption,” Sterling said.

ANNE MURPHY was depressed again, Charles had come home, but he’d only stayed one night. And now that he was gone, the apartment seemed so lonely. He was such a pleasure to be with, so calm and so close to God. She was still in bed, wondering if she should get up, when the front door buzzer sounded.

Anne reached for her plaid robe and headed for the kitchen. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but then she hadn’t been expecting the two callers inquiring about Sean, either. She remembered her promise not to talk to any strangers about Sean or Oncogen.

“Who is it?” Anne asked, pressing the talk button of her intercom.

“Boston police,” a voice replied.

A shiver went down Anne’s spine as she buzzed the door open. She was sure this visit meant Sean had reverted to his old ways. After quickly brushing out her hair, she went to the door. A man and a woman were standing there, dressed in Boston police uniforms. Anne had never seen either of them before.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” the female officer said. She held up her identification. “I’m Officer Hallihan and this is Officer Mercer.”

Anne was clutching the lapels of her robe, holding it closed. The police had come to the door a number of times when Sean had been a teenager. This visit brought back bad memories.

“What’s the problem?” Anne asked.

“Are you Anne Murphy, mother of Sean Murphy?” Officer Hallihan asked.

Anne nodded.

“We’re here at the request of the Miami police,” Officer Mercer said. “Do you know where your son Sean Murphy is currently?”

“He’s at the Forbes Cancer Center in Miami,” Anne said. “What’s happened?”

“We don’t know that,” Officer Hallihan said.

“Is he in trouble?” Anne asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“We really have no information,” Officer Hallihan said. “Do you have an address for him there?”

Anne went to the telephone table in the hall, copied down the address of the Forbes residence, and gave it to the police.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hallihan said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

Anne closed the door and leaned against it. In her heart, she knew that what she’d feared had happened: Miami had been the bad influence she’d suspected; Sean was in trouble again.

As soon as she thought she was composed enough, Anne called Brian at home.

“Sean’s in trouble again,” she blurted when Brian answered. Tears came as soon as she got the words out.

“Mom, try to control yourself,” Brian said.

“You have to do something,” Anne said between sobs.

Brian got his mother to calm down enough to tell him what had happened and what the police had said.

“It’s probably some traffic violation,” Brian said. “He probably drove over someone’s lawn, something like that.”

“I think it’s worse,” Anne sniffled. “I know it is. I can feel it. That boy will be the death of me.”

“How about if I come over?” Brian said. “I’ll make some calls in the meantime and check it out. I bet it’s something minor.”

“I hope so,” Anne said as she blew her nose.

While Anne waited for Brian to drive over from Marlborough Street, she dressed and began putting her hair up. Brian lived across the Charles River in Back Bay, and since it was Saturday with no traffic, he was there in half an hour. When he buzzed to let her know he was on his way up, Anne was putting in the last of her hairpins.

“Before I left my apartment I put in a call to a lawyer colleague in Miami by the name of Kevin Porter,” Brian told his mother. “He works for a firm we do business with in the Miami area. I told him what had happened, and he said he had an in with the police and could replace out what’s going on.”

“I know it’s bad,” Anne said.

“You don’t know it’s bad!” Brian said. “Now don’t get yourself all worked up. Remember last time you ended up in the hospital.”

The call from Kevin Porter came within minutes of Brian’s arrival.

“I’m afraid I don’t have great news for you,” Kevin said. “A liquor store owner got your brother’s tag leaving the scene of a burglary.”

Brian sighed and looked at his mother. She was sitting on the very edge of a straight-backed chair with her hands clasped together in her lap. Brian was furious with Sean. Didn’t he ever consider the effects of his escapades on their poor mother?

“It’s a weird story,” Kevin continued. “It seems that a dead body was mutilated and, you ready for this…?”

“Let me have the whole story,” Brian said.

“Somebody stole the brain out of the body,” Kevin said. “And this body wasn’t some derelict. The deceased was a young woman whose father is some business bigwig up there in Beantown.”

“Here in Boston?”

“Yup, and there’s a big ruckus down here because of his connections,” Kevin said. “Pressure is being put on the police to do something. The state’s attorney has drawn up a list of charges a mile long. The medical examiner who looked at the body guessed the skull had been opened with a jigsaw.”

“And Sean’s 4 × 4 was seen leaving the scene?” Brian asked. He was already trying to think of a defense.

“Afraid so,” Kevin said. “Plus one of the medical examiners says your brother and a nurse were at the medical examiner’s office only a few hours before asking about the same body. Seems they wanted samples. Looks like they got them. Obviously the police are looking for your brother and the nurse for questioning and probably arrest.”

“Thanks, Kevin,” Brian said. “Let me know where you’ll be today. I might need you, especially if Sean is arrested.”

“You can reach me all weekend,” Kevin said. “I’ll leave word at the station to call me if your brother is picked up.”

Brian slowly replaced the receiver and looked at his mother. He knew she wasn’t ready for this, especially since she thought Sean was alone in Sodom and Gomorrah.

“Do you have Sean’s phone numbers handy?” he asked. He tried to keep the concern out of his voice.

Anne got them for him without speaking.

Brian called the residence first. He let it ring a dozen times before giving up. Then he tried calling the Forbes Cancer Center research building. Unfortunately all he got was a recording saying that the switchboard was open Monday through Friday, eight until five.

Picking the phone back up decisively, he called Delta Airlines and made a reservation on the noon flight to Miami. Something strange was going on, and he thought he’d better be there in the thick of things.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Anne said. “It’s bad.”

“I’m sure it’s all some misunderstanding,” Brian said. “That’s why I think I should go down there and clear things up.”

“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Anne said.

“Mother,” Brian said. “It’s not your fault.”

HIROSHI GYUHAMA’S stomach was bothering him. His nerves were on edge. Ever since Sean had frightened him in the stairwell, he’d been reluctant to spy on the man. But this morning he’d had no choice. He checked on Sean as soon as he saw the 4 × 4 in the parking lot so early in the day. When he saw that Sean was feverishly working in his lab, Hiroshi returned to his office.

Hiroshi was doubly upset now that Tanaka Yamaguchi was in town. Hiroshi had met him at the airport two days earlier and had driven him to the Doral Country Club where he planned to stay and play golf until the final word came from Sushita.

The final word had come late Friday night. After reviewing Tanaka’s memorandum, the Sushita board had decided that Sean Murphy was a risk to the Forbes investment. Sushita wanted him in Tokyo forthwith where they would “reason” with him.

Hiroshi was not at all comfortable around Tanaka. Knowing of the man’s associations with the Yakusa made Hiroshi extremely wary. And Tanaka gave subtle hints that he did not respect Hiroshi. He’d bowed when they met, but he hadn’t bowed very low, and not for very long. Their conversation on the way to the hotel had been inconsequential. Tanaka did not mention Sean Murphy. And once they arrived at the hotel, Tanaka had ignored Hiroshi. Worst of all he did not invite Hiroshi to play golf.

All these slights were painfully obvious to Hiroshi; the implications were clear.

Hiroshi dialed the Doral Country Club Hotel and asked to speak with Mr. Yamaguchi. He was transferred to the clubhouse since Mr. Yamaguchi had scheduled a tee time in twenty minutes.

Tanaka came on the line. He was particularly curt when he heard Hiroshi’s voice. Speaking in rapid Japanese, Hiroshi got directly to the point.

“Mr. Sean Murphy is here at the research center,” Hiroshi said.

“Thank you,” Tanaka said. “The plane is on its way. All is in order. We will be at Forbes this afternoon.”

SEAN HAD started the morning off in high spirits. After the initial ease of identifying the immunoglobulin and the three cytokines, Sean had expected just as rapid progress in determining exactly what kind of antigen the immunoglobulin reacted to. Since it reacted so strongly with the tumor cell suspension, he reasoned that the antigen had to be membrane-based. In other words, the antigen had to be on the surface of the cancer cells.

To assure himself of this assumption as well as confirm that the antigen was at least partially a peptide, Sean had treated intact cells from Helen’s tumor with trypsin. When he tried to see if these digested cells reacted with the immunoglobulin, he quickly learned they did not.

But from that moment on, Sean had run into trouble. He could not characterize this membrane-based antigen. His idea was to try innumerable known antigens and see if they reacted with the antigen binding portion of the unknown immunoglobulin. None reacted. Using literally hundreds of cell lines grown in tissue culture, he spent hours filling the little wells, but he got no reaction. He was particularly interested in cell lines whose origins were from neural tissues. He tried normal cells and transformed or neoplastic cells. He tried digesting all the cells with detergents in increasing concentration, first to open the cell membranes and expose cytoplasmic antigens, then to open nuclear membranes to expose nuclear antigens. Still nothing reacted. There wasn’t a single episode of immunofluorescence in any of hundreds of tiny wells.

Sean couldn’t believe how difficult it was turning out to be to replace an antigen to react with the mysterious immunoglobulin. So far he hadn’t even gotten a partial reaction. Just when he was losing patience, the phone rang. He walked to a wall extension to answer it. It was Janet.

“How’s it going, Einstein?” she asked brightly.

“Terrible,” Sean said. “I’m not getting anywhere.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Janet said. “But I’ve got something that might brighten your day.”

“What?” Sean asked. At the moment he couldn’t imagine anything except the antigen he was seeking. But Janet certainly wouldn’t be able to supply that.

“I got a sample of Louis Martin’s large vial medicine,” Janet said. “I used your idea.”

“Great,” Sean said without much enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter?” Janet questioned. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am pleased,” he said. “But I’m also frustrated with the stuff I have; I’m at a loss.”

“Let’s meet so I can give you this syringe,” Janet said. “Maybe you need a break.”

They met as usual in the cafeteria. Sean took advantage of the time to get something to eat. As before, Janet passed Sean the syringe under the table. He slipped it into his pocket.

“I brought my overnight bag, as requested,” she said, hoping to lighten Sean’s mood.

Sean merely nodded as he ate his sandwich.

“You seem a lot less excited about our trip than you did this morning,” Janet commented.

“I’m just preoccupied,” Sean said. “I never would have guessed I’d not replace some antigen that would react with the mysterious immunoglobulin.”

“My day hasn’t been so great either,” Janet said. “Gloria is no better. If anything, she’s a little worse. Seeing her makes me depressed. I don’t know about you, but I’m really looking forward to getting away. I think it will do us both some good. Maybe a little time away from the lab will give you some ideas.”

“That would be nice,” Sean said dully.

“I’ll be off sometime around three-thirty,” Janet said. “Where shall we meet?”

“Come over to the research building,” Sean said. “I’ll meet you downstairs in the foyer. If we leave from that side, we’ll miss the shift-change crowd in the hospital.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” Janet said brightly.

STERLING REACHED over the seat and nudged Wayne. Wayne, who’d been sleeping in the back, sat up quickly.

“This looks promising,” Sterling said. He pointed through the windshield at a black stretch Lincoln Town Car that was parking at the curb midway between the hospital building and the research building. Once the car stopped, a Japanese man got out of the rear and gazed up at the two buildings.

“That’s Tanaka Yamaguchi,” Sterling said. “Can you tell how many people are in the limousine with your glasses?”

“It’s difficult to see through the tinted windows,” Wayne said, using a small pair of binoculars. “There’s a second man sitting in the back seat. Wait a sec. The front door is opening as well. I can see two more. That’s four people total.”

“That’s what I’d expect,” Sterling said. “I trust that they’re all Japanese.”

“You got it, man,” Wayne said.

“I’m surprised they’re here at Forbes,” Sterling said. “Tanaka’s preferred technique is to abduct people in an isolated location so there will be no witnesses.”

“They’ll probably follow him,” Wayne suggested. “Then just wait for the right spot.”

“I imagine you are right,” Sterling said. He saw a second man get out of the limousine. He was tall compared to Tanaka. “Let me have a look with those binoculars,” Sterling said. Wayne passed them over the seat. Sterling adjusted the focus of the glasses and studied the two Orientals. He didn’t recognize the second one.

“Why don’t we go over there and introduce ourselves?” Wayne suggested. “Let them know this is a risky operation. Maybe they’d give up the whole plan.”

“That would only serve to alert them,” Sterling said. “It’s better this way. If we announce ourselves too soon they’ll merely operate more clandestinely. We have to catch them in the act so we have something we can use to bargain with them.”

“It seems like such a cat-and-mouse game,” Wayne said.

“You are absolutely correct,” Sterling said.

ROBERT HARRIS had been sitting in his car a few doors down from Tom Widdicomb’s home on Palmetto Lane in Hialeah since early that morning. Although he’d been there for over four hours, Harris had seen no sign of life except that the lights had all gone out. Once he thought he saw the curtains move the way they had the night before, but he couldn’t be certain. He thought maybe in his boredom his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Several times Harris had been on the verge of giving up. He was wasting too much valuable time on one individual who was suspicious only because of a career switch, the fact that he kept all his lights on, and because he wouldn’t answer his doorbell. Yet the idea that the attack on the two nurses could be related to the cancer patient episodes gnawed at Harris. With no other current ideas or leads, he stayed where he was.

It was just after two P.M., and just when Harris was about to leave to deal with hunger and other bodily needs, that he first saw Tom Widdicomb. The garage door went up, and there he was, blinking in the bright sunlight.

Physically, Tom fit the bill. He was of medium height and medium build with brown hair. His clothes were mildly disheveled. His shirt and pants were unpressed. One sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to mid-forearm, the other was down but unbuttoned. On his feet were old, lightweight running shoes.

There were two cars in the garage: a huge, vintage lime green Cadillac convertible and a gray Ford Escort. Tom started the Ford with some difficulty. Once the engine caught, black smoke billowed out of the exhaust as if the car had not been started for some time. Tom backed it out of the garage, closed the garage door manually, then got back into the Escort. When he pulled out of the driveway, Harris let him build up a lead before following.

Harris did not have any preconceived plan. When he first saw Tom the moment the garage door opened, he considered getting out of the car and having a conversation with the man. But he’d held back, and now he was following him for no specific reason. But soon it became apparent where Tom was headed, and Harris got progressively interested. Tom was heading for the Forbes Cancer Center.

When Tom entered the parking lot, Harris followed but purposefully turned in the opposite direction to avoid Tom’s noticing him. Harris stopped quickly, opened the door, and stood on the running board as he watched Tom cruise around the parking lot and finally stop near the entrance to the hospital.

Harris got back into his car and worked his way closer, replaceing a vacant spot about fifty feet from the Escort. What was going through his mind was the possibility that Tom Widdicomb might be stalking the second nurse to be attacked, Janet Reardon. If that were true, perhaps he’d been the one who had attacked her, and if he had, maybe he was the breast cancer patients’ killer.

Harris shook his head. It was all so conjectural, with so many “ifs” and so contrary to the way he liked to think and act. He liked facts, not vague suppositions. Yet this was all he had for the moment, and Tom Widdicomb was acting strange: staying in a house with every light on; hiding out most of the day; now loitering in the hospital parking area on his day off, especially when he was supposed to be home sick. As ridiculous as it all might have sounded from a rational point of view it was enough to keep Harris sitting in his car wishing he’d had the foresight to bring sandwiches and Gatorade.

WHEN SEAN returned from his meeting with Janet, he changed the direction of his investigations. Instead of attempting to characterize the antigenic specificity of Helen Cabot’s medicine, he decided to determine exactly how Louis Martin’s medicine differed from hers. A rapid electrophoresis of the two showed them to be of approximately the same molecular weight, which he’d expected. An equally rapid ELISA test with the anti-human immunoglobulin IgGI confirmed it was the same class of immunoglobulins as Helen’s. He’d also expected that.

But then he discovered the unexpected. He ran a fluorescence antibody test with Louis Martin’s medicine with Helen’s tumor and got just as strong a positive reaction as he’d gotten with Helen’s medicine! Even though Janet believed that the medicines came from the same source, Sean did not believe they could be the same. From what he knew about the antigenic specificity of cancers and their antibodies, it was extremely improbable. Yet now he was faced with the fact that Louis’s medicine reacted with Helen’s tumor. He almost wished he could get his hands on Louis’s biopsy just so he could run it against Helen’s medicine to confirm this baffling replaceing.

Sitting at the lab bench, Sean tried to think what to do next. He could subject Louis Martin’s medicine to the same battery of antigens he’d tried with Helen’s medicine, but that would probably be futile. Instead, he decided to characterize the antigenic binding areas of the two immunoglobulins. Then he could compare their amino acid sequences directly.

The first step of this procedure was to digest each of the immunoglobulins with an enzyme called papain to split off the fragments that were associated with antigen binding. After the splitting, Sean separated these segments, then “unfolded” the molecules. Finally, he introduced these compounds into an automated peptide analyzer that would do the complicated work of sequencing the amino acids. The machine was on the sixth floor.

Sean went to the sixth floor and primed the automated instruments. There were a few other researchers working that Saturday morning, but Sean was too engrossed in his work to start any conversations.

Once the analyzer was prepared and set to run, Sean returned to his lab. Since he had more of Helen’s medicine than he did of Louis’s, he used hers to continue trying to replace something that would react with its antigen binding area. He tried to think what kind of surface antigen could be on her tumor cells and reasoned that it was probably some kind of glycoprotein that formed a cellular binding site.

That was when he thought of the Forbes glycoprotein that he had been trying to crystallize.

As he had been doing with numerous other antigen candidates, he tested the reactivity of the Forbes glycoprotein with Helen’s medicine using an immunofluorescence test. Just as he was scanning the plate for signs of reactivity, which he didn’t see, he was startled by a husky female voice.

“Exactly what are you doing?”

Sean turned to see Dr. Deborah Levy standing directly behind him. Her eyes sparkled with a fierce intensity.

Sean was taken completely by surprise. He’d not even taken the precaution of coming up with a convincing cover story for all his immunological testing. He hadn’t expected anyone to interrupt him on Saturday morning, particularly not Dr. Levy; he didn’t even think she was in town.

“I asked a simple question,” Dr. Levy said. “I expect an answer.”

Sean looked away from Dr. Levy, his eyes sweeping over the mess of reagents on the lab bench, the profusion of cell culture tubes, and the general disarray. He stammered, trying to think up some reasonable explanation. Nothing came to mind except the crystal work he was supposed to be doing. Unfortunately that had nothing to do with immunology.

“I’m trying to grow crystals,” Sean said.

“Where are they?” Dr. Levy asked evenly. Her tone indicated she would take some convincing.

Sean didn’t answer right away.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Dr. Levy said.

“I don’t know exactly,” Sean said. He felt like a fool.

“I told you I run a tight ship here,” Dr. Levy said. “I have a feeling you didn’t take my word.”

“I did,” Sean hastened to say. “I mean, I do.”

“Roger Calvet said you haven’t been by to inject any more of your mice,” Dr. Levy said.

“Yes, well…” Sean began.

“And Mr. Harris said he caught you in our maximum containment area,” Dr. Levy interrupted. “Claire Barington said she told you specifically that area was closed.”

“I just thought…” Sean started to say.

“I let you know from the start that I did not approve of your coming here,” Dr. Levy said. “Your behavior thus far has only confirmed my reservations. I want to know what you are doing with all this equipment and expensive reagents. One doesn’t use immunologic materials to grow protein crystals.”

“I’m just fooling around,” Sean said lamely. The last thing he wanted to admit was that he was working on medulloblastoma, particularly after he’d been forbidden access.

“Fooling around!” Dr. Levy repeated contemptuously. “What do you think this place is, your personal playground?” Despite her dark complexion, color rose in her cheeks. “No one does any work around here without submitting a formal proposal to me. I’m in charge of research. You are to work on the colonic glycoprotein project and on that alone. Do I make myself clear? I want to see defractable crystals by next week.”

“Okay,” Sean said. He avoided looking at the woman.

Dr. Levy stayed for another minute, as if to make sure her words had sunk in. Sean felt like a child caught red-handed in a naughty act. He didn’t have a thing to say for himself. His usual talent for witty retort had momentarily abandoned him.

At long last, Dr. Levy stalked out of the lab. Silence returned.

For a few minutes Sean merely stared at the mess in front of him without moving. He still had no idea where the crystal work was. It had to be there someplace, but he didn’t make any move to replace it. He simply shook his head. What a ridiculous situation. His sense of frustration came back in a rush. He’d really had it with this place. He never should have come—and never would have had he known the Forbes Center’s terms. He should have left in protest as soon as he’d been informed. It was all he could do to restrain himself from using his hand to sweep the countertop of all the glassware, pipettes, and immunologic reagents and allow them to smash to the floor.

Sean looked at his watch. It was just after two in the afternoon. “The hell with it all,” he thought. Gathering up the immunoglobulin unknowns, he stashed them in the back of the refrigerator along with Helen Cabot’s brain and the sample of her cerebrospinal fluid.

Sean grabbed his jean jacket and headed for the elevators, leaving behind the mess he’d created.

Emerging into the bright, warm Miami sunshine, Sean felt a bit of relief. Tossing his jacket into the back seat of his 4 × 4, he climbed in behind the wheel. The engine roared to life. He made it a point to burn a little rubber as he exited the parking area and sped south toward the Forbes residence. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the stretch limo pull out after him, bumping its undercarriage on the dip as it struggled to keep Sean in sight, nor did he spot the dark green Mercedes tailing the limo.

Sean sped back to his apartment, slammed the car door with extra force, and kicked the front door of the residence shut. He was in a foul mood.

Going into his apartment, he heard the door across the hall open. It was Gary Engels dressed in his usual jeans without a shirt.

“Hey, man,” Gary said casually, leaning against the door jamb. “You had some company earlier.”

“What kind of company?” Sean asked.

“The Miami police,” Gary said. “Two big burly cops came in here nosing around, asking all sorts of questions about you and your car.”

“When?” Sean asked.

“Just minutes ago,” Gary said. “You could have passed them in the parking lot.”

“Thanks,” Sean said. He went into his apartment and closed the door, irritated anew with another problem. There was only one explanation for the police’s visit: someone had noted his license plate after the funeral home alarm went off.

The last thing Sean wanted now was a hassle with the police. He grabbed a small suitcase and filled it with a dop kit, underwear, a bathing suit, and shoes. In his garment bag he packed a shirt, tie, slacks, and a jacket. In less than three minutes he was headed back down the stairs.

Before stepping out of the building he looked to see if there were any police cars, marked or otherwise. The only vehicle that looked out of place was a limousine. Confident the cops wouldn’t be coming after him in a limo, Sean made a dash for his 4 × 4, then headed back to the Forbes Cancer Center. En route he stopped to use a pay phone.

The idea the police were looking for him bothered Sean immensely. It brought back bad memories of his unruly youth. Parts of his brief life of petty crime had been exhilarating, but his brushes with the judicial system had only been tedious and disheartening. He never wanted to get bogged down in that bureaucratic quagmire again.

The first person Sean thought to call after hearing about the police was his brother Brian. Before Sean spoke to any police, he wanted to speak to the best lawyer he knew. He hoped his brother would be home. He usually was on Saturday afternoon. But instead of Brian he got Brian’s answering machine with its inane message complete with background elevator music. Sometimes Sean wondered how they could have grown up in the same house.

Sean left a message saying that it was important that they talk, but that he couldn’t leave a number. He said he’d call later. Sean would try again once he got to Naples.

Returning to his car, Sean sped back toward the Forbes. He wanted to be sure to be at their appointed meeting place when Janet got off work.