Don't Look Behind You Page 13

  Finally I came across some banking materials—a savings book, a checkbook with register, and an envelope of monthly statements. These showed that Leif Borensen was keeping a quarter of a million dollars and change in a savings account at a Manhattan bank.

  That didn’t surprise me. He hadn’t gone after Gwen with marrying money in mind. This was about “marrying” a theatrical impresario whose name and reputation would lift Borensen to a higher level—that and aligning himself with a gifted young performer in Gwen.

  I did find one interesting, possibly suggestive item. Make that “items.” Borensen had made out two checks, $25,000 each, to the Institute for Neurological Disease. Was Borensen a closet philanthropist?

  I looked for the cancelled checks and found them. They were deposited in a bank in Cold Spring in upstate New York. So the institute wouldn’t be tough to track.

  Gwen was just waking up when I slipped into the guest room to say my goodbyes.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked sleepily. You know a woman is beautiful when she wakes up beautiful.

  “Yes. You don’t want me here when the help shows.”

  She frowned at the onset of reality. “Oh, dear. I’ll need to tell them what happened.…”

  “It’ll be in all the papers. I wouldn’t tell them anything beyond that Mr. Borensen seems to have taken his own life. They’ll be sympathetic and leave it at that.”

  That calmed her. “Mike… last night was… thank you. I needed to be close to someone. I just want you to know…”

  “Honey,” I said, leaning in, “I know. A young Broadway star and a broken-down old private eye have no future together. It was a one-time thing for both of us. But I’ll never forget it.”

  She reached herself up and gave me a little kiss. “You may be old but you’re not broken-down.”

  “That’s half a compliment, anyway. Listen, did you ever hear of something called the Institute for Neurological Disease? I think it’s upstate somewhere.”

  “Actually, yes. It’s a research facility. I was involved in a telethon for them, a year or so ago. They’ve made some real breakthroughs.”

  “Did you know that Leif gave fifty thousand dollars to them?”

  She shrugged. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t know he had any interest in that particular cause. Really, I don’t remember him ever giving to any kind of charity. Is that significant?”

  I gave her a quick kiss of my own. “Honey, in my world, fifty grand is always significant.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  An hour and a half north of Manhattan, Cold Spring was a hamlet of maybe fifteen hundred at the deepest point of the Hudson, a step into the past with its idyllic setting and downtown of well-preserved nineteenth-century buildings, well-served by a sunny Indian summer day. They made rifles and cannons here, a century ago, but now a battery factory kept the place afloat.

  At odds with the old-timey nature of the village, the Institute for Neurological Disease—just outside Cold Spring—was a modern, low-slung glass-and-brick sprawl that might have been a grade school or a power-and-water facility. Somehow it seemed a misnomer against the majesty of nearby Storm King Mountain.

  I hadn’t called ahead. Phoning the information desk at the New York Public Library got me everything I needed, including the name of the Institute’s founder—Dr. Clayton R. Beech.

  I pulled the Ford into a parking lot with perhaps fifty other cars, and strolled into a doctor’s waiting room of a lobby and directly to the nurse/receptionist’s desk. The nurse was a pleasant-featured Nordic type in her fifties who still looked like a good time. She gave me a professionally polite smile that took the edge off the obvious confusion of someone who rarely dealt with walk-ins.

  I took off my hat and gave her my own polite smile. “I wonder if Dr. Beech might be in. I’d like to see him.”

  That seemed to amuse her, but she tried not to show it. Very blue eyes on this matronly gal.

  “Sir, Dr. Beech seldom sees anyone—he’s extremely hands-on in our research here—and when he does see someone, it’s by appointment only, usually months in advance. If you could tell me the nature of your call, we might be able to arrange something early next year.”

  I put on an unhappy face. “That’s disappointing.” I sighed dramatically.

  “Well, I’m sorry, sir.”

  “It’s just that I was here about a fifty-thousand dollar donation.”

  She reached for the phone.

  In five minutes, my hat in my lap, I was seated in an office of modest size, decorated only with diplomas and a calendar with flying-geese artwork. The furnishings, including a wall of filing cabinets lined up behind me like a row of soldiers, were coldly modern, like the facility.

  But Dr. Beech exuded a warmth that came across immediately, unless that was something he worked up for prospective donors.

  Around five ten, in his mid-sixties, bald up top but with black-and-gray sideburns that developed into a well-trimmed beard, the doctor stopped to shake my hand—and get my name—before settling in behind his desk. In the expected white smock with a dark blue bow tie, he had the build of a linebacker, gone slump-shouldered, and the wire-framed glasses of a professor, bifocals.

  At his back, and the only impressive thing about this space, was a picture window on to a gymnasium-size laboratory where dozens of other white-smocked professionals were seated and sometimes standing at a row of vertically arranged benches arrayed with test tubes, beakers, flasks, Bunsen burners, heavy-duty microscopes, and sophisticated gizmos beyond my recognition.

  Dr. Beech noticed I was looking past him and smiled, tenting his fingers, elbows leaned on a desk where everything was tidy, all papers stacked, even framed family photos arranged symmetrically.

  “It’s one-way glass,” he said, in a bland mid-range voice. “They never know when I’m watching.”

  I grinned. “At least it’s not constant, like Big Brother.”

  He might have been offended by that crack, but he wasn’t. Or, again, maybe he cut potential big-money donors some slack.

  “Michael Hammer,” he said, tasting the words, eyes narrowing behind the round lenses of his glasses. “I’ve heard that name but I’m afraid I can’t place it.”

  “I have a rather successful private investigation agency in Manhattan. There’s been media coverage now and then.”

  Now he was nodding, and smiling. “Ah, yes. You’re a well-known figure, considered notorious in some circles. I believe you’ve been in some rather hair-raising scrapes over the years.”

  “Scrapes and escapes, yes.”

  He was trying to process that. I was well-known, so did that mean I had money? That I was a success? I was famous—okay, infamous—as someone who had killed but stayed within the limits of the law. Did that mean I felt guilty, and wanted to kick some dough in to a good cause? Help some people live, instead of die?

  “I know you’re a busy man, Doctor. But I only know very generally what you do here. Could you explain it in more detail, but still keep it in layman’s terms?”

  The smile blossomed wide in the black-and-gray beard. “Certainly, Mr. Hammer. We have been working on cures and vaccines for numerous neurological conditions and disorders. We’ve enjoyed great success, virtually wiping out several such diseases in the thirty years this institute has been in existence.”

  “That’s wonderful. Very admirable, sir.”

  He nodded, proud but not smug. “For several years we’ve put the lion’s share of our focus on a rare but debilitating disease called Phasger’s Syndrome, named for the first known patient to display the symptoms. That was in 1918.”

  “What are the symptoms, Doctor?”

  He flipped a hand. “They are actually quite mild, Mr. Hammer, initially. So mild that those who’ve contracted the disease often don’t know it until it’s too late. The victim has a strong sensation of a bitter taste, and the constant scent of ashes, followed by mild muscular aches not unlike the flu. In these early stages, we can already
cure Phasger’s, and we are frankly on the brink of a total cure.”

  The quiet pride in his voice said he could picture the Nobel Prize for Medicine on his wall right now, between the diplomas and the ducks.

  “When you say ‘brink,’ Doctor—how close are you?”

  The linebacker shoulders shrugged. “Five years. A year? It’s impossible to say, as a breakthrough at any given time can change everything. But I’m confident that ten years from now, Phasger’s Syndrome will be a remnant of the past, like polio.”

  “Impressive.” I gestured toward the small army of research scientists. “How do you manage such feats? I would imagine the costs are staggering.”

  “They are,” he said, “yet we get no government funding, and are wholly independent in that fashion. We survive on grants and gifts from corporations, charitable groups, and of course…” He gestured toward me with a smile. “…individuals.”

  I smiled back at him. “The kindness of strangers, somebody said. You mentioned the early symptoms, Doctor. What does full-blown Phasger’s Syndrome develop into?”

  His expression turned grave. “Something quite terrible. Every facet of the nervous system attacks the patient. The pain is excruciating and constant. It is resistant to the most potent pain medications. Something like morphine, in this context, is akin to giving aspirin to a migraine sufferer. Within a year a patient is bedridden, and must be fed intravenously. Speech is distorted to the eventual point of incomprehensibility. There is frequent bleeding from every orifice, requiring regular transfusions. The gums decay, and the teeth rot and fall out. Blindness gradually occurs within the first six months. These poor wretches… excuse my melodramatic phrasing… are prisoners in their own bodies, bodies that are declaring war on themselves.”

  “Damn.”

  He flipped the other hand. “So you can see why we work so diligently, around the clock, to eradicate this cruel killer. And you can see why we are so grateful to those, like yourself, who are willing to step up and contribute to this important work.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  The smile blossomed even bigger. “And I must say, Mr. Hammer, that the figure you mentioned to my nurse is an impressive one. From a private individual, particularly one with no history of Phasger’s in the family, such a donation is rare indeed. Fifty thousand dollars will go a very long way in this research.”

  “I’m afraid your nurse misunderstood, Doctor.”

  “Oh?”

  “As you know, I’m a private investigator. And I’m here to ask about a fifty-thousand dollar contribution someone made to your institute. Actually, two twenty-five-thousand dollar contributions.”

  He drew back in his chair, sucking in breath, agape. Well, why not? Hadn’t I sucker-punched him?

  From my inside suit coat pocket, I withdrew the two cancelled checks and I put them in front of him. “Leif Borensen made these generous donations, both in recent months. Take a look.”

  Frowning, he did so, without touching them. Maybe he was afraid of catching something. “I do remember these.”

  “What do you remember about Leif Borensen?”

  “Why, nothing.”

  “He wasn’t a patient? Or don’t you have patients here?”

  His eyes and nostrils flared. “Do I have to tell you, Mr. Hammer, that patient confidentiality—”

  So they did treat sufferers, or experiment on them.

  “Doc, you already said you didn’t remember anything about Borensen. Can you confirm he wasn’t a patient?”

  He thought about that so long, I thought his beard might grow. But finally he nodded.

  “Is there anyone close to him that you know of,” I said, “a friend or relative who may have contracted Phasger’s, perhaps suffering now or possibly already dead from it, that might inspire Mr. Borensen to make such a generous contribution?”

  Another sigh. “Frankly, no.”

  “Well, isn’t this kind of contribution unusual?”

  “It is.” Something about the contribution did seem to bother him. “Mr. Hammer, there is generally paperwork we must provide to the effect that our institute is an organization funded by charity, giving the donor a tax benefit. Mr. Borensen did not pursue that avenue. My sole contact with him were these two checks.”

  I thought about that.

  Then I asked, “Doctor, have you received any similar contributions, from donors otherwise unknown to you, over the past, say, five years?”

  Impatience was tightening his face. “I don’t know that I want to answer that, Mr. Hammer. I am willing to respond to you on the basis of the cancelled checks you presented me… and, frankly, I read the newspapers, and know that Mr. Borensen died a suicide recently… but I see no reason for our conversation to go further…” He rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have rather important work to get back to.”

  He came around his desk and I got up and faced him, blocking the way. Not threateningly, just blocking it.

  “I have important work to do, too, Doc. You’re chasing a killer called Phasger’s Syndrome. I’m chasing down a killer who doesn’t have a name yet, but he’s killed many times, and will continue doing so until I eradicate this human disease.”

  He studied my face. “Mr. Hammer, have you ever seen a psychiatrist?”

  “Once,” I said. “Didn’t work out. Answer my question, Doctor—have you received similar contributions in recent years, possibly not always twenty-five thousand but certainly in that vicinity?”

  “…Yes.”

  “Any repeat contributions from any of those donors?”

  “Occasionally, as with Mr. Borensen, there have been several donations of that size. But nothing regular. And no personal contact.”

  “None of them wanting help claiming a fat tax deduction?”

  This was something that clearly had bothered him. He said, “No, sir. Not one. Do you… do you have an idea why they might do that?”

  “Yes. These people wanted to attract a minimum amount of attention. They paid their money and disappeared.”

  “Paid…?”

  “Just a theory I’m working on, Doc. Would you be willing to provide a list of names and addresses for these other big donors?”

  His chin came up. “Well, no. Why should you expect me to? You’re just a private investigator, Mr. Hammer.”

  “That makes me an officer of the court.”

  “Be that as it may—no.” He was firm. “Bring me a court order, however, and I’ll provide that list.”

  I moved away from him, easing toward the door. “Fair enough. You’ll be hearing from Patrick Chambers, Captain of Homicide, NYPD. When exactly, I can’t say. But I would go ahead and get that list together. And might I make another suggestion?”

  A bitter little smile formed. “I’m quite sure I can’t stop you, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Take on some security. Twenty-four hour security.”

  “We have a security man who…”

  “Not ‘man.’ Men. With guns and military experience. I can give you the name of a good agency out of Manhattan—I’m part of only a two-person operation and couldn’t handle it for you.”

  He was shaking his head. “This is incredible… Why on earth—”

  “The human disease I mentioned might consider you a loose end and come looking for you. You could get infected. It wouldn’t hurt like Phasger’s, Doc, but I promise you, it’ll be just as fatal.”

  He took the name.

  * * *

  Newburgh was less than half an hour from Cold Spring, and by mid-afternoon I was pulling into the driveway of Valley Vista Sanitarium, right up to the unwelcoming gate.

  I went through the usual protocol, and then I was in Billy’s room at his bedside with Velda just across from me. The little guy looked good, eyes bright, his smile ready, though he occasionally winced (“It’s these damn ribs, Mike—they got me bound up tighter than a bundle of Sunday News right off the truck”).

  I said, “Velda tells me you’ve identif
ied Borensen from those crime scene photos.”

  He nodded emphatically. “Oh, that’s the hit-and-run bastard, all right. But Velda says, Sunday night, the guy did the Dutch act. So I guess the point’s, whatchacallit … moot?”

  I shook my head. “No, Billy, that suicide was really a homicide.”

  He shrugged just a bit—probably hurt his ribs to do more. “Either way you slice it, Mike, I’m off the firin’ line. You gotta get me back to my stand! That kid Duck-Duck’s an okay fill-in, but over the long haul, he’ll put me outa business.”

  I patted his shoulder. “You’ll be out of here soon, Billy. But I spoke to the doc and he wants you a few more days. So hang in there.”

  Velda was frowning at me, just a little.

  I said, “I’m going to grab a smoke. Kitten, you want to keep me company?”

  Then Velda and I were again down at the end of the hall, me on a chair and her on the nearest cushion of the couch, in the company of ancient magazines but no other visitors. I plucked a Lucky out of a half-gone pack. She had her arms folded and was giving me something very near a cross look. She was in a green jumpsuit this time, looking even more like a curvy commando.

  “Okay, Mike, enough’s enough. I like Billy fine, but sharing a room with him for… how many days now? Sleeping in a recliner? I’m ready to break out of this joint.”

  I waved out a match, drew in cigarette smoke, exhaled it. “I know, doll. Real soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Like I told Billy, a couple of days.”

  Her frown deepened. “What’s the point, with Borensen dead?”

  “The point, baby, is somebody made that Viking dead.”

  “…Our middle-of-the-night caller?”

  “Bet on it.”

  The frown eased off a tad. “I get that, Mike, but with Borensen out of the picture, how is Billy still a target?”

  “A couple of ways. This killer is a nut, but he’s also a professional. He got paid for taking Billy out, and—even after personally killing the guy who hired it—he may feel he has to carry out the contract.”