Bad Blood

By Guy Young

Can dead people still bleed? Two dead bodies on two continents are discovered simultaneously both of whom continue to bleed even after their lifeless bodies are found. Is it some new horrific disease or something even more sinister? Follow the two doctors enlisted to help law enforcement unravel the mystery across the globe as they chase many seemingly unrelated clues and learn about other horrors beyond those of the dead bodies. During the fast-paced chase to solve the mystery, Andy and Leila learn as much about themselves and each other as they do about the circumstances of the strange case including confronting issues of religious tolerance. Their journey is not only a discovery of clues, but a self-discovery as well ultimately culminating in both of them having to wrestle with an unimaginable moral dilemma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483420646

Guy Young

Guy Young is a physician who was raised on Long Island, New York, and lives in Los Angeles. He cares for children with blood disorders at Children's Hospital Los Angeles. This, his first novel, is a medical mystery. Young is married and has two boys.

Book preview

AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

S he died. She didn’t need to die. She shouldn’t have died, but she did. Her mother collapsed to the ground in shock. Her father, tears welled up in his eyes like a cup filled to the brim, dropped to the floor to console his wife. Her older brother cupped his hands over his face, perhaps too embarrassed to let the strangers in the room see him weeping like a baby, while her younger sister just stared straight ahead, mouth slightly agape, not able to fully comprehend what had transpired. The strangers in the room were the medical staff: nurses, doctors, social workers. They were all there to support the family, yet what could they do? The doctors had done what they could to save her, but they can’t save everyone. It was the most helpless feeling a health-care provider could ever have. The chaplain was there too, but the arrival of the chaplain to a hospital room is rarely a welcome sight, and this case was no different. The chaplain’s arrival, like that of vultures, meant death was nearby. His role now was to console and to aid in initiating the gut-wrenching grieving process.

She had doctors who were among the best specialists in the world working in one of the best hospitals in the world. They had the knowledge required, the supporting staff of nurses and other health-care professionals, and particularly, in this case, a family that did everything they could to care for their beloved. But she still died. How could this happen? How could this happen in a nation of such wealth and prosperity? Sometimes there are no explanations. Sometimes, we must simply accept that we and our loved ones are mortal and that to all their day will come. However, one never expects to have to bury a child—not ever and especially not as the child is just beginning to blossom into adulthood. Parents should never have to bury their child, but our health and the health of our loved ones is not entirely in our control.

Still, she shouldn’t have died. Her doctors had the knowledge and experience but did not have all the tools at their disposal. It was like a firefighter arriving to the scene of a house ablaze with his brigade, his trucks, his axes, and ladders, only to find there is no water anywhere. In the case of the girl who died, it wasn’t quite so random. Her doctors were soldiers with the best strategy yet without the best weapons. It shouldn’t have been this way. She really shouldn’t have died. But she did.

CHAPTER 1

NOVEMBER 22

NEW YORK CITY

A lthough Thanksgiving was just around the corner, Manhattan was bathed in the unexpected warm sunshine of Indian summer. With a temperature around sixty-five degrees, Central Park was full of people enjoying what would likely be the last warm day for many months. Under the specter of climate change, the winters were colder and snowier than ever, and the summers were hotter, a combination that often wreaked havoc across the United States, and felt acutely in the largest city in the country. There had been many cases of children and spouses waiting additional days for their loved ones to return home from business trips, ruining many well-planned vacations. For all of man’s ingenious inventions, it takes but a few inches of snow on the tarmacs, streets, and driveways to halt humanity’s comings and goings as if they were a colony of marching ants frozen in time.

Could this Indian summer day be the harbinger of a warmer winter to come? Detective Sean O’Reilly pondered just that as he was sitting outside Foley’s Irish Pub on Thirty-Third Street in the shadow of the Empire State Building. Although he hated the cold, snowy weather, it had one odd bonus—a lower crime rate. It seemed even the activities of criminals bowed to harsh weather. The weathermen were predicting a warmer than usual winter, but O’Reilly knew better than to believe them. How wrong they were—and so many times, he thought. If only he had a job where being wrong with infinite regularity was accepted, he would entertain far fewer of the commissioner of police’s rants. The irony that meteorology was a science and detective work an art was not lost on him. The early-afternoon crowd at Foley’s was a mixture of off-duty firefighters in jeans and T-shirts enjoying a late afternoon Guinness and well-dressed young men in suits and loosened ties drinking scotch on the rocks, McCallan or the like, and probably discussing their business dealings. Foley’s had a very long, beautiful dark-wood bar on one side and cocktail tables lining the opposite wall. The walls were painted black and hung with pictures of the motherland, Ireland: Trinity College and Grafton Street in Dublin, the Connemara coastline, and others. O’Reilly recognized the iconic Cliffs of Moher on the picture just above his table.

As he sat sipping his club soda and lemon—no alcohol was allowed while on duty—he wondered how his Irish ancestors had lived. He’d been told by his father that they had left during the horrendous potato famine, which peaked in 1847, and his family has remained in New York ever since. O’Reilly had grown up in a typical, blue-collar Irish American family in Queens, just over the bridge from Manhattan. His parents were caring and loving but also taskmasters when it came to school and homework. After all, his dad, a policeman for thirty years in the New York Police Department, and his mother, a public-school teacher, expected their children to achieve even loftier careers, if not equally noble ones, and while they were proud of their professions, they also realized that in the current culture of America they were both undervalued and underpaid. O’Reilly was a good son and took great pride in his parents’ jobs, often reminding them that they had two of the most noble professions one could find. He had been fourteen years old when his grades first started to falter. His parents had sat him down and recounted in great detail how his great-grandfather had come to New York during the great Irish wave of immigration in the latter half of the nineteenth century. They’d gone on to explain how each successive generation had had better jobs, longer careers, and more money, and that he and his two sisters were expected to do the same.

While his sisters did achieve his parents’ dreams, O’Reilly truly wanted to work in law enforcement, and though he went to great lengths to convince his parents of this, they surmised that he simply did not have the determination it took to finish college and go to a professional school. His oldest sister, Mary, was a lawyer working for Cravath, one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. His other sister, Kelly, had toiled through medical school for four years and was now a celebrated obstetrician with a million-dollar practice on Fifth Avenue, catering to the wealthy and donating twenty percent of her time to the poor who could not dream of affording her high-end services. She was one of the only physicians in New York who still paid house calls.

O’Reilly’s grades eventually improved, but he was always fascinated by the crime-drama television shows of his teenage years—Law & Order was his favorite—and he was enthralled by the role the detectives played. He would dream he was Jerry Orbach playing Detective Lenny Briscoe and solving the crime. He was convinced, or at least he convinced himself, that the lawyers had it too easy, what with the detectives essentially handing them a slam-dunk case each time. Of course, that wasn’t always true, neither on the show nor in real life, he would learn years later. Although his parents were disappointed at first, his father eventually reconciled himself with the fact that his only son, Sean, was not a beat cop but a detective, and eventually he grew proud that his son had indeed surpassed his achievements, as he had always hoped.

Sitting outside Foley’s and sipping his club soda with his partner, Detective Jose Alvarez, he couldn’t help but feel happy today—that is what Indian summer does. He had been partnered for nearly two years now with Detective Alvarez, who at thirty years of age was fifteen years his junior. Over the past two years, O’Reilly had gained a healthy amount of respect for Detective Alvarez, though at first he had balked at being partnered with him, considering that all of O’Reilly’s associations with Hispanics to this point in his life had been with gangs, drugs, and assorted other crimes. When Alvarez showed up in his office announcing that he was his new partner, he had been utterly lost for words, not unlike the feeling he’d had when being asked to give a toast to his sisters and their grooms at their weddings. He’d never felt that he had harbored any bigotry toward any race or ethnic group, but the sense of shame that engulfed him like the swirling debris from a tornado had unearthed his hidden prejudice like an uprooted tree. After the initial discomfort and awkwardness, however, he grew to learn that he and Alvarez were more similar than different. Both had grown up in Queens in close-knit Catholic families, and both had high-achieving sisters that they simultaneously loved and hated. They were even both ardent fans of the New York Yankees and New York Giants, and once those facts surfaced, any last vestige of awkwardness disappeared, and it was as if they were cut from the same New York Yankees jersey.

The last few weeks had been quite slow. Crime had been falling in New York City for the past three decades, to the point that fewer detectives were being hired and those that were retiring were no longer being replaced. They had both unwittingly entered a field where their success could make them obsolete, and they feared falling victim to their department’s success. As they sat inside Foley’s, they pondered what they would do with their lives if that fate befell them. As the warm air caressed their faces, they felt content, despite the boredom. An Indian summer breeze transported the smiles and joy from one New Yorker’s face to another. It was contagious. Then, Detective O’Reilly’s phone rang.

Hi, Sarge. What are we doing? Not much. Uh, we’re just sitting outside, enjoying a perfect afternoon of Indian summer.

Not perfect anymore, came the booming voice of Sergeant David Andrews, so loud that Alvarez could easily hear the conversation bursting forth from the tiny speakers of O’Reilly’s mobile phone.

What is it?

I’m not sure, but I want you and Alvarez to check it out. They told me that there is a lot of blood, but no sign of foul play.

Uh, I don’t get it. Blood, even a lot of it, doesn’t mean a crime was committed, responded O’Reilly.

"Well, apparently this guy is dead and he’s still bleeding. I’ve never heard of such a fucking thing, so I want you to check it out. Weren’t you telling me recently you were bored and worried about losing your job?"

Yeah.

Well, maybe this will bring you some job security, Andrews continued.

Okay, Sarge. Where are we headed? asked O’Reilly.

The Plaza Hotel. Ask for a Mr. Ridgewell, the manager. He’ll take you to the room.

As O’Reilly hung up and he and Alvarez stepped onto the concrete canyon that was Sixth Avenue, a stiff and cold wind began blowing from the west, pushing away the warm soft breezes they had both been enjoying. A swath of foreboding, dark-gray clouds with a leading edge of bright white clouds arcing toward the sky was heading in over the Hudson River like a gigantic upside down crashing wave. Indian summer was going to come to an abrupt end just as the weathermen had predicted. O’Reilly had to concede that their predictions were correct at least once in a while.

Upon arriving at the Plaza Hotel, they met Mr. Ridgewell. His calm demeanor in the lobby could not hide the look of terror in his eyes. It was as if he were staring down one of New York’s broad avenues about to be hit by a bus. His eyes were bulging out of his head like those of a fish. It was clear that his pupils were dilated, and his lids flickered up and down at a maddening pace. Clearly he was trying to keep his emotions together in the lobby of this famous hotel with its expensive clientele all around and was exerting great effort to keep anyone from suspecting that anything unusual was happening. As O’Reilly reached for his badge, Ridgewell pushed his hand back down into his pocket and asked him to keep it in his jacket. For the clientele of the Plaza, everything was normal, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Ridgewell escorted them to the service elevator so as not to mix with the rich and chic tourists and business people. Once in the elevator, he became more agitated, and it became quite clear he was a rather good actor, because he entered a state of agitation and anxiety that would have clearly aroused the hotel guests, not to mention the employees. His face had become distorted with terror, raising both O’Reilly’s and Alvarez’s pulse and blood pressure to the point that they could feel their hearts beating in their chests as they watched this display. After an interminable elevator ride, they finally reached the eighteenth floor and proceeded to room 1812. Ridgewell unlocked the door and stepped back. Now that he had escorted them to the room, he was in a full panic.

I c-c-c-can’t go in there again, Ridgewell stuttered.

Okay, you don’t have to, but tell us how you found the … O’Reilly realized that besides finding blood, he didn’t know what to expect. Has Andrews forgot to tell us there was a body, too, or is there just blood? he thought to himself.

"I got a call from one of our maids. She was frantic and could barely speak. When she finally did speak, she just kept saying ‘sangre, sangre, sangre’ over and over again while hysterically crying," Ridgewell stated.

What the hell does that mean? asked O’Reilly.

"Sangre is blood in Spanish, Alvarez clarified. You really didn’t have any Hispanic people around you growing up," he added. He had thought that most Americans would know what sangre meant.

Then what? O’Reilly asked.

We got one of our bilingual employees to talk to the maid, and she stated that she walked in to clean the room and saw a huge puddle of blood and ran out crying. I wasn’t sure what to think, so I went up there myself. I took one step into the room, and I saw a large puddle of blood. I took another step, making sure not to step in it, and saw the legs of what I am guessing is a man. I just saw the gray trousers and black shoes, and that was enough for me. Then I ran out and called the police.

Alvarez went in first, taking slow, deliberate steps. He had withdrawn his pistol and was followed closely by O’Reilly.

Holy mother of God, exclaimed Alvarez suddenly.

What the fuck! added O’Reilly, not one to hold back on expletives.

This can’t be. Hey, Ridgewell, Alvarez yelled to the hallway, what time did the maid find the blood?

It was at around 1:30. Ridgewell’s distant voice came through the door.

Jose, it’s 3:30—that’s two fuckin’ hours ago, O’Reilly said.

It can’t … it just can’t be, Alvarez replied.

Uh, are you sure he’s dead? O’Reilly asked.

He must be dead, Alvarez replied.

Do you want to check?

Uh, why don’t you do it—you’re the more experienced detective, Alvarez skillfully deferred this gruesome task to his partner.

O’Reilly laughed. Are you kidding me—what are you afraid of, man? Don’t think you can tell a dead man from a living one?

Just … I don’t know … it’s too weird.

All right. Move over a bit.

O’Reilly walked as gingerly as if there were a sleeping baby nearby toward the man’s body. It was lying face up on the hardwood floor near the entrance area of the room. He made sure not to step on him or on the large, slowly expanding, pool of blood. He managed to gently grab the man’s wrist. It was cold—quite cold. The coldness of his skin meant just one thing, and though O’Reilly was sure the man was dead, he nevertheless proceeded to check for a pulse just to be 100 percent sure, because what he and Alvarez saw defied all the logic that they could muster.

He’s dead, for sure, O’Reilly stated bluntly, looking up at his partner.

Okay, then, how can this be happening? This—it makes no sense, Alvarez wondered aloud.

Let’s call the crime scene unit. I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation.

So you’re sure he was murdered, then?

No, but we still need CSU here. Meanwhile, we need to find out who the stiff is. Hey, Ridgewell, O’Reilly shouted toward the hallway, we need to know everything you have on this guy. Name, address, everything—got it?

O’Reilly remained calm. He was the senior detective, after all, but he nevertheless felt the same discomfort and consternation that Alvarez was so avidly displaying. If this guy was dead—and he was, indeed, very dead—how could he still be bleeding? Dead people don’t move. Dead people don’t talk. And dead people don’t bleed—at least not until today. With Alvarez now waiting in the hallway with Ridgewell, O’Reilly’s morbid curiosity brought him back to the room for a closer inspection of the body. The closest he could get now was about two feet, due to the continuously enlarging pool of blood around the man. The body was fully dressed with a white—apparently starched—dress shirt with the top button undone, gray slacks, and shoes. The shirt was heavily stained with patches of bright-red blood. O’Reilly carefully bent down to take a close look at his face, and it was clear that blood was still slowly oozing from his nose and the corner of his mouth. It was trickling out slowly, the way milk leaks out from a half-empty carton turned on its side.

Having calmed Ridgewell down to some extent, Alvarez also returned to the room. Taking in the scene, he decided to pull out his iPhone and shoot some video, because he knew no one would believe them. The man had dark hair with some gray flecks behind the temples and looked well to do in O’Reilly’s mind. He did have a suite at the Plaza Hotel, after all, so he must be well off. He had no facial hair, and O’Reilly thought he looked almost presidential, but he did not recognize him as anyone famous. Then he stepped back and examined the room. There were no signs of a struggle, and Ridgewell assured him there had been no forced entry. The room was tidy—the bed was still made, the bathroom towels still hung neatly on their racks as if the man had just checked in. The only unusual aspect was the drops of blood in the sink, on the bathroom floor, and on the carpet near the bed. Even more bizarre was the fact that these drops appeared to have just landed, as they were still liquid. He then returned to the body and looked at the puddle of blood, which had expanded just a bit more in the five minutes he took to survey the room, bit by bloody bit. While he could not understand how a dead man could bleed, he also could not comprehend how this could be a crime. From what he could see, there were no marks on his body to suggest a struggle, no gunshot or stab wounds, nor any signs of blows to the head or body. Nothing. How could this be, indeed? he wondered to himself.

The Crime Scene Unit arrived within the hour. By then, the man had finally stopped bleeding, and O’Reilly was concerned that the CSU team wouldn’t believe him, just as when he’d taken his car to the mechanic to evaluate a strange sound only for the sound to disappear at the most inopportune moment. He explained to the lead technologist that the dead man had just stopped bleeding a few minutes ago.

Maybe it’s the heat, the technologist said sarcastically. You know, Indian summer.

O’Reilly, not sensing the sarcasm, replied, I’m no expert in this, but that doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense. Besides, it’s much hotter in the summer. It can’t be the heat, and it’s not that hot. Sixty-five degrees is not hot.

I was kidding. Are you sure he was still bleeding when he was dead?

Yes, I am sure—do you think I’m an idiot? It doesn’t take a fuckin’ medical degree or your CSU certificate to know what bleeding looks like, O’Reilly retorted, now catching on to the technologist’s tone.

Then, are you sure he was dead?

Are you sure you’re a crime scene investigator, asshole? Yes, I am sure—I’m damn sure. No pulse, and he was cold. Really cold, O’Reilly replied.

We’ll see about that, the technologist said pulling out a thermometer and taking the victim’s body temperature in various locations. After a minute, he looked up at O’Reilly, his face taking on a decidedly different and more serious tone, and nodded his head, implying that the victim was indeed cold and had been dead for at least a few hours.

Well, I can’t explain it, then. I’ve been to hundreds of crime scenes, and I can tell you, dead people don’t bleed, replied the CSU technologist as he gazed intently at the dead man and the large pool of purple blood surrounding him. Hey, is this some kind of fuckin’ joke, detective?

What are you talking about?

Uh, the blood on the floor … well, I don’t know. It’s—it’s weird.

Weird. How? asked O’Reilly.

Well, it’s still liquid. I mean, the blood should have dried up by now.

Just make sure you get a lot of samples. God only knows what tests we might need to do on it.

Yeah, okay. Fuck, this is weird. Who is the stiff anyway? asked the technologist.

We don’t know yet.

The CSU team stayed in the room while O’Reilly went down to the lobby to meet up with Alvarez and Ridgewell, who had long since left the floor. On his way down, he tried to put together how this could be a crime, and he could not come up with even the most remote idea. Maybe the guy had some weird disease. He remembered watching some show on the Discovery Channel about Ebola virus and how people would bleed to death. But did they keep bleeding after they died? He couldn’t remember that or whether it was even discussed on the show. He began to sweat as his thoughts turned to the possibility that he could have caught something being so close to the stiff. No, I couldn’t have, he thought. I’m just freaking myself out for no reason. He could go for a drink about now—a real one, not another club soda. He only had those while on duty and always in a glass, so people would think he was having a real drink. No self-respecting New York City detective drinks fuckin’ sparkling water. Hell, no. O’Reilly had enough respect for the job that he’d never drink on duty, but his shift would soon be over—at least he hoped it would—so he could get a real drink.

Down in the lobby, he saw Alvarez and a now-calmer Ridgewell speaking behind the reception counter. They motioned to him, and the three of them settled into Ridgewell’s office in the back room behind the reception desk.

All right, what can you tell us about the dead guy? asked Alvarez.

Ridgewell had pulled the man’s information from the computer on his desk. His name is Robert Anderson. He paid for the room with a Visa card, was staying alone, and has an address listed as 62 East Eighty-Sixth Street in the City. That’s about it, offered Ridgewell.

How much does his suite cost? asked Alvarez.

$1090 per night.

Seriously? That’s half my monthly rent, Alvarez exclaimed, not holding back his exasperation. What does this guy do, I wonder?

I hate to tell you, Detective Alvarez, but there’s lots of filthy-rich people around here, and they like to spend their money on lavish hotel rooms. If not, we’d be out of business, Ridgewell responded, noting that Alvarez didn’t probably know the extent to which guests of the Plaza Hotel flaunted their money.

Do we know if he’s married? I mean, we need to notify his wife, you know, if he has one, O’Reilly put in. I don’t remember seeing a wedding ring, but I didn’t look for one, either.

Just then, one of the hotel receptionists knocked on the Ridgewell’s office door.

Cindy, I asked that we not be disturbed, Ridgewell stated, clearly irritated.

I know, Mr. Ridgewell. I am sorry, but—well—I’m not sure what to do.

Well then, what is it? he pleaded, now even more irritated.

There is a woman at the desk, and she asked us to call Mr. Anderson’s room—the one you said was not to be disturbed under any circumstance.

All three men stared at each other, each waiting for one or the other to figure out what to do. This was not expected—not so soon, anyway. Given that they had no idea whether Mr. Anderson was married or not, they couldn’t be sure whether this was his wife or sister or daughter. In the confusion, they forgot to even ask Cindy how old the woman appeared to be. They summoned her back, and she suggested that the woman was probably in her thirties. O’Reilly figured Anderson to be around sixty years old, give or take, but this being America, and in particular New York, a thirty-something woman could be his daughter or his wife.

What should we do? asked an increasingly agitated Ridgewell.

They quickly put a plan together. It probably wouldn’t work, but was worth a try, anyway. Ridgewell, clearly panicked, could not be counted on if the plan were to succeed, so Alvarez decided he would impersonate a hotel receptionist.

Half the people working here are Hispanic anyway. I am the one most suited to get away with it.

He quickly donned a hotel uniform Ridgewell supplied him and went to the reception counter, where Cindy pointed out the woman to him.

Hello, I am Jose; how can I help you, Ms., uh … what shall I call you? Alvarez asked.

The woman was probably around thirty-five and strikingly beautiful. If this were Los Angeles, he was sure she would be a movie star. She was tall at five foot ten, with thick auburn hair flowing past her shoulders and a pair of Gucci sunglasses on top of her head holding her bangs back. Her eyes were green—so green that Alvarez thought they must be contacts, but looking carefully, he didn’t see any. She was wearing hip-hugging tight-fitting jeans, showing off slender legs, shapely hips and bottom; and a snug cotton tank top with a light jacket over it. He could see her breasts were large—too large for her frame and presumably surgically enhanced. No question about it, this woman was beautiful, but more than that, she exuded a sexuality that eluded most women.

You can call me Alexa, and you have all wasted too much of my time already, she answered in a way only rich and famous people can get away with—as if she deserved to be treated in a special way just because she was beautiful.

Sure, Alexa. I’m really sorry, but our guests expect a high degree of privacy and, well, I will be happy to call his room, but I would need your last name as well.

Listen, Jose—is that your name? she said in a demeaning and condescending tone, either give me his room number or dial his room now. He is expecting me. Besides, how would I know he was staying here, anyway?

I understand, ma’am, but that is our hotel policy, and I am not at liberty to violate it.

Well, who can violate it?

May I ask if you tried contacting him yourself? Surely he must have a cell phone? Jose asked, trying to pry as much information as he could from the irritated beauty queen.

Of course I tried, you idiot! Why would I ask you to contact him if I was able to? Jesus, you hotel workers aren’t too bright. Well, I suppose if you were, you wouldn’t be working here for minimum wage, would you?

Clearly, she was reaching a boiling point, with each sentence more insulting than the one prior. Surely an ethnic slur was on its way, Jose thought, and surely this woman was capable and more than happy to deliver it, if it came to that. He kept his cool nonetheless, as any good hotel receptionist would, so as not to insult the rich guests.

Okay, let me see what I can do. I’ll be right back.

O’Reilly and Ridgewell were able to watch, though not hear, the exchange on closed-circuit television from the hotel security cameras. Ridgewell complemented Detective Alvarez on his hotel receptionist skills, particularly in light of Alexa’s attitude and demands.

Now what? Alvarez asked O’Reilly.

Call the room and let her have the phone. Obviously, there will be no answer, and let’s see what she does. She’s already pretty pissed off, so who knows? She might say something that will give us a clue about who she is.

Alvarez, or Jose now, returned to the reception desk. I’m truly sorry, ma’am, for the delay. I have been given clearance to call the room. I can’t give you the room number, as you know, so let me dial, and I’ll give you the phone.

He dialed room 1812 and handed the phone to Alexa. She grasped the handle, held it to her ear, and waited … and waited. The irritation on her face grew with each passing second and each ring. This was clearly a woman who was used to getting exactly what she wanted when she wanted it. Another second, another ring. Her face contorted to a scowl. Her eyes grew closer together, her eyebrows furrowed and now nearly touching each other. Her lips were pursed, and if it were possible, surely smoke would be coming out of her ears like a cartoon character that had had all it could take. Finally, rolling her eyes, she slammed the phone down.

No fucking answer! He didn’t answer my text messages or phone calls for the last two hours, and now this. Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?

Alvarez was thinking of what he could say to irritate her just that little bit more so she might give something away about who she was and why she was meeting the bleeding dead guy.

Ah, ma’am, perhaps he’s just taking a nap. Knowing patience was not her strength, he then added, If you like, you can have a seat in the lobby, and we can try again in half an hour or so.

She bit on the bait. Yeah right, a nap. Not when he and I have a rendezvous, I can assure you. The fucking pussy probably started feeling guilty and went home to his useless wife.

Yes! thought Alvarez, that one line just provided the detectives with the first important piece of information about Mr. Anderson—if that was even his real name—that they had been able to gather so far. Unfortunately, following that display of anger, not to mention a healthy dose of humiliation, which Alexa was probably not used to, she bolted out the front door of the hotel.

Alvarez joined O’Reilly in the back office again, removed the hotel uniform, and got back into his work clothes as the three men thought about their next step.

Well, he’s got a wife, Alvarez said. Let’s start trying to track her down.

Fine, see what you can do.

Uh, detectives, what about the body? How long is he going to be here? Ridgewell asked.

Why, you want to get someone else in there and get a two-for-one special, Ridgewell? O’Reilly asked, not withholding his cynicism.

No, not at all. I just want to know when we can get the room cleaned up. We’ll probably need to replace the carpet, you know, he replied.

Don’t let anyone in there until we give you the all-clear. As for the body, once CSU is done, the stiff needs to go to the morgue.

Maybe an autopsy will help, Alvarez said hopefully.

Just then the phone rang in the back office. Ridgewell answered. Ridgewell here. What! Really! Okay, patch her through.

Detective Alvarez, it’s Alexa. She wants to talk to you. Maybe she would like a room with you, he said jokingly. He was clearly more relaxed than he had been before.

Alvarez, making a snarling face at Ridgewell’s poor choice of humor, picked up the phone. After speaking into it, he quickly changed back into the hotel clothes and headed to the reception desk.

Yes, Ms. Alexa, what can I do for you?

I think the bitch followed me. Is she here?

Uh, I am sorry, but who are you referring to?

The bitch—the wife, you moron.

Oh, well, how would I recognize her, and what do you want me to tell her?

I don’t want you to tell her anything, I just want to know if she is here—like I said, I think she followed me. I thought I saw her walk into the lobby as I was walking out.

Well, how would I recognize her?

God, you’re stupid. You don’t need to recognize her. Just overhead-page her.

Okay, but then what shall I say if she comes to the desk?

Tell her there was a call for her, and then hand her a phone with a dial tone and tell her the person hung up and did not identify himself.

I am not sure she’ll buy that.

She will; she’s not very, uh … sophisticated.

What’s her name?

Julie Millbank.

Oh, she has a different last name from her husband then? queried Alvarez.

Were you born yesterday? Jesus! Her husband doesn’t use his real name when he checks in here. He can’t; he’s too important—not to mention that cheating husbands have to be discreet.

Sorry, you know, I’m not really … well, I don’t know these things, Alvarez answered hesitatingly, as he was afraid he might be giving away that he was not really a simple hotel employee as Alexa believed him to be.

Can you page her then and see if she responds? There’s a nice tip in it for you. You know what bill Ben Franklin is on, I hope.

Yes, I do. Thanks, ma’am.

He did as Alexa asked and had Julie Millbank paged to the reception desk. Just then, a woman Alvarez assumed to be in her late forties came to reception. He asked if she was Julie Millbank, and upon her confirmation, he handed her the phone. She picked it up, held it to her face, and then handed it to Alvarez. He pretended to be surprised at hearing just a dial tone, apologized, and stated that he didn’t know whom it was that called for her. Mrs. Millbank then left the hotel.

Alexa returned, and Jose told her that a Julie Millbank had answered his call. He described her, and Alexa immediately knew it was the right person. She must have figured out he’s cheating on her again, she thought.

Thanks, Jose, and sorry that I was so impatient before and, well, you know, also for what I said to you.

That was as close to an apology as he was going to get. She handed him a hundred-dollar bill and left her cell-phone number. She asked him to call her if Mr. Anderson—well, Creighton Millbank—came to the hotel or called in.

Creighton Millbank, is that really his name?

Yes, that’s his real name. Ridiculous, isn’t it?

What neither Alexa nor Mrs. Millbank knew was that Creighton Millbank was lying in a pool of his own blood and that he wouldn’t be coming in or calling—ever again.

O’Reilly and Alvarez were still unsure whether they were dealing with a criminal act or not; however, taking into consideration the unusual manner of Mr. Millbank’s death, combined with the almost-bizarre encounter with Alexa and Mrs. Millbank at the hotel, they felt they needed to keep digging. They decided to split the work, with O’Reilly following up with Mrs. Millbank while Alvarez tried to find Alexa and touch base with the coroner to see if there could be an explanation for what they had witnessed in room 1812.

O’Reilly tracked down Mrs. Millbank at her residence on Park Avenue, and she invited the detective inside based on his pretext that he needed to discuss something about her husband with her. To his surprise and concern, she had no questions for him before requesting that the doorman show him to their private elevator and up to her home. The apartment, if you can call it an apartment, covered three floors and twelve thousand square feet. There were six bedrooms, eight bathrooms, and an enormous great room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a mesmerizing view arcing from the north end of Queens nearly 270 degrees to Staten Island. The view encompassed a number of New York’s bridges, from the Queensboro Bridge in the northeast to the Verrazano Bridge in the south. The air was clear despite the fact that it had become quite cloudy, and the view to the east over the flat plain of Long Island was endless. The apartment was lavishly furnished and had many works of art adorning the walls of the vestibule and the hallway that led to the sitting room. O’Reilly assumed they were very expensive, though his knowledge of art was nonexistent, so he really didn’t know.

Mrs. Millbank’s live-in maid brought a tray with coffee, tea, and water, as well as some biscuits that O’Reilly had never seen before. Mrs. Millbank was an attractive woman of about forty-five years old. It was clear that she took great pride in her appearance and was as fit as a thirty-year-old. The only thing that gave away her age were the wrinkles around her eyes and corners of her mouth. She was wearing nicely fitted khaki slacks and a thin blue sweater unbuttoned to just above her breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage. She had a gold watch around her wrist and what was probably an expensive double pearl choker caressing her neck. She was clearly a woman to be reckoned with, not only as a result of what she was wearing but also by the manner that she carried herself. This woman had self-confidence; there was no doubting that.

So, detective, what is it that brings you here today? asked Mrs. Millbank.

O’Reilly had thought to call and have a counselor come with him but at the end had decided not to. He felt comfortable and experienced enough to break the awful news to Mrs. Millbank himself.

Mrs. Millbank— he started.

Please call me Julie.

I’m afraid I have some terrible news, O’Reilly continued despite Mrs. Millbank’s brief interruption. Ah, I don’t know quite how to say this, so I will just come out with it. Your husband is dead. We found him in a room in the Plaza Hotel.

Oh, really. You don’t say? came her almost matter-of-fact response. It was as if she wasn’t all that surprised.

I’m very sorry, ma’am.

I’m not, came her terse and cold reply.

I, uh … don’t understand, Mrs. Millbank, I … I thought you would be upset.

Well, let me explain, then. You see, Creighton was—well, like you said ‘I don’t know quite how to say this, so I will just come out with it’—an asshole.

O’Reilly did not expect that word to come out of this seemingly highly refined lady.

Creighton has been cheating on me for years. I confronted him about it finally last year, and he admitted it and asked me what I was going to do. He asked if I wanted a divorce. That’s when I realized that he didn’t want to be with me anymore, she continued. I told him that if he wanted a divorce, he would have to be the one to push for it.

But why? asked a perplexed O’Reilly.

Our prenuptial agreement, that’s why.

I don’t get it.

We made an agreement that whoever demanded a divorce would only keep twenty percent of our assets. We figured that it would force us to work hard to keep our relationship strong and to not give up on our marriage easily. In other words, whoever wanted out would have to pay dearly.

Money is more powerful than vows, I guess, suggested O’Reilly. So, you’re not upset at all.

"Well, let’s see. He was rarely home. He cheated on me relentlessly. He didn’t love me, and I get to collect on his life insurance—five million dollars—not to mention I get everything since, as his spouse, I will be the sole beneficiary. So, Detective O’Reilly, why should I be upset? I should be jumping up and down with joy, don’t you think?"

I came here to give you the terrible news of your husband’s death and now I feel like perhaps I should be congratulating you. Regardless, I do need to ask you some questions about your husband, if that’s okay.

Go ahead.

For the next hour, Mrs. Millbank responded openly and, in O’Reilly’s estimation, honestly about her husband’s life. Creighton Millbank was born to a wealthy family in Brookline, Massachusetts, just outside of Boston. He went to Harvard University for undergraduate education, majoring in economics, and then to the Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, graduating at the top of his class. He and Julie met in New York about ten years ago at a charity fundraiser event for the Museum of Modern Art. They began dating, fell in love, and got married less than a year after meeting. She explained that at their respective ages at the time, there had been no need to waste any time playing games. She went on to explain how Mr. Millbank had become so wealthy, stating that his first job after graduate school was at the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company (Met Life). He was initially in their annuities division but later moved into the risk-management division. During those years, he developed an interest in health insurance and became well known in the field for his novel methods for increasing profits. Mrs. Millbank didn’t quite understand the nuances of his work, but she knew that he was highly regarded. Then, in 2001, he was recruited to be the CEO of Empire Health Insurance, one of the smaller players in the health-insurance industry at the time. Over the course of the last twelve years, Empire Health grew to become the second-largest health-insurance company in the United States. Their profits grew year after year with Mr. Millbank in charge. He was such a success that he was even featured on the cover of several business magazines. With the rising profits came an ever-increasing salary and even bigger bonuses, leading to an extravagant lifestyle for the two of them.

Thank you for being so cooperative and for all that helpful information, said O’Reilly.

Anything I can do to help you, she replied with a smile.

There’s a good chance I’ll be contacting you again. I’m pretty sure we’re going to have more questions for you.

Certainly.

And with that, O’Reilly left. He had thought to ask Mrs. Millbank why she hadn’t asked him about Creighton Millbank’s manner of death, but then he decided not to in the end. He did find it rather curious, though, that she didn’t inquire about it. Any rational, innocent human being would at least have the morbid curiosity to ask—this wife hadn’t even offered a hint of curiosity.

CHAPTER 2

NOVEMBER 22

BASEL, SWITZERLAND

A silver sky hung over this border city in the northwest section of Switzerland. The Germans call it Basel, pronounced Ba-zel, while the French omit the S sound and simply pronounce it Bahl with the ah pronounced like the A in father. With both France and Germany just a short drive away, this city has embraced the best of both: the culture and cuisine of France with the industry and efficiency of Germany. Though a relatively small city, Basel houses the headquarters of some of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world, including Novartis, Actelion, and Roche. Otherwise, it is fairly nondescript, lying between rolling hills in a valley split by the Rhine River.

Crime is not a common occurrence in Basel, which boasts an exceptionally low rate of violent crime. The Kantonspolizei, as the city police are called, mostly deal with petty, nonviolent crimes such as shoplifting, drug sales, and the odd burglary. It was not only for this reason, however, that Inspector Felix de Ville called for help. Inspector de Ville was not unlike many Swiss in the regions where the French and German influence overlapped. He had a German first name as the result of an agreement his Swiss German mother had made with his father before getting married. In fact, she had made it a condition for marrying Henri de Ville, a Swiss businessman from the French-speaking part of Switzerland. Inspector de Ville spoke French, German, and English, as did many Swiss people, and he took pride in his ability to communicate freely in any of those languages. He was forty-eight years old, six feet tall, with a slim, muscular build, and at least according to his account, he was an excellent tennis player—just not quite good enough to make a career out of it. Despite his size and his position as the lead inspector in the Basel region, he was soft-spoken and exuded a gentle demeanor. Inspector de Ville was an intelligent man—intelligent enough to know that in this case he needed to get help.

He called his old childhood friend, Marco Kupfer, who had risen through the ranks of the Basel Kantonspolizei and, following a brief time working for an international security firm, found his way to Interpol. This was the multinational police organization based in Lyon, France, which lay just 180 miles from Basel. Although there was no evidence a crime had even been committed, much less one that would be under the jurisdiction of Interpol, Inspector de Ville could not think of a better place to seek guidance than from his old friend Marco.

Hello, Marco, it’s been a long time. How are you?

I am very well, thank you, and you?

I am quite fine. Still playing tennis. Teaching the kids to play now. Maybe one of them can be the next Roger Federer if they’re lucky, de Ville said with a chuckle.

Sure, if they’re very lucky, responded Kupfer with a tone suggesting they had no chance of achieving that feat.

The small talk continued for several minutes as they caught up with each other’s lives; they had not spoken in a few years. Marco’s children were also twelve and nine years old, though they would rather play football (soccer), as many kids in France do. His oldest would be trying out with the local club in Lyon. Both had reached a point in their lives where they were quite settled, not bored, but much more settled than their younger years when nights had been composed of going to the clubs, drinking, and chasing women. Neither missed it, though. Although their challenges were different now, there were still enough of them to keep life interesting.

So, what’s going on, Felix, that prompted this most unexpected call?

I need your help, but it would be best if you could come to Basel and see for yourself.

How about at least a hint? asked Kupfer.

Okay. I know you’ve seen lots of dead bodies in your time, but have you ever seen one that was bleeding? replied de Ville.

I’m sorry; I don’t understand.

A dead person—their heart has stopped … dead as dead can be, but … still bleeding, answered de Ville haltingly. He was getting the sense his friend thought he was out of his mind—the local policeman with the wild story that he might embellish when there had not been any interesting cases for a long time.

Uh, dead people don’t bleed, Felix, came the terse response de Ville expected.

That’s why I need you to come here … to see the pictures, the body, well, everything. A man died here, and I know it sounds crazy, but … he was still bleeding even after he died. I can’t explain it and, well, we don’t get cases like this in Basel.

Nobody gets these cases, Felix. There must be some simple explanation.

De Ville was getting the sense his old friend either didn’t believe him or didn’t want to bother with it, as if coming back to Basel was too petty for him now that his cases involved multibillion-dollar money laundering, terrorism, and multinational organized crime. He needed to find a way to convince Marco to come. He remembered that Kupfer had a favorite restaurant in Basel and that he was a lover of gourmet food.

"Marco, if you can come down just for the afternoon—a couple of hours, just to give me your thoughts—I’ll take you to Cheval Blanc. Remember it? It’s still here, and