The Immortality Drug

By George Buford

What is health worth? What is beauty worth? What is life worth? And when does life stop being worth the effort? The detectives of the special-operations squad find themselves faced with these questions as they investigate one of their strangest cases ever. It begins with a routine surveillance of the local Mafia godfather, but quickly gets strange when they realize that after years of hostility he’s suddenly become the best of buddies with the local godfather of Chinese organized crime. A third player enters the scene; he turns out to be a plastic surgeon. The detectives at first suspect that they’re involved in some sort of insurance fraud, but it develops that they’re cooperating in a health scam that claims to be able to keep people young forever--in effect, they’re claiming to have produced an immortality drug.
One of the detectives, Dan Martin, is divorced. His ex-wife comes to town, and they get together to discuss some old investments held over from their marriage. He is uninvolved and her second husband died two years earlier, so the old attraction between them starts to come out and they become romantically involved. Then Martin discovers the true reason she came to town--she has an advanced case of cancer, and she has enrolled in an experimental treatment program at a local hospital. She, more than anyone, is in need of an immortality drug.
As the detectives investigate the health scam, they begin to build a case by slowly fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. The strangest piece of all is that the gangsters and the doctors who work for them may be using stolen human organs to create a drug to keep people young.
By working hard and being smart enough to take advantage of good luck, the detectives finally get enough evidence to launch a raid against everyone involved in the scam. That’s when they discover the truth behind the immortality drug.
A few days later, Martin’s ex-wife learns the results of her cancer treatment, and both she and Martin have to deal with the consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 15, 2005
• ISBN: 9781450081276

George Buford

George Buford is a professor of classical studies at the Missouri School of Veterinary Medicine. He did not violate the American embargo on travel to Cuba by going to Mexico on a false passport and then flying to Cuba. He didn’t do that. Honest.

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The Immortality Drug

George Buford

Copyright © 2006 by George Buford.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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To Barbara Julier, who helps me fight the unending battle against all those nasty little errors the spell-check and the grammar-check can’t see.

The Immortality Drug

Join the Retired Reserves, they said. You’ll get great benefits and you’ll only have to come in occasionally and do a little light work, they said. Dan Martin considered this as he stood in the dark on the roof of the four-story building, holding the coffee while Beck and Rupert took lumber from a pile and used it to bridge the eight-foot gap between this building and the one behind it. This was not how Martin had envisioned his retirement.

Detectives Beck and Rupert were in charge of what was known officially as special operations, unofficially as the suicide squad—they worked the cases that were too hard to solve, too politically sensitive, or too generally unpleasant for anyone else to want. Tonight’s job was more mundane, however: The drug cops had asked them to set up an observation post and take pictures of whoever might be attending a meeting with one of the local drug lords. It was a common practice for the cops in one division to handle surveillance jobs for the cops in another division. Because of the possibility, however remote, that one of the drug criminals attending the meeting might spot a known drug cop, Martin, Beck, and Rupert, who were not drug cops, were handling the job.

Beck and Rupert slid a last piece of lumber into place and surveyed their bridge. They had no idea why the lumber they were using was on the roof— no doubt for a project of some sort. They had discovered the lumber during a reconnaissance run that afternoon. Had it been removed in the meantime, they had a portable ladder in the trunk of their car that could be pressed into service as a bridge.

It would have been simpler—and eliminated the risk of falling four stories— to enter the ground floor of the building they were crossing to and come up the stairs; however, by virtue of knowing the right people, they had ready access to the building they were standing on. This allowed them to enter and move about with little risk of being noticed.

Beck stood on the edge of the roof, tested the bridge with his foot, and then carefully walked across. Rupert crossed next, carrying the bag with their surveillance equipment. Finally, Martin came, carrying the all-important coffee in a box holding six twenty-ounce Styrofoam cups.

Once across, they walked to the street side of the building and looked at the scene below. People were walking along the sidewalks. Cars were moving in both directions on the street, stopping only when they pulled over or when the streetlights forced them to stop at the intersections. Martin, Beck, and Rupert weren’t worried about being seen; anyone looking up from the street, they knew, would be blinded by the streetlights. The object of their attention was a restaurant called Luigi’s, on the other side of the street, about a hundred yards south of them. The restaurant had an Italian garden of sorts on the side they were looking at; large windows on the garden side allowed Martin, Beck, and Rupert to see into the dining room. Although it was still early in the evening, customers were sitting at about two-thirds of the tables, and the waiters were moving about, delivering food and taking away used dishes. The building had two upper stories where the owner and his family lived, and where, presumably, some of the restaurant supplies were stored.

Rupert opened his bag, took out two pairs of binoculars, and handed them to Martin and Beck, who each hung one around his neck. Rupert then took out a camera, attached a telephoto lens, looked through the viewfinder to check the focus, and then hung it by a strap around his neck. The camera was a Fujifilm digital single-lens reflex model. Rupert was a computer expert who was skilled in all things digital. The camera was his; the police department would never have paid for a camera that expensive.

Once everything was set up, Martin passed out the first cups of coffee. There were no doughnuts. These were not doughnut cops; these were high-protein, low-carb cops. The men sipped their coffee and made idle conversation as they watched and waited.

They weren’t certain what they were waiting for. The information that the drug cops had given them was of questionable accuracy—even the drug cops admitted that. The story was that Hugo Spinelli, one of the major drug lords in the city, would be having a meeting with some new business associates. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was enough to justify setting up an observation post to see who these new business associates were. Spinelli might be a third-rate excuse for a Mafia don, but he was still dangerous.

The meeting was being held at Luigi’s because it offered Spinelli a place where he could talk without the risk of being overheard. The restaurant’s owner, Luigi himself, was Spinelli’s cousin. Luigi was not involved in the mob, so far as anyone knew, but he let Spinelli use the upstairs for meetings. Because Luigi and his family lived upstairs, someone was always at home; this made it difficult for the cops to come in and plant listening devices. There are various high-tech devices that allow someone to listen without having a device physically inside the building; unfortunately, such devices work better in spy movies than in the real world.

Heads up, Rupert said, I think we have something, and he pointed to a black limousine that was coming up the street.

The limo rolled to a stop in front of Luigi’s, two of Spinelli’s muscle men got out, then came Spinelli himself, followed by the three members of his entourage. Spinelli was in his fifties and somewhat overweight. He and his men all looked as if they had bought their clothes at Godfather Clothing Outlet. Cops who deal with the Mafia invariably notice the considerable extent to which real Mafiosi model themselves after Hollywood Mafiosi, particularly those in the Godfather movies. The clothing and even some of the speech patterns come from Hollywood. Hollywood doesn’t cause the Mafia, of course—there was a Mafia long before there was a Hollywood—but Hollywood certainly shapes its style.

The doorman, being properly obsequious to the great man and his followers, showed them into the restaurant. Through the window, Martin, Beck, and Rupert could see Luigi greet Spinelli and his people, and then escort them through the dining room and out of sight into the back. One of Spinelli’s men remained near the front door, presumably to greet whoever was coming to the meeting. The limousine rolled a few yards down the street and parked.

So far, so good, Martin said. At least we know that there is going to be a meeting.

The men sipped their coffee and waited. After about ten minutes another limousine drew their attention. It came to a stop in front of the restaurant, and two men, obviously the muscle, got out. Martin, Beck, and Rupert were surprised to see that the men were Asian. The Italian mob and the Asian mob normally steered clear of each other. The next man who got out of the limo was an even bigger surprise: He was in his late thirties, tall, elegantly dressed and well groomed; the one thing that seemed out of place was a pony tail that fell almost half-way down his back.

Isn’t that Johnny Lone? Beck asked.

Indeed it is, Martin replied. Now why is the lord high godfather of Asian crime in this town having a meeting with Spinelli? That’s like a mongoose having a meeting with a cobra.

The doorman showed Lone and his men into the restaurant, where they were greeted by Luigi and by Spinelli’s man. After some brief introductions, the group went into the back and out of sight.

This makes no sense at all, Beck said. Spinelli and Lone have had an understanding for years: Spinelli’s dealers stay off Lone’s turf, and Lone’s dealers stay off Spinelli’s turf.

I suppose they could be settling a territorial dispute, Rupert suggested, but it seems a little too friendly for that.

That’s true, Martin agreed. Neither of them seems to have brought along more than the routine amount of muscle. Besides, Spinelli and Lone have always been careful to keep enough layers of management between themselves and their drug operations that they can’t be legally connected to them. If this were nothing more than a dispute over drug territories, I don’t think they’d be handling it themselves.

The men’s discussion was interrupted by the arrival of a white Mercedes in front of the restaurant. The driver got out and locked the door; he proved to be a tall white man in his late forties, well dressed and well groomed. Martin, Beck, and Rupert noticed that he was alone, which was puzzling. A man would go to a single’s bar alone, but Luigi’s was not a singles bar. A man coming to Luigi’s would either have a date or be part of a group.

Does anybody recognize that guy? Beck asked.

No, Rupert said, looking through the viewfinder on his camera and taking a photograph, but I’ve got a good picture of him.

Martin trained his binoculars on the Mercedes and examined the front license plate. The plates were issued locally, he said. In every state the license numbers are coded to show where the plates were issued. That the plates were local did not, of course, mean that the driver was local, but it suggested as much.

The driver went into the restaurant where he was met by Luigi and—to the considerable interest of Martin, Beck, and Rupert—Spinelli’s man. The two men escorted the driver into the back and out of sight. It all seemed quite friendly. The driver was there because he wanted to be, not because he had to be.

Interesting, Beck said. Could we have a new player on the scene?

A player of some type, Martin replied, but he doesn’t look like an organized-crime boy. Where’s the muscle? Where are the assorted hangers on? No, this guy’s not regular organized crime.

That’s an expensive suit he’s wearing, Rupert said, "and the Mercedes speaks for itself. This guy is too old and too wealthy for a Mafia wanna-be."

Martin took out his cell phone and called a number at the police station. Sergeant Phillips answered. After identifying himself, Martin said: Can you run a license plate for me?

Sure, Phillips replied, hold on a minute while I get it up on the computer.

Martin trained his binoculars on the Mercedes again and studied the license plate.

I’m ready, Phillips said, give me the number.

Martin read it to him. After a moment, Phillips responded: "The plate is registered to a Mercedes owned by a William J. Tyler."

William J. Tyler, Martin said. The name meant nothing to him. To Beck and Rupert he asked: Does that name mean anything to you?

They both shook their heads.

There’s a Doctor William Tyler, Phillips suggested, but I don’t know if it’s the same guy.

Martin again looked through his binoculars at the license plate, but the car proved to have regular plates, not doctor’s plates. Of course, there was no requirement that a doctor’s car should have doctor’s plates.

What’s the address on the plate registration? Martin asked.

It says 1112 Maple Grove, Phillips replied. That’s one of your fancier neighborhoods.

Fancy indeed. The criminals in that neighborhood were well-educated types who got rich through what are politely known as questionable business practices. They were not the types who hung out with mobsters. Check the home address for this Dr. Tyler, Martin said. See if it matches the address for the license plate.

I’ve got the phone book on the computer, Phillips said. He was silent for a moment as he pecked the keys and moved the mouse; then he replied: No good. I’ve got an office address, but no home address.

Martin wasn’t surprised; doctors often have unlisted home numbers. He thanked Phillips, and then switched off his phone and slid it back into his pocket.

The men continued their watch, but everyone else who arrived at the restaurant proved to be a regular customer.

After a little over an hour, the Mercedes driver—William Tyler, presumably— came out, escorted by one of Spinelli’s men. Spinelli’s man was treating the driver like an honored guest. Rupert took pictures of both of them when they came outside. The driver got into his Mercedes and drove away.

Johnny Lone and his entourage came out a few minutes later, all of them looking satisfied as to how the meeting had gone. Again Spinelli’s man was the escort, and again he was going out of his way to be polite. Johnny and his people, being equally polite, got into their limousine and drove away.

Spinelli and his group appeared about five minutes later.

They all look quite jolly, Rupert said, studying them through the telephoto lens of his camera as they walked through the dining room and came outside.

Martin and Beck were both examining the group through their binoculars.

Beck said what they were all thinking: Spinelli happy, Johnny Lone happy—this can’t be good.

Gilbert was a blond-haired, blue-eyed policewoman in her late twenties. She was in uniform, sitting at a desk in the police station, trying to fill out forms amid the organized chaos of the squad room. The forms she was working her way through, like most of the forms that cops fill out, had no reason for existence other than to keep some lawyer from claiming that the facts had not been properly documented. She was amused by the claim that certain cop shows are realistic. A truly realistic cop show, she knew, would consist of two minutes of the cops waiting for something to happen, thirty seconds of action, and the remainder of the hour showing the cops filling out the paperwork.

Three men in suits came up and stood next to her desk. She looked up and saw Martin, Beck, and Rupert. She knew who they were because she had worked with them before. Gilbert had been a nurse for five years before becoming a cop, so she had knowledge that had proven useful to the special-operations squad.

Rupert handed her a sheet of paper and said: You’ve been reassigned.

Gilbert had worked on temporary assignment with special operations before, so she assumed that this was another such assignment. But then she looked at the sheet of paper and saw that the assignment was permanent.

You’re one of us now, Rupert said.

Welcome to the dark side, Martin added.

Two hours later Gilbert was in civilian clothes and sitting in a conference room with Martin, Beck, Rupert, and DiMatteo, the head of the narcotics division. Doc Brown, the pathologist, was also there; he had been asked to attend because of the possibility that this new case might have some medical connection. The cops were all lean and athletic—even Martin and DiMatteo, who were the two oldest in the room. Doc Brown was not lean and athletic— Doc was a high-carb kind of guy. He looked like a white Buddha with a 1950’s style crew cut.

Rupert was fiddling with a digital projector, preparing to show the photographs he had taken the previous evening. When he had everything arranged, he leaned back in his chair and flipped a switch that turned off half the lights in the room, making it dark enough to show pictures on the wall.

He projected the first image and began: This, of course, is Spinelli, a man who needs no introduction; he’s been one of the big men in organized crime in this town for almost twenty years. We’ve come close to getting him a few times—of course, close only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades. You’ll notice that he’s accompanied by his usual collection of muscle men and hangers on. No new faces here.

Rupert nodded toward DiMatteo, and said: Now for the surprise we promised you. He clicked the switch on the projector and threw up a picture of Johnny Lone.

DiMatteo raised his eyebrows and said: Well, I am surprised.

Johnny is accompanied by his usual group, Rupert continued. Again, no new faces. Rupert threw up a series of pictures showing Johnny and his group being warmly greeted by Luigi and by Spinelli’s man.

This is the third party we told you about, Rupert said, showing a picture of the driver of the Mercedes. He’s no one we know, but the license plates on the car belong to a William J. Tyler. We’re told that there’s a doctor by that name. To Doc and Gilbert he said: "Do either of you know him?’

Sure, Gilbert said, that’s Doctor Tyler.

That’s him, Doc Brown agreed. But I’m puzzled. Your average mob doctor is working for the mob because no on else will have him; this guy is very successful.

I don’t get it, DiMatteo said. The normal hospital pharmacy has a street value of next to nothing, and the drugs in the average doctor’s office are worth even less. Spinelli and Lone wouldn’t waste their time ripping off a hospital pharmacy or a doctor’s office when they could get ten times the drugs through their usual sources with way less risk. He thought for a moment and then said: There’s got to be something else going on here. This doctor, what does he do?

He’s a plastic surgeon, Gilbert said.

You’re kidding! DiMatteo replied.

"No, he really is a