Cell (23 page)

BRADLEY THORN'S HOME

BEVERLY HILLS, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, JULY 4, 2014, 3:15
P.M.

C
layton pulled up to the gate blocking Thorn's driveway. Envy crept over him every time he visited his sister and Thorn at their home. Clayton needed his own security gate to keep the likes of Debbie Waters from coming to his front door uninvited. Besides, he deserved to have a security gate. In L.A. it was a must-have status symbol.

The doctor pressed the intercom button and announced himself to a member of Thorn's staff. The gate glided back, and Clayton drove up the tree-lined drive. Thorn had finally returned Clayton's call, but when Clayton started to talk about George Wilson, Thorn had cut him off, telling him that he would prefer to speak in person rather than over Clayton's cell phone. Clayton agreed to drive the short distance from Bel Air to Beverly Hills.

Thorn's massive house was a Spanish Mediterranean revival, a style currently the vogue in Southern California.

Clayton was escorted to the pool, where Thorn was waiting with drinks. As soon as the staff withdrew, Clayton laid it on the line: “I'm afraid Dr. George Wilson is threatening to become a big problem.”

“That's not good. Have you spoken with him directly?”

“No, but it came from a good source. She says he is convinced something serious is wrong with iDoc and supposedly is on a mission to prove it.”

“That's worse than not good. That's fucking terrible.” Thorn pulled himself out of his chair and began to pace.

Clayton watched him. He could tell Thorn was mulling over options. Clayton waited.

Suddenly Thorn sat back down. “Any idea what this resident plans to do?”

“He's not letting sleeping dogs lie, that's for sure. He is not buying the suicide story. Unfortunately he's become fixated on the implanted drug reservoir, and if I had to guess, I think he either suspects now that Amalgamated Healthcare via iDoc is culpable in DeAngelis's death, or he will shortly. My source said he was off to DeAngelis's funeral service with a pair of surgical gloves.”

“But you are sure he is not going to find anything?”

“Positive. The reservoir was not in DeAngelis's body. I checked myself, at Langley's request.”

“At least we have that going for us,” Thorn said. He nodded thoughtfully. “All right,” he added, obviously upset at Clayton's news. “I was hoping that it wasn't going to come to this, but it is time to hand the situation over to the professionals.”

“What do you mean by ‘professionals'?”

“In-house professionals. I'll turn the situation over to Amalgamated's security department. I've been paying Thorton Gauthier and his people a king's ransom for their experience and expertise. Here's the opportunity for them to earn it.”

Thorn had hired “Butch” Gauthier two years previously when he took over the company from his father. The nickname Butch came from Gauthier's hairstyle, a buzzed flattop that was close-cropped along the sides. Thorn had heard about Gauthier through a golfing buddy who bragged about the ex–special ops, ex-mercenary turned corporate protector and how he got the job done no matter what. Thorn loved that Gauthier ran Amalgamated's security like a paramilitary group. It was the kind of raw-power, show-of-force mentality that made Thorn sleep better, knowing that just about any eventuality could be handled.

“What do you think Butch might do?” Clayton was growing concerned. He knew Gauthier's reputation. Clayton began to worry about what he had unleashed upon poor George Wilson. Then he remembered his stock options. Good radiology residents weren't hard to find. It was all a matter of priorities.

“That is totally up to Wilson,” Thorn replied cryptically. “At this stage I think it best if none of us knows what might happen. I am confident everything will turn out just fine. The important thing is that George Wilson will not be allowed to destroy Amalgamated's plans for the future.”

Well
, Clayton thought,
at least he has his priorities in order.

•   •   •

F
ifteen minutes later Clayton was back in his car, heading home, hoping that he would now be able to concentrate on his original plans for the holiday. He tried to put George Wilson out of his mind, but it wasn't easy. The problem was, he liked George and thought of him as one of the best residents he'd ever had.

“It's a shame,” Clayton whispered as he turned into his driveway.

UNITED SALVAGE YARD

VAN NUYS, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, JULY 4, 2014, 3:37
P.M.

T
he trip to the Valley had been uneventful. One never knew what to expect on the 405, regardless of the hour. A person could just as easily get stuck in a huge traffic jam at five in the morning as at five in the afternoon. But not today. Traffic flowed unimpeded. He guessed the heat wave had sent everyone to the beach.

George exited the 405 at Sherman Way and drove east a couple of miles. The signs on the one-story businesses strung along the seemingly endless boulevard changed progressively from English to Spanish. He missed the tow yard on his first pass and had to double back. Now he was there.

George had first inquired about Sal's car and asked where it had been taken. He was told one of two junkyards in Van Nuys. The first one, Rust-a-Car Yard, denied having received a red 1957 Oldsmobile. The people were not all that friendly, but George decided that he had to take them at their word and called United Salvage Yard. They confirmed that they had the vehicle.

The yard was surrounded by a boarded-over fence with coiled razor wire running along the top to discourage thieves. Basically it looked like any junkyard-cum-tow-yard. There was a small parking lot in front of a trailer that housed the front office. Two other vehicles were in the lot; one was a taxicab that was just pulling out.

George walked up to the trailer and pulled on the door. It was locked. He looked through the narrow glass window and saw a man inside behind a counter talking with customers. George was about to knock when he noticed the bell and a security camera pointed down at him. George rang. A moment later the door buzzed open, and George stepped inside.

The reception room was small and sparsely furnished. The counter was fronted by a thick glass wall of the type George was accustomed to seeing in banks and twenty-four-hour convenience stores. The man behind it was packing a sidearm and arguing with a young couple standing on George's side of the glass. They were dressed in casual beach attire and sporting lots of tattoos. They appeared to have been drinking.

“This is bullshit!” the guy yelled.

“It's a freaking scam!” the girl chimed in.

“We have a contract with the city,” the attendant said with a bored voice. “These are the standard rates.” The attendant looked like a Harley-Davidson biker, overweight with a graying ponytail and a ragged five-o'clock shadow.

“It's not just the rates. Where I was parked wasn't marked as a tow zone!”

“This is. Out! Of! Freaking! Control!” the girl huffed as she furiously typed a text message on her cell phone. “We're gonna be so late to the party,” she added. She punched her companion in the arm in frustration. “Your boy better be at the door to get our asses in, I'm telling you right now.”

“Ow! Relax a minute, okay!” he said, rubbing his pumped-up arm.

The guy behind the counter was unfazed. He'd been called names before. He slid a piece of paper through the slot at the bottom of the glass. “These are the published rates. If you got a beef with the street sign postings you can take it up with the city. They have a petition process.”

“But I still have to pay it first?”

“Correct. It's two hundred twenty-two dollars for the tow, because the vehicle is an SUV. There's a fifty-dollar-per-day storage fee—which would be for just one day—that fee is subject to a ten percent tax. And there's a one-hundred-fifteen-dollar release fee. It adds up to three hundred ninety-two dollars. We take cash, debit cards, credit cards, certified checks, traveler's checks, and money orders.”

“What a scam!” the guy said as he pulled out his wallet and produced a credit card. He glanced over at George. “Get ready to be raped, my man.”

The man behind the counter fished the card out of the window slot and slid it through his processor. His eyes flicked over to George, probably wondering if he was going to have a repeat performance when it was his turn.

George offered him a tight smile. Whatever hopes he had of getting access to Sal's car had diminished in the last two minutes, watching the attendant handle the couple. For one, George probably didn't have near enough cash on him.

The tow guy grabbed a walkie-talkie. “Joey. We got someone coming back for the black Escalade you just brought in.” He pointed to the guy, then a door in the corner. “Sir, through here, please. Miss, you can wait out front. The gates will open when the vehicle pulls out.”

She spun on her heels, heading out. “Asshole.”

The attendant looked up at George. “How can I help you, sir?”

•   •   •

H
e escorted George across the yard to the back corner of the lot. Two large German shepherds growled at George as they passed.

“Fucking shame,” the attendant said when they reached Sal's car. “It was a nice ride. I knew when I first saw it that the operator didn't live through the crash.”

“Unfortunately no airbags in the classics,” George replied, agreeably. He wanted the tow guy to feel like they were buddies.

George had gone for broke back in the office. He had opened his wallet in front of the attendant and took out all the cash in it—$317.00—and slapped it next to the window slot. He told the attendant this was everything he had and it was all for him—
if
he would let him take a look inside the totaled car of his dead friend. He described the vehicle, saying that the police station said it had been brought here. He even went so far as to tell the tow guy he was looking for a microchip. He thought that if the attendant believed he was looking for something of street value, like some kind of jewelry, then he might want to take a look for himself instead of accepting George's cash. But the guy had looked at the cash and simply said, “Sure.”

The Oldsmobile looked as dead as Sal. Its front end was folded up on itself to less than a third of its previous length. The convertible top was down, which was how Sal had it ninety percent of the time. The engine block was pushed back into the front seat. George groaned. This was going to be harder than he envisioned. He approached the vehicle, looking for a place to start as the attendant's walkie-talkie crackled to life. “Danno? You got someone at the front gate.”

“Copy that. I'm on my way.” Danno turned to George. “I gotta go back to the office.” He motioned to the car. “Knock yourself out, but be careful. And no walking around the lot. You stay right here.”

“Okay. Got it,” George said, offering a thumbs-up.

“You hurt yourself, I'm gonna throw you over the fence and pretend I never saw you. Understand?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Good. I'll be back in fifteen minutes, so hurry up. You finish before that, come knock on the back door to the office.”

“What about the dogs?”

“Like I said, stay in the middle of this open lane. Do not veer off.”

“Got it again,” George said.

Danno nodded and rushed off. George turned back to the Oldsmobile. He peered down into the wrecked convertible. The entire interior was littered with broken glass. The engine block took up most of what was the passenger's front seat. There was a little more room on the driver's side. George pulled out his cell phone, turned on its flashlight, and focused the beam under the engine and under the front seats for a quick look. Broken glass was piled up under there, too. He realized this was going to be a near impossible task—a microchip would be just slightly larger than a postage stamp and a couple of millimeters thick at best. That's if the reservoir microchip was in the vehicle at all. George took a deep breath. It was better to quit thinking and just get on with it. He bent over the driver's door and started sorting through the shards of glass with a broken windshield wiper blade.

•   •   •

A
half hour had passed and George hadn't found a thing. He was covered in dirt, grease, and soaked in sweat. Frustration was giving way to anger. This little field trip had seemed like it was going to be a lot easier in the abstract. At least the attendant hadn't come back yet. He debated stopping.

George was in the vehicle's backseat now, lying on his stomach, shining light up under the front seat. At this point he was picking up each piece of glass and after examining it, throwing it out of the car. A sweep of the flashlight revealed that there were a lot more pieces left to go. He shifted his weight to get a better reach under the seat—

“Hey, buddy? Time's up.” Danno had returned.

“Okay!” George replied cheerfully, without getting up. “Almost done.” Now that he was being forced to quit, he didn't want to. He kept at it, moving faster, but stopped throwing the discarded pieces of debris out of the car. He was now merely pushing them aside. In the rush, he was cutting his fingers on the fragments.

The attendant shuffled around the dusty ground with his feet, waiting. He was obviously ready for George to leave pronto. “Now means now! Don't make me go get one of the dogs.”

“Okay,” floated up from under the seat. George sorted faster, becoming frantic. All this for nothing!

Danno's patience was at an end. “I'm about to reach over and grab you by the belt and haul you out of there.”

“I'm coming.” But he wasn't.

“Okay . . . On three. One . . .”

George kept sifting, sweat burning his eyes.

“Two . . .”

“Okay!”

“Three!”

George felt a hand grab his belt. His arms flailed as he was propelled backward out of the car and began staggering around, trying to regain his balance, when Danno let go of his belt. The man might have been overweight, but he was powerful.

“I gave you way more time than we agreed to. It's time to go.”

“Damn it!” George screamed at the guy. “I know what I came for is in there! You have to let me keep looking!”

“I don't have to do anything. You want to keep looking? Come back in a couple of months when the LAPD releases the vehicle. You pay the tow and storage fees, and she's yours. We'll even tow it to your house. Although that'll be extra.”

“Just five more minutes,” George pleaded.

“No!” The tow guy trained a hard gaze on George, then glanced down as the sunlight had caught a reflection on the front of George's dirty shirt. In addition to a few glass fragments, there was a thin, flat, gold-colored rectangular object. Danno plucked it off of George's shirt.

“Is that what you were looking for?”

George had his mouth open to argue some more but stopped and looked down at what the guy was holding in his hand. It was a microchip.

“I'll be damned,” George murmured.

•   •   •

G
eorge sat in his car in the corner of the salvage yard's parking lot with the engine on and the air conditioner cranked up. He was overheated, but he was also elated. This just might be the Rosetta Stone to break the code. He had a magnifying glass app on his phone open that operated through its camera lens, which was focused on the small gold object in his hand. He could see a series of haphazard linear gouges on the surface, probably from the utility knife that had been found at the crash site. Apparently Sal had actually managed to cut the damn thing out himself! The poor guy must have intuited what was happening. That was George's current theory. And it made more sense than anything else he could think of. Way more sense than suicide.

George gave up trying to examine the chip with the magnifying app on his phone. He needed something more powerful to try to view the individual chambers that held the medication. To do that, he needed to go back to the medical center. He couldn't believe that he had actually gotten his hands on the damn thing!

Rap, rap, rap! George's head shot up and spun around to the noise. The attendant was knocking on the window with a short billy club.

“You can't stay here in the lot,” he yelled through the glass, giving an unmistakable signal that George was seriously trying his patience. “Move it.”

George waved okay and put the car in gear.

•   •   •

G
eorge scanned the rows of individual reservoirs on the chip. Each was the size of a pinprick, and there were thousands of them. George had researched the way the chip worked. Each individual reservoir had been assigned its own radio frequency, which, when received, signaled a thin layer of gold nanoparticles encapsulating a drug dosage to dissolve. The freed medication was then transported across the biological membranes, where it entered the bloodstream and spread throughout the entire body.

George was back at the medical center in the pathology lab, where he had commandeered a dissecting microscope to study the microchip. With the powerful magnification he could see that its myriad small containers were in fact empty! All of them. There was no way that could be considered normal for a two-month-old reservoir that had been intended to last at least two years. The chip also noted the type of drug it held: Humalog. George recognized the name as a brand of fast-acting insulin.

For George, it was now a question of whether or not the reservoir emptied pre-mortem or postmortem. Pre-mortem, meaning that the dosages were dumped en masse while Sal was alive. The implication of that was murder, whether by hacking or deliberate intent on behalf of the application's designers. Postmortem meant that after Sal had died and the reservoir had gone through the trauma of being gouged out of Sal's body, it had somehow released its contents. Then there was always the issue of it sitting for a few days under the broiling L.A. heat wave sun in a wrecked car. Maybe that, too, could have done it.

Of all the possibilities, George thought pre-mortem was the most realistic option, but he needed more proof, and he had an idea of how to get it. It was possible that Sal's broken smartphone combined with the microchip might be all he needed, provided he could get someone to help him. The first person that came to mind was Zee.