Cell (28 page)

“I need to get my car and a few things from home first. I'll be careful, trust me. And I'll make sure no one follows me to your place.”

“Okay. If you insist. But be quick!”

•   •   •

W
hen George reached his apartment he asked the cabdriver to drive around the block while he looked the place over. Everything seemed quiet as usual for a Sunday morning, so he told the driver to let him out.

George warily entered the complex, nervously scanning the area as he went. All was quiet. Once inside his apartment, he grabbed the baseball bat he kept in the umbrella stand and made a quick tour of the other rooms. Then he double-checked that all the doors and windows were locked. He even checked the closets and under the bed. He knew it was paranoid, but he couldn't help himself.

Once George was satisfied he was alone, he first put Kasey's things, which were still spread around on his bed, back in the cardboard box and placed the box in the closet. He had been handling the mementos when the SWAT team had invaded. Then he went into the bathroom, locked the door, and took a quick, needed shower. Feeling a slight bit more like a normal human, he got out a small travel bag and rapidly tossed in some of his things. He then quickly picked up the baseball bat, despite knowing full well the security it afforded was purely psychological. After less than fifteen minutes he was ready.

GEORGE'S APARTMENT COMPLEX

WESTWOOD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, JULY 6, 2014, 12:32
P.M.

G
eorge headed out, the duffel bag in one hand, the baseball bat in the other. He skirted the pool occupied by a single young woman whom George had never seen before supine on a float, eyes closed, baking in the sun. She didn't stir. It was hot. Sweat was already building on George's brow as he went through the back gate out to the carport.

Before climbing into his car he gave the neighborhood a once-over by going out to the gutter to scan the street up and down, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He had never felt as apprehensive and distrustful as he did at that very moment. As much as he hoped no one was watching him, another part of him wanted to detect a suggestion of surveillance as he would then know for sure that his fears were justified.

A couple of people on the block were washing their cars, others walking their dogs as on any normal Sunday early afternoon. One of the dog walkers seemed to take issue with George staring at him and stared back for a beat. There were a couple of black SUVs with dark tinted windows parked along the street, but that was always the case, as popular as such vehicles were in L.A. But still . . . he wondered.

George watched for a time, but no one seemed to take note of his presence. Even the dog walker had moved on, replaced by a couple of kids with skateboards. Birds squawked and chirped, a dog barked, a sprinkler ticked its steady beat, and nothing happened. Finally he gave up and went back to his car.

George tossed his small travel bag in the Jeep's backseat, along with his bat, and climbed into the driver's seat. He turned the ignition, half expecting the car to blow up in a spectacular fireball as he'd seen in a dozen movies. Instead it turned over and coughed its way into its normal purr. He put the Cherokee in gear, backed out into the street, and drove off, carefully checking in his rearview mirror. He wanted to make sure that he wasn't followed, particularly after what had happened to Zee. He did not want to put Paula in any more danger than he had by just talking to her on his cell.

As George drove and thought about his current situation, he admitted to being a rank amateur in the intrigue arena. In reality, he had no idea what he was doing or what someone with means and know-how was capable of doing with regard to keeping a close watch on him. If such a person or organization were interested in his actions and whereabouts, they would know how to stay out of sight—and with the federal government having access to FBI and CIA tactics, anything was possible. With that thought, he started to scan the skies out of his sunroof for drone activity. As far-fetched as that seemed, he couldn't help himself; his paranoia had taken full and total control. He certainly didn't want to end up like Zee.

Amateur or not, George thought being careful was prudent, and settled on a simple ruse. He detoured to the medical center and entered its multistory garage. Inside, he found a place where he could observe the entrance he'd used and watched the vehicles that came in after him. After a quarter of an hour, when he didn't see anything at all suspicious, he exited the garage onto a street different from the one by which he had entered. As he picked up speed, he was confident he was not being followed.

George stayed on local streets to Santa Monica, purposely avoiding high-speed freeways. As he got closer, he even relaxed a bit. He was looking forward to seeing Paula and hopefully enlisting her help.

When her house came into view, he pulled to the curb and stared at it. It was a gorgeous, fairly new Mediterranean-style two-story home with a tile roof and Spanish architectural details. Worth at least three million, George thought, according to what he knew about L.A. real estate. In contrast to the run-down condition of his own apartment, he considered Paula's home a clear illustration of the relative values of an MD and MD-MBA degree. He knew he was being irrational and a tad envious, but still the difference was remarkable.

There was no driveway out front, which indicated there must be an alley around back. A moment later Paula came out the front door, appearing far too young to be the proprietor of such a house. With her hands she motioned for him to loop around back, proving he was right about an alley.

George dutifully drove to the next cross street, turned right, and then right again, into an alleyway, where he saw her standing ahead in the shade of an open garage door. She waved for him to pull his car in. He did as he was told, stopping alongside what looked to be a brand-new black Porsche 911 Carrera GT. He cut his engine and got out.

“Under the circumstances, I think it's better that your car not be seen from the street,” she explained.

“I couldn't agree more,” George said, grabbing his bag but leaving the bat in the car.

She came directly up to him and grabbed his arms, staring up into his face. “Are you okay?” She was clearly worried about him. “You're trembling.”

George decided honesty was the best policy. “I'm not sure if I'm okay or not.”

“You do look exhausted.”

“That's about how I feel. I think the current term is ‘fried.'”

“Well, come on in the house! Let's get you relaxed. Are you hungry? Thirsty?” She let go of one of his arms but solicitously maintained a hold on the other as she lowered the garage door.

George was encouraged at his reception. He hadn't known what to expect, being the bearer of disturbing news. He followed her into the backyard, taking in the extent of the residence. There was a pool, an attached Jacuzzi, a large terrace, and extensive manicured landscaping. Inside the house, he admired the elegant furnishings.

“This place is gorgeous,” he said, standing in the middle of a combination family room and kitchen. The pool could be seen through French doors.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “I'm glad you like it. I bought it furnished, so I can't take any credit for the decorating.” She led him through the kitchen area and into a large, well-appointed guest wing with its own sitting room and bathroom. “This is where you'll be staying. And I imagine you could probably use a good nap, so . . .”

“I would rather talk first,” he interrupted. “I'm too wired to sleep.”

“Okay. We can do that,” she said. “I understand. Why don't you drop your bag, and I'll show you around the rest of the house to get you oriented. It has its uniqueness. Then we can talk.”

“I'd like that,” George said. For the first time since his arrest he felt safe.

Paula gave George a quick tour, which he did find entertaining and even calming, giving him a chance to organize his thoughts.

The house had one feature he didn't expect: The previous owner of the house, a Middle Eastern businessman, had built a safe room in the basement that could be accessed rapidly from the second-floor master bedroom by a slide somewhat akin to a laundry chute. The access point started from behind a hidden wall panel and ended up in the basement just opposite the door to the safe room. Paula explained that the safe room was supposed to be able to withstand a major explosion and fire. The real estate agent had thought it was a selling point, but Paula regarded it merely as a curiosity.

“Want to try the slide?” Paula asked.

George looked into the maw of the concave, angled slide that disappeared into darkness. “I think I'll pass,” he said.

“Come on,” Paula urged. “Let your hair down!”

On a sudden whim, George went for it. He hadn't been on a slide since the third grade. He found it exhilarating. He even found himself capable of laughing when he and Paula ended up sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs on a mat in the darkness until Paula got a light on.

“Exactly what kind of business was the former owner in?” George asked as they glanced past a vault-like door into the safe room.

“I asked the same thing, but no one was able to tell me for certain. The rumor was that he was in the arms business and was murdered on a business trip last year.”

Paula led George back up to the kitchen. She got out some sandwiches she had made earlier and a pitcher of iced tea. They ended up sitting on the terrace under a broad awning. As soon as they were settled, Paula wanted to hear about Zee.

George told her the little he knew, which was what he had read in the
L.A. Times
. She pulled the story up on her iPad, and they went over the article together. “This is all very . . .” Paula hesitated, struggling for the right word.

“Scary,” George said.

Paula nodded. “To say the least.” She then asked about George's night in jail.

“It was probably the worst twenty-four hours of my life,” George admitted with a shudder. He went on to describe in detail the whole experience, including the shady lawyer who finally bailed him out and his biker buddy who had the attorney's phone number tattooed on his arm.

“What a horrid experience this whole thing has been,” Paula remarked. “But the worst part is the death of your friend. And I agree, the stuck accelerator suggested in the newspaper article seems too coincidental.”

“And too convenient,” George added.

“No doubt,” Paula agreed. She poured both of them more iced tea. “Okay, now let's talk about iDoc. What is it you believe is going on?”

George took a deep breath and started from the beginning with Kasey, although he didn't mention that he was engaged to the woman. He just described her as a close acquaintance and didn't say he had awakened in bed with her corpse. Paula didn't stop him to question the nature of the relationship, and he didn't say. He wanted to tell her but not just yet.

George went on to explain the other unexpected deaths: Tarkington, Wong, DeAngelis, and Chesney. He told her about his connection to them and about his need to violate HIPAA rules in his investigations. “The long and short of it is that all of these people were part of the iDoc beta test and all had been recently diagnosed, whether they knew it or not, with serious and most likely terminal illnesses.”

Paula understood the implication immediately. “You're worried that iDoc has morphed into a kind of death panel?”

“Exactly!” George admitted. “I mean, there is a very low statistical possibility all this is circumstantial, but I sincerely doubt it could be. I believe iDoc is killing people it believes are destined to be expensive to treat and who have limited life spans even with the costly treatment they require.”

Paula flushed. “Let me tell you! There was never even the thought of such a thing during the creation of iDoc. Never!”

“I believe you,” George said.

“Then how could you jump to such a conclusion?”

“I didn't jump! It was forced on me!”

She looked at him skeptically. “It seems to me that is a rather big leap.”

“Okay. Let me back up,” George said. First he told her about the medical journal article he had read in the past about the concern that people might, in the future, hack into wireless medical devices, which were proliferating. He said that warning had stayed in the back of his mind, only to come to the fore when the deaths he had described began to take place.

“Have you any proof whatsoever?” Paula asked.

“Absolutely,” George said. He then described the lengths he had had to go to, to obtain Sal DeAngelis's reservoir, which had been embedded under Sal's abdominal skin.

Paula was aghast as George described going to the funeral parlor and rifling through the dead man's clothes with the embalmed corpse lying in the coffin. “You really were motivated,” Paula said. “I can't believe your nerve. I wouldn't have been able to do it.”

“I wanted that reservoir,” George said with emphasis. “I thought it would be key. I had to make the effort to check the body in the hospital morgue, but I'd been turned away.”

“But you ended up getting it?”

“I did.” George then described the ordeal at the salvage yard and how he finally got hold of the chip after what seemed like a futile search.

“So this reservoir is your proof?”

“Not by itself.” George went on to describe how he had been able to get Sal's phone as well as having Kasey's. He explained that although Kasey's iDoc had been wiped clean, Sal's phone hadn't been because it had been damaged in the crash and still retained some information. That was how George learned, with Zee's help, that Sal's phone had received a global-dump command.

“Did that jibe with what you already knew?”

“Absolutely. When I had examined the reservoir, I could see that it was completely empty. And this was a reservoir that was supposed to last for two years or more, according to the doctor who had implanted it. Sal's had been under his skin for only a couple of months!”

“So this is what made you hire Zee?”

“Precisely,” George said. He went on to tell Paula that when Zee hacked into Amalgamated's servers, he found no evidence that a dump command had been issued. Yet Sal's smartphone itself showed exactly the opposite. Nor did Zee find a dump command in any of the other records from the other patients. “But when Zee looked more carefully he saw it!”

“Saw what?” Paula asked.

“What he called the artifacts! Some minuscule evidence of an overwrite on the records. Zee sensed that the record in each case had been overwritten to delete the dump command and the recorded vital signs showing the effects of a dump command. He saw the same artifact at the same critical juncture in all five of the records seventeen minutes prior to death. It was his feeling that there had been a cover-up of the dump command coming from outside the server.”

Paula was astonished, angered, disbelieving, and intrigued all at the same time. “Okay, what does all this mean?”

“With what proof I have, which is limited to DeAngelis's phone data, I believe that the dump command was probably a hack job, which was then covered up by another hack job by someone else.”