Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (69 page)

Santangelo motioned for the phone. Riley hesitated, then handed it to him. “Stephanie? Cruz. Everything’s OK. Go ahead, answer the lady’s question.” He covered the phone and held it out to Riley. “We’re suspicious too,” he said. “Those kind of questions can set off a lot of bells and whistles.”

Riley listened intently, fixing her eyes on Santangelo’s. “Thanks,” she said simply, folding the phone and returning it to her purse.

“Well?”

“She says not to go out with you.”

Santangelo let out a laugh. “They warned me not to date coworkers.”

“Would you like to see
my
credentials?” Riley asked, lifting her gold coroner’s badge from her purse.

“I trust you. I think trust is important, don’t you?”

“I think trust has to be earned.”

Santangelo turned and looked at Nick. “Dr. Nicholas Polchak,” he said. “BS, MS, and PhD from Penn State University. Professor of entomology at North Carolina State University, member of the American Board of Forensic Entomology. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Polchak. Man, do we have a colorful file on
you.
”

“Shucks,” Nick said, “those are just my federal offenses. How long have you been with the Bureau, Mr. Santangelo?”

“I’ve been a field agent for five years. Before that, I spent six years at Quantico.”

“Six years at Quantico? That’s too long for the academy.”

“I was with the Hostage Rescue Team.”

Nick sat up a little straighter. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Dr. McKay, we’re looking at a former member of the FBI’s very own Delta Force, trained in urban warfare, special weapons tactics, close-in combat—even aerial assault. The HRT is the bad boys of the FBI.”

“The
good
boys,” Santangelo corrected. “ ‘The minimum force possible, the maximum force necessary’—that’s our motto.”

“Five years as a field agent, and six years before that. Why, Mr. Santangelo, you must have been at Waco.”

Santangelo barely nodded.

“I remember reading about that,” Nick said. “It was almost a two-month standoff, wasn’t it? There were three hundred FBI agents, including your own elite hostage rescue team, against a handful of ex–Seventh Day Adventists. You guys brought in snipers, tear gas, even a tank. By the time the smoke cleared, there were eighty people dead—including a bunch of kids. Not exactly a high point for the FBI, was it, Mr. Santangelo? I’ve always wondered: Where does an HRT member go after Waco?”

Santangelo paused, but his expression never changed. “Pittsburgh,” he said simply. He turned his attention to Riley now. “And you, Dr. McKay—you must be the woman.”

“What woman is that?”

“It seems we three share a common interest: a certain Dr. Nathan Lassiter.”

Nick and Riley said nothing.

“OK,” Santangelo nodded, “then let me get things started. On Monday of last week a pest-control service tented the home of Dr.
Nathan Lassiter for fumigation—a fumigation that was entirely unnecessary and that did not, in fact, occur. The following day, a crew posing as exterminators illegally gained access to Dr. Lassiter’s home, at which time they performed a thorough search of Dr. Lassiter’s computer—including the installation of a surveillance program to allow ongoing monitoring of his investments and activities. How am I doing so far?”

“Impressive,” Nick said. “How did you learn all this?”

“We watched them do it. The Bureau is conducting its own investigation into Dr. Lassiter’s affairs; not long ago, we installed the same surveillance software on his computer. We watched every keystroke as it occurred.”

“What does this have to do with us?” Riley asked.

Santangelo narrowed his eyes. “I figure you for a real smart woman, Dr. McKay. I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a little credit in return. We talked to one of Lassiter’s next-door neighbors; she had a brochure from the Bug Off Exterminator Company. Yesterday, I interviewed Mr. Frederick Krubick, the proprietor of said company. That’s where I got your name, Dr. Polchak. That same neighbor observed three figures enter the back of the house. She said one of them walked like a woman.”

“I resent that,” Nick said.

Santangelo looked at Riley. “By your presence here today, I’m assuming that woman was you.”

Riley hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Why are you investigating Dr. Lassiter?”

“Funny. I was about to ask you the same question.”

“You first.”

“Now wait a minute—let me explain something. The two of you are interfering with a federal investigation. You’re already guilty of breaking and entering and illegal wiretapping—that’s just for starters. I’m not here to answer
your
questions—got it?”

Nick shook his head in disapproval. “It’s way too early for the fastball. Your curve ball was doing just fine.”

“I could have you two brought up on charges.”

“But you won’t,” Nick said. As he spoke, the riverboat began to pass under the span of the Smithfield Street Bridge, and the cool, gray shadow crept over the upper deck like a mist. Nick leaned back against the railing and stared into the sky. “This is my favorite
part,” he said, gazing up at the hundred-and-twenty-year-old maze of rusted trusses, pins, and eyebars less than twenty feet away.

“Why not?” Santangelo said.

Nick spoke without looking down. “If you charge us, our interest in Dr. Lassiter will become public knowledge—and that will tip off Dr. Lassiter himself, the very thing you want to avoid. If he looks for
our
software on his computer, he’ll find yours too—and you don’t want that, now, do you? You can end our investigation, Mr. Santangelo—but in the process you’ll end your own.”

The bridge passed overhead now, and the midmorning sun streaked the deck again with blinding yellow light. Nick squinted hard and turned back to Santangelo. “Besides,” he said, lifting his glasses and rubbing his eyes, “you didn’t come here just to tell us to back off—a phone call would have accomplished that. You’re here because you want to know what we know.”

“You’re a hard man to intimidate, Dr. Polchak.”

Nick looked at him. “I thought you read my file.”

Santangelo turned to Riley. “Why is a pathologist investigating her own colleague? What would motivate you to break into his house? And how did the two of you get together on this?”

Riley glanced at Nick. He nodded.

“I’m in a fellowship program at the coroner’s office,” Riley said. “Dr. Lassiter is my supervisor. A few months ago, I began to notice some strange anomalies in his work—and when I asked about them, he became extremely defensive. He ‘protested too much,’ you might say, and it made me suspicious. I met Dr. Polchak at a … professional function, and I asked him to help me look into it.”

“I’m good at peeking through keyholes,” Nick said.

“What sort of ‘anomalies’ are we talking about?”

“Lassiter refused to release organs for transplant due to a head trauma—that was the first one. Then I asked Dr. Polchak to do an entomological evaluation on an acute myocardial infarction victim.”

“And?”

“The body had been moved,” Nick said, “shortly after death. It was transported from the city to the country, where it was later discovered.”

“So it was dumped,” Santangelo said. “It happens.”

“It happens to murder victims,” Riley said. “Lassiter wrote it off as a death by natural causes.”

Santangelo nodded. “Any more?”

“Just one. Dr. Polchak helped me reexamine one of Lassiter’s autopsies—the victim of a drive-by shooting in Homewood. The cause of death was a gunshot to the back of the head, but we discovered another wound—an incision on the lower back, just below the rib cage.”

“An incision?”

“It was sutured shut,” Nick said, “and it all happened at the murder scene.”

Santangelo did a double take. “You can tell that?”

“You’d be amazed what I can tell. For example: I can tell that you already know most of this—maybe all of it.”

“I’ll bite. How do you know that?”

“Because you’re a federal agent. The FBI wouldn’t get involved with a simple medical misadventure—that’s for the local authorities to take care of. Your very presence here indicates the violation of some federal statute or regulation—say, the National Organ Transplant Act, which makes it a federal crime to buy or sell human tissues.”

Santangelo sat motionless.

“Thanks,” Nick smiled. “Now I know for sure.”

Santangelo held up both hands in protest. “I’m not at liberty to discuss details of an open investigation. All I can tell you is, your observations are … consistent with our own discoveries. What else can you tell me?”

“Like you said, we searched his computer, and I’m sure we found the same thing you did: Lassiter has been investing enormous sums of money in a company called PharmaGen—money that he never earned. Where’s that money coming from, Mr. Santangelo?”

“Sorry.”

“Come on,
Cruz,
I thought we were all friends here. We answered some of your questions; you can answer one of ours.”

“I’m asking you to help confirm details of the Bureau’s investigation, Dr. Polchak, but I’m not free to answer your questions in return. You know how it works—a need-to-know basis.”

“Some friend you are.”

“So what about this PharmaGen? Has he mentioned the company at work, Dr. McKay? Can you explain his heavy involvement?”

“No,” she said. “At this point, all we have is speculation.”

“I’m open to speculation. Let’s hear it.”

Riley took a deep breath. “PharmaGen has collected genetic information on a few hundred thousand people in western Pennsylvania. They have a man serving on their ethics advisory board—his name is Julian Zohar, the director of western Pennsylvania’s organ procurement organization. We think he … it’s possible that …” Her voice trailed off here, and Nick leaned forward.

“We think he could be creating a black market for organs, using PharmaGen’s database to facilitate matches between donors and recipients.”

Santangelo looked at both of them, then slumped back against the bench.

“Like we said, it’s only speculation.”

“Can you
prove
any of this? Do you have anything tangible for me?”

Nick shook his head. “You look surprised, Mr. Santangelo. Was your investigation taking you in a different direction?”

“I … I can’t say,” Santangelo stammered. “I’m just … amazed that you’ve … made these connections.”

No one said anything for a minute.

“That’s all we’ve got,” Nick said at last.

“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your cooperation,” Santangelo said, his mind still racing.

“So what do we do now?”

Santangelo looked at both of them. “I can tell you this much: We have several people under surveillance. We suspect the involvement of a number of parties, and we won’t do anything until we identify all of them and have enough physical evidence to prosecute—that’s when we’ll close the net.”

“What do you want us to do?” Riley asked.

“You’ve already done it. You’ve told me what you know, and you’ve turned the investigation over to the FBI—right? Here’s
what I
don’t
want you two to do: no more breaking into houses, no more tapping into computers, and no more poking around in Dr. Lassiter’s affairs. The worst thing you could do is let Lassiter get wind of you—or of
us.
The minute somebody lets out a yell, everybody scatters. We don’t want anyone to get away, understand? You need to let us complete this investigation our way, on our timetable. If you do, we’ll both be satisfied.”

“Just what is that timetable?” Nick asked.

“You’ll know when we know. In the meantime, Dr. McKay, you go back to the coroner’s office and finish that fellowship program. Talk to
no one
about what we’ve discussed here. And if you do observe any more irregularities in Dr. Lassiter’s conduct—if you even have further speculations—you’re to call
me,
understand?” He handed both of them a business card embossed with the black-and-gold seal of the FBI. “One more thing—Dr. Lassiter’s neighbor reported seeing
three
people enter the house. Who was the third party?”

They said nothing.

“You’re a pathologist, and you’re an entomologist,” he said, looking at each of them. “I assume the third party was your computer expert.”

“An interesting assumption,” Nick said.

“The Bureau would really like to know.”

“Like you said, Mr. Santangelo—a need-to-know basis.”

Santangelo glared at him. “Enjoy your stay in Pittsburgh, Dr. Polchak. Take in a few ball games. Work on your tan—you could use it. Like I said before, you know how the system works: your government thanks you for your cooperation; now keep quiet, stay out of the way, and let us do our job.”

Santangelo rose from the bench, shook hands with each of them, and headed off across the deck. Nick and Riley watched until he descended the opposite stairway and disappeared from view.

Nick turned to Riley. “He didn’t read my file,” he said.

The curving hull of the
PharmaGen
lay in the black water, drifting slightly in the gentle current. The three men sat in a circle on the aft deck, staring in opposite directions at the moonless sky.