"Van Lustbader, Eric - Dark Homecoming(eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Van Lustbader Eric)

Croaker, trained to elicit confessions from reluctant witnesses and suspects, was adept at reading between the lines. "Are you telling me you know that here, in this country, there's an underground commerce in selling stolen organs?"
She gave an abrupt nod. "You didn't hear it from me. If you dare tell anyone I mentioned such a thing I'll deny it." Fear had turned her eyes muddy. Only a glint of green now and again marked the hazel of her irises.
He discovered that his right hand was tightly clutching the back of a sofa. He thought of Sonia's head sitting in her refrigerator like an offering. What had Antonio and Heitor done with the organs in her body? This was the question Bennie and he had asked of each other. Now, abruptly, a confirmation of their worst suspicions had presented itself as startlingly as a graven image in a jungle glade. Croaker felt a tremor roll through him, and again he felt that peculiar vulnerability, as if his very marrow had been exposed. "Who's doing the trafficking?"
"We've known for years the Arabs, the Chinese, and the Pakistanis trade in stolen organs. They're notorious for it."
"The South Americans, too, from what I understand. When they disappear people-dissidents, rebels, political enemies, whoever-they like to get some monetary gain from it."
Jenny Marsh nodded. "I've heard that."
"What about here?"
Jenny shrugged."
He continued to press her. Could the Bonitas have moved their organ harvesting here to the States? "Does that mean you don't know or you won't say?"
"I don't know. Nobody does."
"Somebody must." Croaker thought for a moment. "Tell me something. If everyone in your field's so morally incorruptible, who's buying these organs?"
"Everyone I know is ethical."
"Come on," Croaker said.
Jenny looked around them, as if she was afraid she'd be overheard. Then she beckoned him to follow her. There went out of the lab, past the Dialysis Unit and down a short corridor ending in door which read: caution: operating theater. There, she led him into a small operating room. She switched on the lights. Against one wall was a stainless-steel and porcelain object no larger than a portable writing table with flexible tubes running from its casing. It was oblong in shape, with legs and rubber-clad casters. She went over to it. "This is a perfusion machine." She put her hand on its sleek top. "It's what keeps a kidney alive long enough for us to perform the transplant."
Croaker examined the perfusion machine, but nothing about it seemed odd or unusual. It looked like another bit of surgical apparatus, mysterious and, therefore, vaguely menacing.
"Let me give you a hypothetical situation," she said. "There's an accident on I-Ninety-five. Multiple deaths. These days, things are so backed up these bodies aren't even carted off to the hospital. The M.E. takes them until they're identified, then they go to a mortuary." She plucked some stray hairs back behind her ears. "Now say, in this hypothetical scenario, this M.E.'s unscrupulous. He's in debt or just wants to make a little more money. Whatever, he's in business for himself. He ices the abdominal cavities of the corpses to thirty-two degrees centigrade until he can get the body onto the perfusion machine. Then he floods it with Belzer solution. Remember, with a kidney he's got seventy-two hours. Anyway, probably he's already got buyers lined up. He does his antigen typing. That typically takes six to eight hours. Bingo! He matches the kidney to his list and sells it. No one knows because accident victims are typically in such bad shape a surgical incision by the M.E. will go unnoticed by the mortician."
He cocked his head. "Is this scenario hypothetical or typical?"
She looked at him unhappily. "It's been known to happen."
"Okay. But then what? Whoever buys the kidney isn't coming to you or someone like you to sew it in."
"No." Jenny used long, slender fingers to smooth the front of her lab coat. "But no doubt there are others who would."
"With your specific knowledge?"
Her expression was bleak. "You'd be surprised at how easy it is to do a kidney transplant. Any private clinic has the facilities-even one doing out-patient procedures. And, bare bones, all you really need are three competent professionals: a surgeon, an anesthesiologist, and an OR tech."
Croaker searched her face. "So you're saying, what?, this happens?"
"Form your own conclusions," Jenny said softly. ."Why have you told me about this?" Croaker asked. "Even if I were able to procure a kidney you wouldn't put it in Rachel-even to save her life."
Jenny Marsh put a hand to her temple. "I don't know. I told you I must be out of my mind." She turned away to stare blankly at the operating table, empty now, gleaming in the overhead lights. "Maybe it's that... you're a cop. Cops are like priests in a way. Sometime it feels good to confess to them."
"But you haven't done anything wrong."
She turned back to him, the green of her eyes piercing. "No, but in Rachel's case I seem to be thinking about it."
"And that scares you."
"More than you could know."
"Meet me tomorrow night for dinner," he said. He had to know more about this Stateside organ harvesting. Perhaps it might provide a lead to Antonio and Heitor. And besides, wasn't she offering a slender ray of hope, glimmering fitfully in the darkness? If she knew someone who could get a healthy kidney-registered or not-for Rachel... Harvesting an organ from an accident victim was nothing like what Antonio and Heitor were doing. But still. The thought that he might have to make such a decision scared him as much as it obviously did her, "Right now I've got to get my sister home, but we'll talk more about it then."
"I'm busy."
"No, you're not," he said. "I stole a look at your schedule when I went by the duty station. You're off at ten."
That cool appraisal again. "How do you know I don't have a date?"
"Do you?"
Jenny's gaze flickered and she looked abruptly drained. "It doesn't matter. There's nothing to talk about."
"Maybe not, but there's no harm in having dinner with me." He smiled. "Call it a thank-you on Rachie's behalf. You've gone above and beyond for her, and she-we're all grateful."
"Even if I wanted to..." She shook her head. "I make it a policy not to socialize with the family of my patients."
"That's sensible, I know." He gave her an ironic look. "But there are times when it's best to throw caution to the wind."
"And you think this is one of those times, Mr. Croaker?"
"Lew," he corrected her. "Yes, I do. How many cases like Rachel's have you had, doctor?"
"None."
She hadn't hesitated; he thought that was a good sign.
"Well, then, let's go to hell with ourselves and break all the rules."
Jenny Marsh studied him for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly.
"That's great," he said. "I'll pick you up here."
Again, she gave him that rueful smile. "Why do I think I'm going to live to regret this?"
"Because you're a woman who plays by the rules."
"Isn't it nice," she said, her smile broadening just a bit, "to have all the answers?"
4
Matty lived in the Palm Beach apartment that Donald Duke had bought five years ago and became hers as part of the divorce settlement. It was on the twelfth floor of Harbour Pointe, one of those glitzy high-rises that dotted South Florida's Gold Coast. It was a place that boasted views of both the Atlantic Ocean and the Intra- coastal and, in best South Florida tradition, pointlessly added letters to its name. It was within walking distance of the Breakers Hotel and the high-profile restaurants of Royal Poinciana Way, and was coveted by anyone who wore diamonds at the beach. Besides awesome views, three-thousand-foot-plus floor plans, lavish marble and gold-plate baths, and a state-of-the-art rooftop cardiovascular fitness center, Harbour Pointe also boasted both a doorman and a concierge.