“It’s not my place to approve or disapprove.”
“So what do you think of me, then?” she asked, sipping her drink. “Really.”
“I think you’re great,” he said. “You’re beautiful and funny and smart, but when you act like this”—he shrugged—“you kind of make me sick.”
“You’re so sweet.” Her hand reached out and rested on Michael’s chest. Then she winked at him, leaned forward, and kissed his cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
She winked and pointed behind him. “That.”
Michael turned around. From the entranceway Sara stood watching them.
A few hours ago George had successfully stolen a car and changed its license plate. He circled the area near the Lowell estate for a little while, making sure he knew every possible escape route before parking in an abandoned lot several miles away. He spread goose liver pâté on a piece of toast and poured himself a red wine. Very young. Beaujolais-Villages.
A perfect picnic.
When George had finished, he tidied the car, checked his watch, and drove back toward Dr. Lowell’s mansion. He reached into the pocket of his Banana Republic khakis and took out his stiletto. He pressed the spring-release button with his thumb. The long, thin blade shot out with a sleek pop.
Very nice.
He closed the blade and put it back in his pocket. Enough games. Enough wine and song.
It was time to go to work.
3
HARVEY Riker helped himself to another martini. His third. Or was it his fourth? He was not sure. Harvey was not a heavy drinker, but lately he had found himself eyeing the bottle with new respect and desire. So much had happened the past few weeks. Why now? Why when they were on the brink of cornering and even destroying the AIDS virus did all this have to happen?
He handed the glass back to the bartender. “Another,” he said simply.
The bartender hesitated but then took the glass. “Last one, okay?”
Harvey nodded. The bartender was right. Enough was enough. He spun back toward the crowd. Michael was still talking with Cassandra. Man, she was something else. Talk about sizzle. A guy could get sunburn just standing near her. Make that sunstroke.
And how old is she, Harvey? Young enough to be your daughter, I suspect.
He shrugged. No harm in fantasizing, was there?
But his mind quickly returned to the other matter. The matter. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, but there was still no sign of Sara.
“Hello, Dr. Riker.”
Harvey turned toward the familiar voice. “Hey, Bradley, how you feeling?”
Bradley Jenkins, the senator’s son, smiled at Harvey. “Much better, thanks.”
“Any problems?”
Bradley shook his head. “Right now I feel great. It’s like some sort of a miracle . . . I just don’t know how long it will last.”
Harvey looked at the soft-spoken young man. Sara had introduced Harvey to Bradley years ago, well before Bradley had become his patient or even suspected he had AIDS. “Neither do we, Bradley,” he said in a serious tone. “The important thing is to continue the treatment. Stopping in the middle can be more dangerous than the disease itself.”
“I’d be crazy to stop.”
“When is your next visit?”
Bradley never answered because his father stepped between them. “Not another word,” Senator Jenkins hissed at Harvey. “Follow me.”
Harvey did as the senator asked. He followed him down the long corridor, keeping a yard or two between them. Senator Stephen Jenkins stopped at the last door, opened it, glanced back down the corridor to make sure no one was looking, and then waved for Harvey to enter. He closed the door behind them.
They were in Dr. Lowell’s library now, a huge, two-level room jammed from floor to high ceiling with thick, leather-covered books. There was a sliding ladder to facilitate getting volumes from the higher shelves and a catwalk that circled the room like a running track. Dark oak was the color of the shelves, the floor, the furniture.
Senator Jenkins began to pace. “You should know better than to speak to my son in public.”
“We were just talking,” Harvey said. “This is a party. People talk.”
“Do you know what would happen if people found out the truth about Bradley?”
Harvey paused. “Peace in the Middle East?”
“Don’t get cute with me, Riker.”
“Nuclear Armageddon? The end of Friday the Thirteenth sequels?”
“I owe you, Dr. Riker, but don’t push me.”
Harvey’s tone was brisk. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“You saved my son’s life.”
“We don’t know that. Only time will tell for sure.”
“Still,” the senator said, “it is encouraging. I’m very grateful.”
“I’m touched.”
“I also heard about the death of your partner, Dr. Grey. My condolences.”
“Care to make a public donation to his favorite charity?”
The senator chuckled without humor. “No.”
“Then how about getting the Senate to vote us more funds?”
“You know I can’t do that. The media and my opponents will tear me apart.”
“For helping cure a deadly disease?”
“For spending the voters’ hard-earned tax dollars to help a bunch of immoral, limp-wristed perverts.”
“Like your son?”
The senator lowered his head. “Low blow, Riker. Very low. If it ever got out that Bradley was . . .” He stopped.
“Gay?” Harvey finished for him. “Is that the word you’re looking for? Well, it won’t. Not from me, at least.”
“Then I’ll do what I can to help the clinic—discreetly, of course.” Senator Jenkins paused for a moment, thinking. “Besides,” he continued, “there are other ways to raise more money without involving me.”
“Like how?”
“Make your results public.”
“It’s still too early.”
“It’s never too early,” Jenkins said. “You don’t think there’re rumors about your success in Washington? How do you think I found out about it? All you have to do is show the media some of your test cases. Show them that Krutzer kid or Paul Leander.”
Harvey almost smiled. “What about Bradley? The son of a senator would certainly draw more attention than a couple of unknown gays.”
“You can’t use him.”