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  “We’ve heard all kinds of rumors about Ruth—her life and how she died. For purposes of the trust’s records, we want to reaffirm the facts. As for tomorrow night’s testimonial, we want to make sure nothing is said about Ruth that will set off more rumors.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Meseck. “Well, you know those of us in the medical field keep patient information confidential. That’s particularly true when it comes to rich patients.” Both the doctor and his wife giggled.

  “I realize that. But this has to do with a patient who died a long time ago. Maybe you could give me just a little more information without mentioning Ruth Silverstein’s name. You know—in consideration for—” I jerked my head toward Davey’s cap that Mrs. Meseck was cradling like the Hope Diamond.

  “Well, perhaps—”

  “If a young woman came to you today with the symptoms you ran across those many years ago—”

  “Almost any medical student could peg what would be wrong, Mr. Bullock. Even back then, it wasn’t much of a challenge.”

  “Really?”

  “The patient in question was admitted in nineteen seventy, as I recall. So, the problem was far more apparent in those days.”

  “Those days?”

  “Yes. Before the Roe vs. Wade case. When illegal abortions were common.”

  “So, Ruth—so, the patient had a botched abortion.”

  “Not at all unusual,” the doctor stated. “Not back then, at least.”

  “Would the medical records and cause of death certificate say anything about abortion?”

  “Not specifically. But anyone with a basic medical background could look at those records and make an educated guess.”

  “Did—did Arthur Silverstein know?”

  The doctor glanced at his wife who was busy stuffing Davey’s hat into a plastic bag. I could see a flash of concern in his eyes and I could read the question running through his well-educated head: what’s the point of doling out more answers since I’ve already snagged an autographed cap?

  “Yes,” Dr. Meseck said softly. “I told him.”

  “Yet he never went public with what actually happened. He let the world think his daughter died of a drug overdose.”

  “Her blood work was positive for cocaine.”

  “But cocaine didn’t kill her.”

  A spark of trepidation lit up Meseck’s eyes. “There was no autopsy.”

  I didn’t want the doctor thinking this was some kind of American Medical Association sting. So, I tried lessening his concern. “The medical records were sealed except for the copy passed along to Arthur.”

  “And a copy that apparently found its way to the trust files.”

  “Yes,” I concurred without really knowing if that were true or whether Doug had managed to pilfer the records some other way. “But this was all kept confidential and that’s not going to change. It’s just curious Arthur wouldn’t counter the impression his child died of an overdose.”

  “Actually, Mr. Silverstein never commented openly about his daughter’s death. I remember talking to him when he was sitting shiva. He said it was best to say as little as possible about how and why Ruth died. And he asked me to be discreet about what happened to her.”

  I wondered if Silverstein used the word “discreet” at the same time he pushed a few thousand bucks into Dr. Meseck’s pocket. “But when you talked to the press, you inferred Ruth OD’d.”

  “I didn’t infer. I just didn’t contradict the media speculation. It was common knowledge Ruth was a drug user. She had a couple of arrests. So, it was a logical assumption that Ruth couldn’t handle her habit.”

  Logical assumptions and the truth didn’t always line up. Ask Miklos Zeusenoerdorf. The logical assumption was that he used a wooden cross to beat Benjamin Kurios to death.

  “Arthur Silverstein knew what actually happened,” I said to Meseck. “Somebody ripped open his kid in a back alley. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of man who would forgo tracking down whoever killed his daughter.”

  “People like Arthur forgo very little,” Meseck said with a shrug that told me he had more information at his disposal. “Anyway, Ruth’s death turned Arthur into an avid pro-choice supporter. It’s common knowledge he puts a lot of money and time into making sure abortions don’t revert back to coat hangers and lye douches.”

  “Do you know which organizations he—?”

  He stood abruptly. “I’m afraid we must be on our way.”

  I thanked the Mesecks and fired a few more questions as they folded themselves into their Jaguar XK. “Do you remember Mr. Silverstein’s reaction when you explained Ruth’s cause of death?”

  Surprisingly, Meseck was forthcoming. “Indeed. Arthur’s wife had been institutionalized a couple of years earlier—”

  “Yes, that’s well documented.”

  “So he was pretty much on his own when his daughter was brought into the E.R.”

  “It must have been very difficult for him.”

  “Very. His money meant nothing that night. It was blood, not dollars, we needed to save his daughter.”

  I didn’t hide my puzzlement. “Blood?”

  “Ruth had a rare blood type. I’m not sure she would have pulled through even if we could have found a compatible donor. Anyway, we just didn’t have time to—”

  “What about her father?” I broke in.

  “Arthur wasn’t a match. And his other child was an infant—too young to be a donor.”

  I hadn’t expected Meseck to deliver any jaw-dropping surprises—only to confirm the suspicions I had about Silverstein and his daughter. This news was a lightning bolt.

  “Other child?” I asked through the driver’s-side window of the Jag. “I’ve read and heard a lot about Arthur Silverstein. I thought he had only one child.”

  Meseck gave me a look that told me the wrong information had just leaked out. “I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” he said.

  “But you did. There’s another child?

  “It was a product of—shall we say—an indiscretion,” he said. “And this is not something you ever heard from me. Do we understand each other?”

  “We do. I assume Silverstein never openly acknowledged that he had two children.”

  “I was told by a third party that Arthur paid the boy’s mother a handsome sum for child support and more money for her silence.”

  “Do you know the boy’s name? Any information about where he was brought up?”

  “No,” Meseck said, “And frankly, I gave you much more information than was warranted even if you did sign my grandson’s cap.”

  Chapter 23

  Saturday was as close to nirvana as New Jersey ever gets. No smog. Seventy-two degrees. Low humidity. All signs pointed to ideal conditions for Douglas Kool’s Ellis Island nighttime extravaganza.

  After breakfast, I dialed Yigal’s cell. No answer. Figuring the lawyer was once again cross-examining Twyla, I distracted myself with Gateway office work until noon. Then I drove Doc and Maurice to Hinkle’s Black Tie in Edison, dropped them off, and circled back to the office.

  I took a few minutes to pull up the Quia Vita Web site and memorize the faces of the two Visio Dei members who would be picking up the Book of Nathan disk from the mysterious Osman Seleucus. They were the last photos on a Web page titled Tributes and Recognition subtitled For Meritorious Service.

  At four o’clock, I was straightening my black bow tie, adjusting a new two-color cummerbund, and picking the lint off my tux jacket. I knew Doc and Maurice had returned to the Gateway—Hinkle had reluctantly agreed to drive the pair back to New Brunswick, after dressing them in donated formal wear. I told my assistant to track them down while I navigated my Buick to the Gateway’s front entrance. Five minutes later, Doc and Maurice appeared looking like Ralph Lauren’s worst nightmare.

  “What the hell—”

  “Get what you pay for,” the professor noted with a shrug.

  “Good God.”

  “Hinkle has problems w
ith your United Way friend,” Doc explained. “Said he was ambushed into donating the tuxedos but he’d be goddamned if he was going to fork over labor costs for alternations.”

  Doc’s pants were too short and his coat at least a size too large. He wore a blue and silver paisley vest that hung over his pot belly like a skirt. Maurice’s white wing tip shirt gaped open just below his bright red-striped bowtie. Both men wore scuffed brown loafers and tan socks.

  What I was looking at was beyond bad taste. My boys were going to send Doug into shock. I checked my watch—four fifteen. Too late to make any clothing adjustments since the ferry to Ellis Island was leaving at five thirty.

  I drove through light traffic on the turnpike to exit 14B and followed signs to Liberty State Park. While the State of New Jersey and the feds put a boatload of money into revitalizing the waterfront near Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, they spent nothing on upgrading the convoluted roadway that led to the park. We jostled over potholes and torn-up cobblestones before reaching a cordoned-off stretch of road near the ferry terminal that served as the reserve parking area for those with invitations to the United Way dinner.

  “Over there—that’s Figgy’s car!” Maurice pointed to a Ford Taurus that had stopped short of the guarded entryway to the VIP parking lot.

  One of the side effects of using mind-altering drugs is an occasional hallucination. When Maurice says he sees things, it’s usually because he’s slipped into momentary delirium. So, if he claims he spotted Alicia Keys driving a sanitation truck in New Brunswick or Barack Obama selling chickpea falafels in Manhattan, you learn to take these things skeptically. Since it was impossible that Yigal Rosenblatt was within a thousand miles of Liberty State Park, I didn’t even think about cranking my head to check the car Maurice was looking at.

  “It is Figgy,” Maurice repeated.

  “You know, I think he’s right,” Doc said.

  The starched collar on my After Six tuxedo shirt suddenly became tight. I braked my Buick and my eyes followed Maurice’s index finger that was aimed dead center at the Taurus.

  I did a U-turn and navigated my way to Yigal’s car.

  “Yigal. I screamed. “What—”

  The lawyer opened the door and flapped his arms. “I had to come back. No choice. No choice at all.”

  “But why? Why?”

  Twyla scrambled out of the passenger side. “It was something, Bullet,” she said excitedly. “And if it wasn’t for Yiggy—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I could practically feel Manny Maglio’s garlic breath on the back of my neck.

  “Followed us to the house,” Yigal chattered. “They broke in.”

  “Who broke in?”

  “Two men. Don’t know who they were.” Yigal massaged a lump on his forehead with his right hand.

  This made no sense. Maglio had eliminated the two Hispanic hit men as a threat. Besides, even when they were still breathing, the pair had no interest in Yigal and Twyla—just Doc Waters. Even Arita Almiras wasn’t a likely suspect. Ida Kyzwoski had sounded a warning about the Almiras Society and how it had enlisted more than just her late husband to keep tabs on me. But I was the target, not Zeusenoerdorf’s lawyer and the niece of a mob boss. “What did they want?” I asked Yigal, suspicion oozing through the question.

  “Told me to back off, is what they said.”

  “Back off? Back off from what?”

  “Kurios case. Said Zeus was guilty and I should let things be.”

  Twyla jumped in. “Thank God for Yiggy, Bullet. Those two guys might of killed us both.”

  “You saw them?” I asked.

  “It happened outside the house,” she explained. “I never saw nobody, but as soon as Yiggy came inside, he told me to pack my suitcase. We took off and didn’t stop once on the way here except for going to the bathroom and to buy mascara.”

  The fishy odor of Yigal’s story was getting stronger, but there wasn’t time to probe. “Why didn’t you call?” I asked the lawyer. “You were supposed to call. Remember?”

  “Smashed my cell phone, is what they did,” Yigal claimed, “Totally destroyed it.”

  “Did you ever hear of a pay phone?”

  “Had to get here as soon as we could. Orlando’s not safe. Nowhere’s safe.” Yigal’s yarmulke flew off. Twyla retrieved the cap from the pavement and handed it to the attorney with a starry-eyed look reserved only for those who are gaga in love.

  I pulled Yigal to one side and pressed hard on his shoulders. His vibrating stopped long enough for me to look him in the eyes. “You listen to me. I don’t know what’s happening here, but you put me in a really bad place. The first thing in the morning, you’re flying back to Orlando with Twyla. Then you’re going to live up to your promise to get her to Universal Studios by nine a.m. on Monday. Understood?”

  I released my grip on the lawyer who began gyrating again. “Oh, I do. I understand.”

  “Park your car over there,” I ordered and waved at a mostly empty visitor lot. “Until I say otherwise, stay out of sight.”

  I ordered Doc and Maurice back into my Buick and headed for the VIP parking area. It was already crowded with limos and expensive cars. Dozens of workers were loading flowers and other provisions onto two large boats. The first was a bulky Circle Line ferry ironically named Miss Gateway that the United Way had booked to carry a small army of workers and a few supplies that hadn’t already been trucked in from Liberty Park over a narrow bridge to the 27-acre island. The second was a spectacular, 110-foot yacht christened Resolution that would be transporting guests to and from the island. Doug had told me earlier the Resolution was big enough to accommodate 150 passengers for a stand-up reception. The yacht would make two or three trips from Jersey to Ellis Island during the early evening. An even larger luxury vessel was shuttling guests from Battery Park in Manhattan.

  I greeted Doug who was making nice to a couple of early birds about to board the Resolution. “Can I have a word?” I took Doug by the arm, guided him to the passenger side of the Buick and suggested he peek through the window. When he saw what Hinkle had done to Doc and Maurice, he groaned.

  “They can’t show up on the island looking like that!”

  “They’re busboys. They don’t need to look like they stepped out of GQ.”

  “What they look like is a couple of clowns,” Doug wailed. “Send ’em home.”

  I shook my head. “Not going to happen. I lived up to my end of the bargain and now it’s your turn. If you want to butt heads, go a couple of rounds with your pal, Hinkle.”

  “Look, people are paying up to fifty thousand dollars a table for this goddamned dinner.”

  “And the two men in the car are going to clear the dishes.”

  The hard edge to my words convinced Doug it was useless to continuing pressing.

  “Dammit.” he swore. “You’re one royal pain in the ass.”

  Doug waved at a middle-aged man who was all muscle and sweat. “This is Albert Martone. He’s the catering supervisor. Handles the boats, Ellis Island, the whole nine yards.”

  Martone gave me a damp handshake. Doug explained the unanticipated problem and told the catering manager the two men sitting in my Buick were busboys who had to be added to the work crew for the evening.

  Martone looked through the rear window. “Them?”

  “I know, I know. But we need to get them in the lineup, Albert. It’s very important.”

  “They have to wear decent looking tuxedos,” Martone said. “Don’t matter if they’re scooping shit. Gotta be dressed right. I gotta reputation, for chrissakes!”

  “You have extra tuxedos on hand, right?” asked Doug. “For emergencies?”

  “I’m adding this to the damn bill,” Martone threatened.

  “That’s fine, Albert. That’s okay. I understand. Really, I do.”

  “Get ’em on board the ferry. When they land, I want ’em to go straight to the wardrobe trailer. One of my people will try to turn them in
to something passable.”

  I asked Martone if I could have a few words with Doc and Maurice first.

  “Make it fast,” the catering chief snapped back.

  I climbed back into the Buick.

  “What’s your job?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Your job. What are you supposed to do tonight?”

  When dealing with anyone from the Gateway, testing for retention was crucial.

  “Corner Abraham Arcontius,” Doc responded. “Long enough for you to connect with Arthur Silverstein.”

  “Right. And you’ll do this how?”

  “Arcontius knows us. He saw Maurice and me at Silverstein’s place. Running into us on the island will shock the hell out of him. While he’s off balance, we’re going to engage the worm in a conversation about civility.”

  “He’s smart enough to figure out your being on the island isn’t a coincidence,” I reminded Doc. “If he gets too suspicious, he’s going to skitter.”

  “No he won’t,” Maurice promised, sounding like a man who wasn’t a neophyte when it came to culling a target out of a crowd and keeping him bottled up.

  “I need at least ten minutes with Silverstein with no interruptions,” I said.

  “Consider it done,” Doc assured me.

  Martone rapped on the window. The catering manager was getting jittery.

  “Quite a freakin’ pair,” Martone muttered as Doc and Maurice waddled their way toward Miss Gateway.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Whether it was a stroke of genius or a flash of idiocy is debatable. But there was no weighing the upsides or downsides of the idea before it came flying out of my mouth.

  “Fortunately the other two aren’t quite as wacky,” I said to the catering director.

  I could feel Martone’s stare burning into me. “What other two?”

  “The other couple who’ll be working on the island. Doug Kool—⁠” I paused and gave Martone a confused look. “Doug did tell you, right?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me!”

  “Well, we have to get them to the island.”

  “What are they? They with the models?”