Everything else in the Gary Lasch folder had to do with his death. Reams of newspaper articles about the murder, the trial, Molly.

Reluctantly, Fran decided that there was absolutely nothing in all the material on Gary Lasch to indicate that he was anything more than an average doctor who was smart enough to marry well and to get in on the health maintenance organization circus. Until he was murdered, of course.

Well, on to the almighty Calvin Whitehall, Fran told herself with a sigh. Forty minutes later, her eyes burning with fatigue, she said aloud, “Now this guy is a horse of a different color. I think the proper adjective to describe him would be ‘ruthless,’ not ‘almighty.’ It’s a miracle he’s stayed out of jail.”

The list of lawsuits filed against Cal Whitehall over the years took up pages. The notations showed that a few were settled “for an undisclosed sum,” while most were dismissed or resulted in a favorable verdict for Whitehall.

There were many recent articles about the proposed acquisition by Remington Health Management of smaller HMOs, and there was mention as well of the potential for a hostile takeover of Remington itself.

That merger deal really is in trouble, Fran reflected, as she continued to read. Whitehall has big bucks, but according to these articles, some of the biggest stockholders of the competing American National are powerhouses too. From what I see here, they all believe that the future of medicine in this country calls for the guidance of American National’s president, the former surgeon general. If these quotes are accurate, they’re willing to make sure that happens.

Unlike Gary Lasch’s, Whitehall ’s file contained no long list of charities or sponsorship of charitable events to his credit. There was one civic trusteeship, however, that drove the sleepiness from Fran. Calvin Whitehall had been a member of the library fund committee with her father! His name was mentioned in newspaper articles in the file about the theft. I never knew he was part of that, Fran thought. But how would I? I was just a kid then. Mom wouldn’t talk about the theft, and she and I left Greenwich soon after Dad committed suicide.

The articles included a number of blurry photostated pictures of her father. The captions weren’t flattering.

Fran got up and walked to the window. It was after midnight, and even though there were lights still on in many of the apartments, it was clear that the city was settling into sleep.

When I do finally get to meet Whitehall, I’m going to ask him some hard questions, she thought angrily. For example, how did Dad manage to steal that much money from the fund without it being noticed? Maybe he can tell me where I can find records to show whether Dad took the money over a period of time, or if he went for it all at once.

Calvin Whitehall is a financier, she thought. Even all those years ago he was successful and wealthy. He should be able to give me some answers about my father, or at least tell me how I can find them.

She was tempted to go to bed, but decided to at least skim a few of the magazines she had taken from Molly. First she glanced at the dates on the covers. Molly had said they were old, but Fran was surprised to see that the earliest one went back over twenty years. The most recent were dated thirteen years ago.

She looked at the oldest one first. An article entitled “A Plea for Reason” was checked on the index page. The author’s name seemed vaguely familiar, but perhaps not. Fran began to read. I don’t like the way this guy thinks, she thought, horrified at what he had written.

The second magazine, eighteen years old, had an article by the same author. It was entitled “Darwin, Survival of the Fittest, and the Human Condition in the Third Millennium.” Accompanying this entry was a picture of the author, a professor of research at Meridian Medical School. He was shown in the laboratory with two of his most promising student assistants.

Fran’s eyes widened with shock as she matched the face of the professor to his vaguely familiar name, then recognized the two students.

“Bingo!” she said. “That explains it all.”

78

At ten o’clock on Saturday morning, Calvin Whitehall set his plan in action. He had summoned Lou Knox to his study so that Lou could make the call to Fran Simmons in his presence. “If she isn’t in, you’ll try every half hour,” he said. “I want to get her to West Redding today, or at the latest, tomorrow. I can’t keep our friend Dr. Logue under control much longer.”

Lou knew he was not expected to comment or respond in any way. At this stage of an action, Cal tended to think out loud.

“You have the cell phone?”

“Yes, sir.” The cell phone would be used for this call because not only would it show up as ANONYMOUS CALL if Fran had Caller I.D., but as a fail-safe, the number was billed to a phony name at a mail drop in Westchester County in New York.

“Go ahead and try her. And make sure you do a good job of convincing her. Here’s the number. I’m happy to say it was listed.” If it had been unlisted, Cal thought, it would have been simple enough to ask Jenna to get it from Molly, claiming that I wanted to set up the appointment Simmons had been requesting. But he was glad that step had not been necessary. It would have violated his cardinal rule: In any plan, the fewer people involved, the better.

Lou took the scrap of paper and began to press the numbers on the cell phone. There were two rings, and then he heard the receiver being lifted. He nodded to Cal, who watched him intently.

“Hello,” Fran said.

“Ms. Simmons?” Lou asked, employing his late father’s slight German accent.

“Yes, who is this, please?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone, but I overheard you yesterday at the hospital coffee shop, talking to Ms. Branagan.” He paused for effect. “Ms. Simmons, I work at the hospital, and you’re right. Something terrible is going on there.”

In her living room, still in her pajamas, the portable phone in her hand, Fran frantically looked for her pen, spotted it on the hassock, and grabbed the message pad from the table. “I know there is,” she said calmly, “but unfortunately I can’t prove it.”

“Can I trust you, Ms. Simmons?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s an old man who has been creating drugs that they use in experiments on patients at Lasch. He’s afraid that Dr. Black wants to kill him, and he wants to tell the story of his research before they are able to stop him. He knows it will get him in trouble, but he doesn’t care.”

He has to be talking about Dr. Adrian Lowe, the doctor in those articles, Fran thought. “Has he spoken to anyone else about this?” she asked.

“I know for a fact he hasn’t. I deliver packages from him to the hospital. I’ve been doing this for some time, but I didn’t know what they were until yesterday. He confided in me about the experiments. He was practically bursting with excitement. He wants the world to know what he did to make the Colbert girl come out of the coma before she died.” He paused and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Ms. Simmons, he even has it on tape. I know; I saw it.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” Fran said, trying to keep her voice calm.

“Ms. Simmons, he’s an old man and practically a hermit. He may say that he wants people to know about him, but he’s still scared. If you bring a bunch of people with you, he’ll clam up, and you’ll get nothing.”

“If he wants me to come alone, I’ll come alone,” she said. “Actually I prefer that.”

“Would tonight at seven be okay?”

“Of course. Where should I go?”

Lou circled his index finger and thumb in a victory symbol to Cal. “Do you know where West Redding, Connecticut, is, Ms. Simmons?” he asked.