Fast and Loose

16

Stone was at his desk the following morning when Joan buzzed. “The elder, male Dr. Carlsson on one.”

He pressed the button. “Yes, Paul?”

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning.”

“FedEx delivered half an hour ago, and about half the stockholders have accepted. Their checks are being written as we speak. We now own fifty-three percent of the clinic, and of course there could be more tomorrow.”

“Congratulations, Paul.”

“Thank you. May we now dispense with the armed guards?”

“No, you may not. This may set Macher off. Let’s look at it again in a week.”

“Thank you again, Stone.”

“You are entirely welcome.”

“I promise you, the family will never again own less than fifty percent of the stock.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Paul, I’d like to invite you and your tribe, and their wives or girlfriends, to dinner one night soon. Would Friday evening be convenient for all of you?”

“I’ll take a vote and call you back.”

“Good.” They hung up. Twenty minutes later Paul called back. “This Friday is good for all of us. The boys will bring their wives.”

“Will you bring a lady?” Stone asked.

“Well, one of Marisa’s security guards is very attractive. Shall I ask her?”

“Please do. Seven o’clock for drinks?”

“Perfect.” They hung up and Stone called Dino.

“Bacchetti.”

“Good news — the Carlssons are majority owners of their clinic again.”

“Great news.”

“They’re all coming for dinner on Friday evening. Will you and Viv join us?”

“Sure we will. She’ll actually be in town.”

“Drinks at seven.” They hung up. Stone called Ed Rawls.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Stone. Will you, by any chance, be in New York the day after tomorrow?”

“Give me an excuse.”

“The Carlssons are owners of their clinic again, and we’re celebrating. Dinner Friday evening?”

“That’s a good excuse.”

“How’s the widow hunting in Islesboro?”

“They’re thick on the ground.”

“Would you like to bring one? I’ll put you both up, together or separately.”

“Yes, I would. If we fly from our little airport directly to Teterboro, we could arrive late afternoon.”

“Excellent. See you then.” He hung up and buzzed Joan.

“Yes, sir?”

“Will you let Helene and Fred know that we’ll be twelve for dinner at eight, on Friday? Drinks at seven.”

“Certainly.”

“Ask her to get back to me with a menu.”

“Certainly.”

On Thursday morning, Erik Macher picked up his Wall Street Journal. There it was, on page one again: MACHER AT ST. CLAIR LOSES BID FOR THE CARLSSON CLINIC.

He wanted to throw up on his desk. He started to ring for Fox, but he wasn’t the go-to guy for where Macher wanted to go. He picked up the phone and dialed an extension in a basement office. The man was standing before him in less than a minute.

Jake Herman was ex-FBI, having been asked to leave in the wake of an unnecessarily violent incident some years before. He was smart, in a feral sort of way, and entirely without scruples of any kind — a classic sociopath. He was also inordinately fond of money.

Macher explained what had just happened. “Jake, I want retribution,” he said.

“I suppose you want them all dead?” Jake asked with a look of distaste.

“Not necessarily. In fact, it would be better to avoid killing. The police work too hard at solving murders.”

“How about if I do something to the clinic?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe some Legionnaires’ disease in their air-conditioning system?” Jake suggested.

Macher thought about it. “Too likely to kill a patient or two.”

“Then how about a rumor of Legionnaires’ disease in their air-conditioning system?”

“Where could you plant such a rumor?”

“It would make it more credible if it were in two or three publications on the same day.”

“Can you do that?”

“I know a guy who knows a guy — a failed publicist who writes a gossip blog. If he got it out late this afternoon, it could hit the papers tomorrow morning — they read all the blogs. It’ll have to be a little on the subtle side — the guy isn’t interested in lawsuits.”

“Do it,” Macher said, “for tomorrow’s papers.”

“I’m on it,” Jake replied. He left the room.

On Friday morning, Paul Carlsson’s son Sven came into his office with a newspaper. “Look at this,” he said, placing the paper on his father’s desk.

A circle had been drawn around a headline: AT SWANK CLINIC: LEGIONNAIRES’ DISEASE?

Paul read on: “‘An anonymous report has come in that two, possibly three, patients at a swanky Upper East Side private hospital with Scandinavian connections have presented with symptoms of an often-fatal respiratory illness. Their air-conditioning system is suspected, and the New York City Department of Health is descending on the clinic with swarms of inspectors.’”

“Do we have patients with any such symptoms, Sven?”

“No, sir. I checked, and our air-conditioning system was checked and disinfected the day before yesterday, as it is monthly.”

Paul buzzed his secretary. “Get me the head of the New York City Department of Health.”

A moment later, she came back. “Mr. Swanson on line one.”

Paul picked up the phone. “Mr. Swanson, are you aware of a report in a morning newspaper that a clinic on the Upper East Side may have patients with Legionnaires’ disease?”

“That has just come to my attention, Dr. Carlsson.”

“I believe this to be a malicious rumor aimed at our facility, and I want you to know that we have checked, and we have no patients exhibiting symptoms of anything they didn’t arrive with, especially not Legionnaires’ disease. Also, our air-conditioning system was checked and disinfected two days ago, as part of our monthly inspection routine. If you wish to send inspectors here to confirm this, we will welcome their attention.”

“Dr. Carlsson, I think it would be to the benefit of both of us if I send a team over there this morning.”

“We will give them full cooperation. Tell them to ask for me, personally.” He hung up. “Sven, thank you for bringing this to my attention. The health department will deal with this immediately, and I want to issue a press release when they are done.” Sven returned to his office.

Paul called Stone Barrington.

“Yes, Paul?”

“Stone, I believe we have now heard from Mr. Macher.”