Natural Causes

CHAPTER 39

IT WAS NEARING NOON. TRAFFIC SOUTHBOUND ON THE central artery, leading out of the city, was light. Nevertheless, Matt was well aware of the vindictive nature of Boston drivers, and stayed in the middle lane, intent on offending no one. Colin Smith was out of the hospital for the remainder of the day, his secretary reported. An avid sailor, he spent every Friday afternoon from mid-April to early November aboard his boat. However, she added, a meeting had run late, and he had left the office not twenty minutes ago. If Matt's business with him was important, he might try calling the South Boston Yacht Club.

Instead of calling, Matt had decided to show up at the dock unannounced. He knew the way, having been there several times during his Red Sox years. And Colin Smith, very much the CPA, seemed like someone who might not do well with surprises.

Before calling Smith, Matt had stopped by Eli Blankenship's office. The medical chief had tried New York information in an attempt to reach the McGrath Foundation. They were not surprised that there was no such listing. The foundation had undoubtedly been established some years before, with no purpose other than to prepare for the laundering of the huge profits projected from the sales of the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System. Whoever had set up the operation had remarkable foresight, as well as keen insight into weight-conscious, do-it-the-easy-way America. Properly marketed, a no-diet slimming product with or without any proven effectiveness was a virtual gold mine. And the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System was not only well marketed, but actually seemed to work.

The way Matt saw it, the herbal product had been introduced and possibly developed at MCB by the mysterious Indian Ayurvedic physician, Pramod Singh. About four and a half years ago, the powder was tested by Singh, and quite successfully so, on at least three people-Alethea Worthington, Constanza Hidalgo, and Lisa Summer. There were probably more test subjects, but fortunately, none of the others had become pregnant and gone into labor.

Eventually Singh joined forces with Peter Ettinger, and then with a marketing agency that had an understanding of the power of infomercial television. King Midas himself could not have done a more efficient job of turning their herbs and protein into gold. A portion of the profits from the sale of the product was now finding its way into the coffers of the hospital, perhaps in payment for the early work done there. Some other monies were at work fostering the establishment of Xanadu and Ettinger's holistic healing empire.

But the rest?

According to Jeremy Mallon's operatives, the sums funneled to Xanadu and the Medical Center of Boston were still only fractions of what the marketing blitz was actually generating. It was quite possible that Colin Smith did not have the whole picture of what was going on. But he had to know something.

The South Boston Yacht Club, for many decades a landmark for boaters, was a rambling, three-story, clapboard affair, built on pilings. Easily visible from the expressway and from the harbor, it was harder to get admitted into than a Celtics playoff game. A network of floating docks fanned out from the old building like spokes. During the summer, not one slip of the several hundred along the docks was unaccounted for. And even this late in the season, there were still a good number of boats in the water. The dirt-and-gravel parking lot adjacent to the club was fenced off, with access restricted by a guard house. Matt slipped a ten across to the attendant in exchange for allowing him unannounced to surprise his old college classmate, Colin Smith.

Following the attendant's directions, Matt parked just behind the club and made his way down a stony slope onto the docks. Colin Smith's boat, the Red Ink, was at the far end of spoke 5. A thirty-foot, crimson-hulled catboat, the attendant said. The prettiest boat in the club. Smith was neatening some lines at the stern and was apparently alone. His expression upon seeing Matt approaching was not one of pleasure.

"Daniels," he said, dusting his hands off on his tan jeans and eyeing Matt suspiciously. "What brings you down here?"

"Business," Matt said simply.

"With me?"

"Mind if we sit down for a couple of minutes?"

"No longer, though." He motioned Matt into the cockpit. "This is the nicest day in weeks. I'm late as it is, and I want to get out there."

"You can sail her alone?"

"Blindfolded."

"I'm impressed. Listen, Colin. Have you seen this morning's paper?"

"You mean about their finding Andrew Truscott's body?"

"What was left of it."

"What has that got to do with me?"

"Maybe a lot. Sarah Baldwin and I have been telling people all along that Truscott was murdered. No one believed us. Now they will. From the day Sarah was sued by Willis Grayson, someone has been doing his damndest to make sure she appeared guilty of causing those DIC cases. Truscott was murdered trying to prove she was being framed. Then, last night, someone tried to murder her and make it look like she had killed herself. To be perfectly frank, Colin, I think you're involved."

"You're crazy."

"I think you either did it, or you know who did it."

Smith stood up and began to uncleat one of his stern lines.

"Go chase an ambulance," he said.

"Colin, what's with the McGrath Foundation? Why is it sending money to your hospital at the same time it's sending money to Peter Ettinger's operation? Who started it? Who's the one that's really getting rich?"

The money man finished uncleating the line and started loosening another. Matt looked for anger in his face, but saw only fear and confusion-hardly the expression of a man who was a willing participant in murder.

"I'm heading out now, Daniels," he said. "If you have accusations to make, I think you should be talking to the police or to a lawyer. Not to me."

Shit, not Plan B again. Matt sighed. He grabbed Smith by the front of his shirt and yanked him upright. The spark of fear in the man's eyes intensified.

"Listen to me and listen good," Matt said through nearly clenched teeth. He hoisted the smaller man up until he was on his tiptoes. "That fucking powder that everyone is getting rich off of is killing people. Dead! Young women and babies and God only knows who else. You may not know that, but somebody you're connected with does. And that somebody doesn't give a damn whether people die or not, as long as the bucks keep pouring in. Do you understand?"

Smith's weathered face was chalk. "Let me go," he said hoarsely.

Matt loosened his grip, then slowly released it. "Every second you keep your mouth shut, you're getting dirtier and dirtier. I don't think you're behind all those people dying, Colin. I wondered about you while I was driving out here, but I can see now that you're not. I actually think you might be a decent guy."

"I am. Now get off."

Matt handed over his business card.

"It's Paris, isn't it?" he said. "Glenn-the-Showman Paris and that Dr. Singh."

"Get off."

"You may not have known before today that people were dying," Matt said, stepping up onto the dock, "but you do now. So I'm holding you responsible for whatever happens from here on out. You hold out… women and babies die… your fault. Get that?… Call me when you change your mind about sharing what you know… And have a real nice sail."

Without waiting for a reply, Matt turned and stormed off. He was twenty yards down the dock when the Red Ink's engine rumbled to life. Matt slowed but continued walking, his eyes straight ahead, his concentration riveted on the man behind him.

Come on, he urged, certain he had gotten to Smith, but not at all certain how deeply. Call out to me, Colin. Call me back.

"Daniels, wait!"

"Yes!" Matt said.

He whirled around and had taken a single step back toward the Red Ink when it exploded. It was a fierce, molten, petroleum-driven explosion-one that no living thing could have survived. Reftexively Matt dove belly first onto the coarse planking. Fiery debris clattered about him and hissed in the water. Seconds later the cabin cruiser in the slip adjacent to Smith's catboat exploded in sympathy, taking with it what remained of the seaward thirty feet of dock.

Accident? Something rigged to the ignition? Something detonated by radio?

Matt scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off. He stepped to the smoldering edge of the dock and assured himself that there was no sign of Colin Smith. Then he spun back toward the clubhouse. Six or seven people were racing frantically onto the dock. He scanned upward, beyond the men to the parking lot, just as a jade-green Jaguar XJS backed up and sped away, spitting sand and gravel. Matt had no chance to make out the driver.

"I'll be right back!" he lied to the men as he dashed past them.

Head down, he sprinted up the slope to the parking lot. His Legacy, only a year old, was damn quick. But the Jaguar had quickness, power, and a huge head start. If it reached the expressway unseen, there would be no way of knowing whether it had turned north or south. And that, for all intents, would be that. Matt cursed his habit of always activating his Z-loc security system. He deactivated it and then lost several more precious seconds fumbling with the ignition key. Spraying a rooster tail of dust and gravel, he shot past the bewildered attendant, out of the lot, and down the access road. The Jaguar was nowhere in sight. Immediately the guessing game began. The first choice was no contest. Left at the paved road and head toward the expressway.

Matt skidded around the first corner, then cut the next one by speeding across a lawn. The Subaru's engine, usually remarkably silent, was screeching-first gear to fifth, then to first, then back to fifth. Still no Jag. Another intersection. More possibilities. Right. Keep heading toward the expressway. To his left, above the trees, Matt could see the expanding cloud of black smoke, carried up and outward by an offshore breeze-the breeze that Colin Smith, just a few minutes before, was expecting to fill his sails.

"Oh, God," Matt whispered as the horror of what he had just witnessed sank in.

The expressway was just ahead, and the chase just that close to being finished. Then, far to the right, Matt saw the Jag. It was already up on the elevated highway, speeding north toward the city. But by the time Matt had cut off half a dozen cars and a tractor trailer and darted out to the left-hand lane of the expressway, the XJS was gone again. He flashed past one off-ramp, then another. There was nothing he could do now but keep heading north and pray they were still both on the same highway. The traffic slowed as he approached the Mass. Ave. exit, and beyond it, the South Station tunnel. The distance between cars quickly narrowed. A vintage midday central artery tie-up. The chase was over. Matt slammed his fist against the wheel. He would have to find some way to backtrack from the distinctive Jag to its owner. Difficult, perhaps, he thought, but certainly not impossi-

Then, once again, Matt spotted the car. It was a hundred or so yards ahead, and three bumper-to-bumper lanes over. But even worse, it had just pulled away from the jam and was now starting on the long circular drive leading down to the Massachusetts Turnpike. Matt leaned on his horn and began screaming "Emergency!" at anyone who looked over at him. Many did not. Inch by inch, he took first one lane, then another, receiving along the way a number of obscene gestures, several of which he had never seen before. Tires screeching, he rode the very edge of control around the sweeping entry ramp and was going nearly sixty by the time he hit the turnpike. The Jag was gone again. But this time Matt was more relaxed. The Back Bay exit was less than a mile ahead. If the driver took it, there was nothing Matt could do. But if not, the Cambridge/Allston tolls would almost certainly bring them close. In fact, Matt was several miles beyond Allston, almost to the Newton tolls at Route 128, before he spotted his quarry.

I guess it was just meant to be. He settled back in the seat, slowed down, and rolled through the automated ticket dispenser nine or ten cars behind the Jag. The trick now was to follow the driver to his-or her-destination without being seen. For a year, he had debated putting a phone in the Subaru. Now, a day late as usual, he decided he would do it. A call to the State Police would have given them a crack at the radio control that had triggered the bomb aboard the Red Ink. As things stood, Matt still had a chance at recovering it-provided the driver felt home free and not pressed to dispose of it.

The Jag left the turnpike east of Worcester. Moving now with no apparent urgency, it headed into the beautiful, rolling countryside of north-central Massachusetts. Matt, still keeping well back, had yet to catch a glimpse of the driver. But with each passing mile, it became less necessary for him to do so. Just a dozen or so miles ahead was Hillsborough, the home of Xanadu and the Ayurvedic Herbal Weight Loss System. And unless Matt was absurdly off base, the man in the jade motorcar in front of him was six feet four, with thick silver hair and an ego the size of Greenland.