Darkest Fear
Page 17
The receptionist said, “Mr. Englehardt will see you now.”
She led them down a corridor with thin plaster walls and a bad paint job. Englehardt sat behind a plastic-wood desk. He was probably late twenties with a slight build and a chin weaker than machine-dispensed coffee.
Myron quickly noted the computer setup. Two of them. One on his desk. One on the credenza. Hmm.
Englehardt jumped up as though he’d just been passed a note that his chair had cooties. His eyes were wide and fixed on Terese. Myron was ignored and felt like, well, the cameraman. Terese smiled brightly at Englehardt, and he was lost.
“I’m Terese Collins,” she said, extending her hand. Englehardt did everything but take a knee and kiss it. “This is my cameraman, Malachy Throne.”
Myron sort of smiled. After the Broadway-musical debacle, he had worried. But Malachy Throne? Genius. Pure genius.
They all exchanged quick pleasantries. Englehardt kept touching his hair, trying very hard to look subtle about it and not like he was prepping for the camera. Not happening, bub. Finally Terese signaled that they were ready to begin.
“Where would you like me to sit?” Englehardt asked.
“Behind the desk would be nice,” she said. “Don’t you agree, Malachy?”
“Behind the desk,” Myron said. “Yeah, that’s the ticket.”
The interview began. Terese kept her gaze on her subject; Englehardt, trapped in the beam, could look nowhere else. Myron put his eye to the camera. The consummate professional. Very Richard Avedon.
Terese asked Englehardt how he’d gotten started in this business, his background, general crap, relaxing him, putting him on that comfy ground, not all that different from the technique Myron had used with Dr. Singh. She was in on-air mode now. Her voice was different, her eyes steadier.
“So the national registry in Washington keeps track of all donors?” Terese asked.
“That’s correct.”
“But you can access the records?”
Englehardt tapped the computer on his desk. The screen faced him, the back of the monitor toward them. Okay, Myron thought, so it was the one on his desk. That would make it more difficult, but not impossible.
Terese looked at Myron. “Why don’t you get a back shot, Malachy?” Then turning to Englehardt, “If that’s okay with you.”
“No problem at all,” Englehardt said.
Myron started moving into position. The monitor was off. No surprise.
Terese continued to hold Englehardt’s gaze. “Does everyone in the office have access to the national registry’s computer?”
Englehardt shook his head firmly. “I’m the only one.”
“Why’s that?”
“The information is confidential. We don’t breach the secrecy under any circumstance.”
“I see,” she said. Myron was in place now. “But what’s to stop someone from coming in here when you’re not around?”
“I always lock my office door,” Englehardt said, up on his haunches and eager to please. “And you can only access the network with a password.”
“You’re the only one who knows the password?”
Englehardt tried not to preen, but he didn’t try too hard. “That’s correct.”
Ever see those hidden-camera stories on Dateline or 20/20? They always shoot from some strange angle and in black-and-white. Truth is, it’s easy for any layperson to buy one and it’s even easy to get one that films in color. There are stores that sell them right in Manhattan, or you can go online and search under “spy stores.” You’ll see hidden cameras in clocks, pens, briefcases and, most common of all, smoke detectors—available to anyone with the proper buckage. Myron had one that looked like a film case. He dropped it now on the window ledge with the lens pointing toward the computer monitor.
When it was in place, Myron tapped his nose with his finger, à la Redford in The Sting. Their signal. Bolitar. Myron Bolitar. A Yoo-Hoo. Shaken not stirred. Terese picked up her cue. The smile dropped off her face like an anvil.
Englehardt looked startled. “Ms. Collins? Are you okay?”
For a moment she could not bear to face him. Then: “Mr. Englehardt,” Terese said, her voice Gulf War-grave, “I must confess something.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I am here under somewhat false pretenses.”
Englehardt looked confused. Terese was so good, Myron almost looked confused.
“I sincerely believe you are doing important work here,” she continued. “But others are not so sure.”
Englehardt’s eyes were widening. “I don’t understand.”
“I need your help, Mr. Englehardt.”
“Billy,” he corrected.
Myron made a face. Billy?
Terese didn’t miss a beat. “Someone is trying to disrupt your work, Billy.”
“My work?”
“The national registry’s work.”
“I’m still not sure what you—”
“Are you familiar with the case of Jeremy Downing?”
Englehardt shook his head. “I never know the names of patients.”
“He’s the son of Greg Downing, the basketball star.”
“Oh, wait, yes, I heard about this. His son has Fanconi anemia.”
Terese nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Isn’t Mr. Downing supposed to hold a press conference today? To track down a donor?”
“Exactly, Billy. And that’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“Mr. Downing has found the donor.”
Still confused. “That’s a problem?”
“No, of course not. If the person is the donor. And if the person is telling the truth.”
Englehardt looked at Myron. Myron shrugged and moved back to the front of the desk. He left the film case on the windowsill.
“I’m not following you, Ms. Collins.”
“Terese,” she said. “A man has come forward. He claims that he is the matching donor.”
“And you think he’s lying?”
“Let me finish. He not only claims he’s the donor, but he says that the reason he refused to donate his marrow was because of the terrible treatment he received from this center.”
Englehardt nearly tipped back. “What?”
“He claims he was treated shabbily, that your staff was rude, and that he’s even debating leveling a lawsuit.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
She led them down a corridor with thin plaster walls and a bad paint job. Englehardt sat behind a plastic-wood desk. He was probably late twenties with a slight build and a chin weaker than machine-dispensed coffee.
Myron quickly noted the computer setup. Two of them. One on his desk. One on the credenza. Hmm.
Englehardt jumped up as though he’d just been passed a note that his chair had cooties. His eyes were wide and fixed on Terese. Myron was ignored and felt like, well, the cameraman. Terese smiled brightly at Englehardt, and he was lost.
“I’m Terese Collins,” she said, extending her hand. Englehardt did everything but take a knee and kiss it. “This is my cameraman, Malachy Throne.”
Myron sort of smiled. After the Broadway-musical debacle, he had worried. But Malachy Throne? Genius. Pure genius.
They all exchanged quick pleasantries. Englehardt kept touching his hair, trying very hard to look subtle about it and not like he was prepping for the camera. Not happening, bub. Finally Terese signaled that they were ready to begin.
“Where would you like me to sit?” Englehardt asked.
“Behind the desk would be nice,” she said. “Don’t you agree, Malachy?”
“Behind the desk,” Myron said. “Yeah, that’s the ticket.”
The interview began. Terese kept her gaze on her subject; Englehardt, trapped in the beam, could look nowhere else. Myron put his eye to the camera. The consummate professional. Very Richard Avedon.
Terese asked Englehardt how he’d gotten started in this business, his background, general crap, relaxing him, putting him on that comfy ground, not all that different from the technique Myron had used with Dr. Singh. She was in on-air mode now. Her voice was different, her eyes steadier.
“So the national registry in Washington keeps track of all donors?” Terese asked.
“That’s correct.”
“But you can access the records?”
Englehardt tapped the computer on his desk. The screen faced him, the back of the monitor toward them. Okay, Myron thought, so it was the one on his desk. That would make it more difficult, but not impossible.
Terese looked at Myron. “Why don’t you get a back shot, Malachy?” Then turning to Englehardt, “If that’s okay with you.”
“No problem at all,” Englehardt said.
Myron started moving into position. The monitor was off. No surprise.
Terese continued to hold Englehardt’s gaze. “Does everyone in the office have access to the national registry’s computer?”
Englehardt shook his head firmly. “I’m the only one.”
“Why’s that?”
“The information is confidential. We don’t breach the secrecy under any circumstance.”
“I see,” she said. Myron was in place now. “But what’s to stop someone from coming in here when you’re not around?”
“I always lock my office door,” Englehardt said, up on his haunches and eager to please. “And you can only access the network with a password.”
“You’re the only one who knows the password?”
Englehardt tried not to preen, but he didn’t try too hard. “That’s correct.”
Ever see those hidden-camera stories on Dateline or 20/20? They always shoot from some strange angle and in black-and-white. Truth is, it’s easy for any layperson to buy one and it’s even easy to get one that films in color. There are stores that sell them right in Manhattan, or you can go online and search under “spy stores.” You’ll see hidden cameras in clocks, pens, briefcases and, most common of all, smoke detectors—available to anyone with the proper buckage. Myron had one that looked like a film case. He dropped it now on the window ledge with the lens pointing toward the computer monitor.
When it was in place, Myron tapped his nose with his finger, à la Redford in The Sting. Their signal. Bolitar. Myron Bolitar. A Yoo-Hoo. Shaken not stirred. Terese picked up her cue. The smile dropped off her face like an anvil.
Englehardt looked startled. “Ms. Collins? Are you okay?”
For a moment she could not bear to face him. Then: “Mr. Englehardt,” Terese said, her voice Gulf War-grave, “I must confess something.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I am here under somewhat false pretenses.”
Englehardt looked confused. Terese was so good, Myron almost looked confused.
“I sincerely believe you are doing important work here,” she continued. “But others are not so sure.”
Englehardt’s eyes were widening. “I don’t understand.”
“I need your help, Mr. Englehardt.”
“Billy,” he corrected.
Myron made a face. Billy?
Terese didn’t miss a beat. “Someone is trying to disrupt your work, Billy.”
“My work?”
“The national registry’s work.”
“I’m still not sure what you—”
“Are you familiar with the case of Jeremy Downing?”
Englehardt shook his head. “I never know the names of patients.”
“He’s the son of Greg Downing, the basketball star.”
“Oh, wait, yes, I heard about this. His son has Fanconi anemia.”
Terese nodded. “That’s correct.”
“Isn’t Mr. Downing supposed to hold a press conference today? To track down a donor?”
“Exactly, Billy. And that’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“Mr. Downing has found the donor.”
Still confused. “That’s a problem?”
“No, of course not. If the person is the donor. And if the person is telling the truth.”
Englehardt looked at Myron. Myron shrugged and moved back to the front of the desk. He left the film case on the windowsill.
“I’m not following you, Ms. Collins.”
“Terese,” she said. “A man has come forward. He claims that he is the matching donor.”
“And you think he’s lying?”
“Let me finish. He not only claims he’s the donor, but he says that the reason he refused to donate his marrow was because of the terrible treatment he received from this center.”
Englehardt nearly tipped back. “What?”
“He claims he was treated shabbily, that your staff was rude, and that he’s even debating leveling a lawsuit.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
