Legacies

2.

"Thank God you're here!" Raymond said as Alicia walked though the Center's employee entrance. "I've been beeping you since eight o'clock. Why didn't…?" His voice trailed off as he looked at her. "Christ, Alicia, you look like absolute shit."

Actually, that was a generous assessment of how she felt, but she didn't want to talk about it.

"Thank you, Raymond. You don't know the half of it."

She didn't head for her office, but toward the front reception area instead. Raymond paced her.

"Where are you going?"

"Just give me a minute, will you, Raymond?" she snapped. "I'll be right back."

She regretted being so short with him, but she felt stretched to the breaking point. One more tug in the wrong direction…

She was vaguely aware of Tiffany saying hello as she hurried past the reception desk on her way to the front door. Stepping aside to allow a middle-aged woman and her two grandchildren to enter, Alicia peered through the glass at the street outside, looking for the gray car.

She was sure it had followed her back from Forty-eighth Street. At least she thought it had. A gray car—what would you call it? A sedan? She didn't know a damn thing about cars. Couldn't tell a Ford from a Chevy. But whatever it was, she'd kept catching sight of this gray car passing her as she walked. It would turn a block or two ahead of her, and disappear for a few minutes, then cruise by again. Never too close. Never too slow. Never a definite sign of interest in her. But always there.

She scanned Seventh Avenue outside, half expecting to see it roll by. Across the street and slightly downtown, she checked the curb in front of her least favorite part of the St. Vincent's complex. The O'Toole Building squatted at the corner of Twelfth. Its white-tiled, windowless, monolithic facade did not fit here in the Village. It looked as if a clumsy giant had accidentally dropped the modernistic monstrosity on his way to someplace like Minneapolis.

No gray car, though. But with all the gray cars in Manhattan, how could she be sure?

Her nerves were getting to her. She was becoming paranoid.

But who could blame her after this morning?

She headed back to her office. Raymond picked her up in the hall.

"Now can we talk?"

"Sorry I snapped at you."

"Don't be silly, honey. Nobody snaps at me. Nobody dares."

Alicia managed a smile.

Raymond—never "Ray," always "Raymond"—Denson, NP had been one of the original caregivers at the Center for Children with AIDS. The Center had MDs who were called "director" and "assistant director," but it was this particular nurse practitioner who ran the place. Alicia doubted the Center would survive if he left. Raymond knew all the ins and outs of the day-to-day functions, all the soft touches for requisitions, knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. He clocked in at around fifty, she was sure—God help you if you asked his age—but he kept himself young-looking: close cropped air, neat mustache, trim, athletic body.

"And about my beeper," she said, "I turned it off. Dr. Collings was covering for me. You knew that."

He paced her down the narrow hallway to her office. All the walls in the Center had been hurriedly erected and the haste showed. Slap-dash taping and spackling, and a quick coat of bright yellow paint that was already wearing through in places. Well, the decor was the least important thing here.

"I know," he said, "but this wasn't medical. This wasn't even administrative. This was fucking criminal."

Something in Raymond's voice… his eyes. He was furious. But not at her. But then, what?

A premonition chilled her. Were her personal troubles going to spill over into the Center now?

As she continued walking she noted knots of staff—nurses, secretaries, volunteers—all with their heads together, all talking animatedly.

All furious.

An icy gale blew through her.

"All right, Raymond. Lay it on me."

"The toys," he said. "Some rat bastard motherfucker stole the toys."

Astonished, disbelieving, Alicia stopped and stared at him. No way. This had to be some cruel, nasty joke. But Raymond was anything but cruel.

And were those tears in the corners of his eyes?

"The donations? Don't tell me—"

But he was nodding and biting his upper lip.

"Aw, no."

"Every last one."

Alicia felt her throat tighten. Strangely enough—and she damned herself for it—this was hitting her harder than Leo Weinstein's death.

A man she knew, a man with a wife and family was dead, and yet… and yet… this felt so much worse.

She'd met Weinstein only a couple of times. But these toys… she and Raymond—especially Raymond—had been collecting them for months, sending staff and volunteers to forage all through the city for donors—companies, stores, individuals, anybody. The response had been slow at first—who was thinking about Christmas gifts in October? But once Thanksgiving was past, the giving had picked up. Last night they'd had a storeroom full of dolls, trucks, rockets, coloring books, action figures… the works.

This morning…

"How?"

"Pried open the outer door and took them away through the alley'. Must have had some sort of panel truck to hold everything."

The ground floor of this building had been a business supply store before being converted to the Center for Children with AIDS. The former owners probably had loaded their delivery trucks the same way the thieves had stolen the gifts.

"Isn't that door alarmed? Aren't all the doors alarmed?"

Raymond nodded. "Supposed to be. But the alarm didn't go off."

Poor Raymond. He'd put his whole heart into this effort.

Alicia reached her office, tossed her bag onto her desk, and dropped into her chair. She was still shaken. And her feet were killing her. She closed her eyes. Only halfway through the morning and she felt exhausted.

"Did anything like this ever happen to Dr. Landis?"

Raymond shook his head. "Never."

"Great. They wait until she's gone, then they strike."

"I think that's all for the best, don't you think? I mean, considering her condition."

Alicia had to agree. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Dr. Rebecca Landis was the director of the Center—at least she had the title. But she was in her third trimester and developing preeclamptic symptoms. Her OB had ordered her to stay home in bed.

This only a week after the assistant director had left to take a position at Beth Israel, leaving the place to be "directed" by Alicia and the other pediatric infectious disease specialist, Ted Collings. Ted had begged off any directing duties, claiming a wife and a new baby. And so the burden of administrative duties had fallen on the Center's newbie: Alicia Clayton, M.D.

"Any chance it was an inside job?"

"The police are looking into it," Raymond said.

"The police?"

"Yes. Been here and gone. I made out the report."

"Thank you, Raymond." Good old Raymond. She couldn't imagine how he could be more efficient. "What do they think about our chances of getting those toys back?"

"They're going to 'work on it.' But just to make sure they do, I want to call the papers. That okay with you?"

"Yeah, good idea. Make this a high-profile crime. Maybe that'll put extra pressure on the cops."

"Great. I've already spoken to the Post. The News and the Times will have people here later this morning."

"Oh. Well… good. You'll see them, okay?"

"If you wish."

"I wish. Tell them it's not just stealing, and it's not just stealing from little kids—it's stealing from kids who've already got less than nothing, who're carrying a death sentence in their bloodstreams and may not even be here next Christmas."

"That's beautiful. Maybe you should—"

"No, please, Raymond. I can't."

Feeling utterly miserable, she tuned out for a moment.

"What else can happen today?" she muttered. Bad news always comes in threes, doesn't it?

Raymond still hovered beyond her desk. "Something with that 'family matter' you've been dealing with?" he said, then added—pointedly: "All by yourself?"

He knew she'd been seeing lawyers and had been preoccupied lately, and he seemed to take it personally that she wouldn't discuss it with him. She felt sorry for him. He freely discussed his personal life with her—she knew more about it than she really cared to—but she couldn't reciprocate. Her own personal life was pretty much a void, and the toxic disaster area that posed as her family was not something Alicia wanted to share, even with someone as sympathetic and nonjudgmental as Raymond.

"Yes," she said. "That 'family matter.' But that's not as important as getting those toys back. We had a super Christmas set up for those kids, and I. don't want it going down the tubes. I want those toys back, Raymond, and dammit—get me the police commissioner's number. I'm going to call him myself. I'm going to call him every day until those toys are back."

"I'll look it up right now," he said, and was gone, closing the door behind him.

Alicia folded her arms on the scarred top of her beat-up old desk and dropped her forehead onto them. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control. She felt so helpless, so damn impotent. Systems… always these huge, complex, lumbering systems to deal with.

The Center's toys were gone. She'd have to depend on the police to get them back. But they had their own agenda, their own higher priorities, and so she'd have to wait until they got around to hers, if they ever did. She could call the commissioner until she wore out the buttons on her phone, but he'd probably never take the call.

And the will had said the house was hers, but Thomas was using the system's labyrinth to keep it from her. On her own, Alicia would have been swallowed up by his legal pit bulls, so she'd been forced to hire someone to fend them off.

Leo… oh, God, poor Leo. She could still hear the blast, see the flames. Nothing had been left of him after that explosion.

A cold sick dread seeped through her. When's my turn?

If I keep pushing Thomas and whoever's backing him, will I be next?

She pounded her fist on the desk. Damn them!

She wanted one of those big samurai blades—a dai-katana—to cut right to the heart of—

"Excuse me."

Alicia looked up. One of the volunteers, a pretty blonde in her early thirties, stood halfway through the doorway, looking at her.

"I knocked but I guess you didn't hear me."

Alicia straightened and shook back her hair. She put on her professional face.

"Sorry. I was a million miles away, dreaming about chasing down the rats who stole those presents."

The woman slipped her svelte body the rest of the way through and shut the door behind her. Alicia wished she had a body like that.

She'd seen her around a lot. Sometimes she brought her daughter with her—cute little girl, maybe seven or eight. What were their names?

"You won't have to go a million miles to find them," the woman said. "One or two should cover it."

"You're probably right," Alicia said.

Her name… her name… what was her name?

Got it. "Gia, isn't it?"

She smiled. "Gia DiLauro."

A dazzling smile. Alicia wished she had a smile like that. And Gia ... what a great name. Alicia wished—

Enough.

"Yes, you and your daughter…"

"Vicky."

"Right. Vicky. You donate a lot of time here."

Gia shrugged. "Can't think of a place that needs it more."

"You've got that right."

The Center was a black hole of need.

"Can I talk to you a minute?"

She looked at Gia more closely and saw that her eyes were red. Had she been crying?

"Sure." She had no time, but this woman donated so much of hers to the Center, the least Alicia could do was give her a few minutes. "Sit down. Are you okay?"

"No," she said, gliding into the chair. Her eyes got redder. "I'm so angry I could… I don't like thinking about what I'd like to do to the scum that stole those toys."

"It's okay," Alicia said. "The police are working on it."

"But you're not holding your breath, right?"

Alicia shrugged and sighed. "No. I guess not. But they're all we've got."

"Not necessarily," Gia said.

"What do you mean?"

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I know someone…"