‘Where?’ Chet asked. He couldn’t make out any anatomical landmarks.
‘Here,’ Jack said. He pointed with the handle of a scalpel.
‘Okay, I see them,’ Chet said with admiration. ‘Nice pickup. There’s not
a lot of endothelialization. I’d say they weren’t that old.’
‘That’s my thought,’ Jack said. ‘Probably within a month or two. Six
months at the extreme.’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘I think the chances of me making an identification just went up a
thousand percent,’ Jack said. He straightened up and stretched.
‘So the victim had abdominal surgery,’ Chet said. ‘Lots of people have
had abdominal surgery.’
‘Not the kind of surgery this guy apparently had,’ Jack said. ‘With
sutures in the vena cava and the hepatic artery, I’m betting he’s in a
pretty distinguished group. My guess is that he’d had a liver transplant
not too long ago.’
CHAPTER 8
———
MARCH 5, 1997
10:00 A.M.
NEW YORK CITY
RAYMOND Lyons pulled up his cuff-linked sleeve and glanced at his
wafer-thin Piaget watch. It was exactly ten o’clock. He was content. He
liked to be punctual especially for business meetings, but he did not
like to be early. As far as he was concerned being early reeked of
desperation, and Raymond had a penchant for bargaining from a position
of strength.
For the previous few minutes he’d been standing on the corner of Park
Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street, waiting for the hour to arrive. Now
that it had, he straightened his tie, adjusted his fedora, and started
walking toward the entrance of 972 Park Avenue.
‘I’m looking for Dr. Anderson’s office,’ Raymond announced to the
liveried doorman who’d opened the heavy wrought-iron and glass door.
‘The doctor’s office has its own entrance,’ the doorman replied. He
reopened the door behind Raymond, stepped out onto the sidewalk and
pointed south.
Raymond touched the tip of his hat in appreciation before moving down to
this private entrance. A sign of engraved brass read: Please ring and
then enter. Raymond did as he was told.
As the door closed behind him, Raymond was immediately pleased. The
office looked and even smelled like money. It was sumptuously appointed
with antiques and thick oriental carpets. The walls were covered with
nineteenth-century art.
Raymond advanced to an elegant, boulle-work French desk. A well-dressed,
matronly receptionist glanced up at him over her reading glasses. A
nameplate sat on the desk facing Raymond. It said: Mrs. Arthur P.
Auchincloss.
Raymond gave his name, being sure to emphasize the fact that he was a
physician. He was well aware that some doctors’ receptionists could be
uncomfortably imperious if they didn’t know a visitor was a member of
the trade.
‘The doctor is expecting you,’ Mrs. Auchincloss said. Then she politely
asked Raymond to wait in the waiting room.
‘It’s a beautiful office,’ Raymond said to make conversation.
‘Indeed,’ Mrs. Auchincloss said.
‘Is it a large office?’ Raymond asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Mrs. Auchincloss said. ‘Dr. Anderson is a very busy
man. We have four full examining rooms and an X-ray room.’
Raymond smiled. It wasn’t difficult for him to guess the astronomical
overhead that Dr. Anderson had been duped into assuming by so-called
productivity experts during the heyday of ‘fee-for-service’ medicine.
From Raymond’s point of view, Dr. Anderson was the perfect quarry as a
potential partner. Although the doctor undoubtedly still had a small
backlog of wealthy patients willing to pay cash to retain their old,
comfortable relationship, Dr. Anderson had to have been being squeezed
by managed care.
‘I suppose that means a large staff,’ Raymond said.
‘We’re down to one nurse,’ Mrs. Auchincloss said. ‘It’s hard to find
appropriate help these days.’
Yeah, sure, Raymond mused. One nurse for four examining rooms
unquestionably meant the doctor was struggling. But Raymond didn’t
vocalize his thoughts. Instead he let his eyes roam around the carefully
wallpapered walls and said: ‘I’ve always admired these old-school, Park
Avenue offices. They are so civilized and serene. They can’t help but
impart a feeling of trust.’
‘I’m sure our patients feel the same way,’ Mrs. Auchincloss said.
An interior door opened and a bejeweled, Gucci-draped, elderly woman
stepped into the reception area. She was painfully thin and had suffered