Chapter 18 Chapter 18: Laura and Derek
I woke up at seven-thirty in Marcela’s bed.
Marcela wasn’t there. There was a note on the nightstand: Laura, I went down to the kitchen, I made you coffee.
I went downstairs. Marcela was sitting at the table with a cup between both hands, not drinking it. The face of a woman who hadn’t slept. I had the same one.
—Marcela.
—Laura.
—How did you wake up?
—The way women in my situation wake up. Sitting down. Still.
I poured myself coffee. Sat across from her. Gloria watched us from the sink with the expression of women who’ve spent thirty years watching crises and choose not to get in the way.
—Marcela, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for half an hour.
—What thing?
—Your father-in-law takes medication.
Marcela lifted her head.
—Yes.
—For blood pressure, right? I saw him take one the first morning, in the study, after breakfast. White, round, small dose. I know it — it’s a beta blocker.
—Yes.
—Marcela, how long has it been since your father-in-law took that pill?
—He took it last night after dinner. At eight-thirty, before leaving.
I looked at the kitchen clock. Eight-ten.
—Twelve hours, Marcela. If your father-in-law has gone twelve hours without his medication and they’re keeping him in a stressful situation, his blood pressure is rising. At sixteen hours it starts getting dangerous. At twenty-four, there’s real cardiovascular event risk, especially in a seventy-five-year-old man.
Marcela let go of the cup.
—My God.
—Marcela, listen to me. This isn’t to scare you. This is to help us. Whoever has your father-in-law is keeping him as a hostage — they want him alive. If they want him alive, that medication matters to them as much as it matters to us. And right now, that’s the only advantage we have.
—Laura, I don’t understand.
—If they want him alive, someone is going to have to get that medication. And that means pharmacy, or doctor, or order. And orders leave traces.
I walked to the study with Marcela behind me. Derek was there, two phones in hand and the face of a man who hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours.
—Derek.
—Ma’am.
—Manuel takes a daily beta blocker. He’s gone twelve hours without it. If the kidnappers want him alive, sometime in the next six hours someone’s going to have to get that medication.
Derek went still for a second. Then he set the phones on the desk.
—Ma’am, that hadn’t occurred to me.
—It doesn’t have to occur to you. I’m a nurse. That’s what they married me to your boss for.
Marcela let out the faintest little laugh. The first laugh of the morning. It did her good.
Derek picked up one of the phones and dialed a number.
—Ricardo. I need half the team covering pharmacies within ten kilometers of where the car was found. South Bronx. They’re looking for purchases of bisoprolol or atenolol. Low dose. In the last four hours or the next six. Cash purchases, suspicious ones, new faces in small pharmacies. They call you directly. Let me know the second something comes up.
He hung up. Picked up the other phone.
—Andrés. Get me the list of private primary care doctors prescribing in the Bronx. Especially house-call doctors. If anyone with money called urgently this morning asking for blood pressure medication, I want to know.
He hung up. Looked at me.
—Ma’am, what else do you know that I don’t?
I thought for a second. Then spoke.
—I know three things. One: your boss, Mr. Manuel, is seventy-five years old. At that age, if the body withstands a high-stress situation for more than forty-eight straight hours, the most likely outcome isn’t a heart attack. The most likely outcome is a stroke. That leaves him alive, but without speech and without half his body working. Worse than dead for kidnappers, because then they can’t negotiate with him anymore. Which means they have between forty-eight and seventy-two hours to use him, and after that the merchandise expires. So, Derek, they’re not making us wait twenty-four hours for no reason. They’re making us wait because they’re putting together something big.
—I’m listening.
—Two. Your boss has mild diabetes, stable, diet-controlled. If he doesn’t eat on schedule, in twelve hours he’ll have hypoglycemia. And hypoglycemia causes confusion, dizziness, disorientation. If they’re interrogating him already, they’re not getting anything useful because he’s confused. That explains why the note said we talk in twenty-four hours and didn’t demand anything yet. They’re waiting for him to stabilize so they can get information out of him.
—I’m still listening.
—Three. If they want him alive and stable enough to talk, eventually they’ll need food, medication, and a clean place. Three needs. Three traces. That’s what we should be watching.
Derek stared at me for a long moment. Then picked up the first phone again.
—Ricardo, add this. I also want records of specialized diabetic food orders. Hospital trays, diet meals, whatever. Same radius, same timeframe.
He hung up.
—Ma’am.
—Yes?
—I owe you an apology.
—For what?
—For spending two weeks thinking you were just a nurse.
We worked nonstop until noon.
Derek moved his men to the pharmacies. I recited from memory the commercial names of five beta blockers and the exact dosage Manuel took, because that day I’d read his prescription on the desk when he’d deliberately left it open during our first meeting. A detail I hadn’t told Derek before, but I told him that day.
Marcela sat in the study armchair and watched us work. Quiet. She didn’t get in the way, didn’t ask questions. At eleven-thirty she poured coffee for the three of us. At noon she squeezed my arm while passing by and whispered:
—Laura, thank you.
—Marcela, Manuel is coming back.
—Right now I believe you more than I believe my own father-in-law.
At one-fifteen Derek’s phone rang.
—Ricardo.
He listened for a full minute without speaking.
—Good. Repeat the address. South Bronx, two-story house, dead-end street. How many men inside? Two visible, possible more. Good. I want the place surrounded but no entry until further orders. I’ll notify in fifteen minutes.
He hung up. Looked at me first, not Marcela.
—They bought the bisoprolol forty minutes ago. Small neighborhood pharmacy. The man paid cash. My guy followed him. The house has been identified. Mr. Manuel is inside.
Marcela let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream — it was all the air leaving her body at once.
I grabbed her hand.
—Marcela, they found him. He’s alive. They bought the medication. He’s there.
Marcela collapsed against me. I held her up.
—Derek, when do you move in?
—That doesn’t depend only on me, ma’am.
He lifted his head toward the ceiling. Toward the suite upstairs.
—That decision belongs to your boss.
I went upstairs.
Closed the suite door behind me. Walked to the bed. Cavalier was still in the same position. Still face. Heart rate eighty-six. But two things showed that I’d been watching for two weeks now: slight tension in his jaw, and the knuckles of his right hand clenched against the sheet without bothering to hide it.
—Cavalier.
Pause.
—Cavalier, we found him. South Bronx, small house, two visible men. They bought the bisoprolol an hour ago. Your grandfather is inside, alive, waiting. Derek says the decision about when they move in is yours. He told me that downstairs two minutes ago.
Pause. I looked at his face.
—I’m nobody to make that decision, Cavalier. I don’t know how. I don’t know your team, I don’t know the house, I don’t know the rules. That’s yours. And you have to make it before nightfall because your grandfather’s body is running out at a speed you understand better than I do.
Longer pause.
—I’m going to be in your mother’s room. If somehow, at some point in the next few hours, something happens that looks remotely like you deciding to get out of bed and go down to the basement and handle this, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’ll take care of your mother. You take care of your grandfather.
I placed my hand on his forehead.
—And Cavalier. If you decide to move, be careful.
I walked out.
Ethan, beneath closed eyelids, waited until the door had fully shut. It took two seconds.
At the three-second mark, he opened his eyes.
At five seconds, he was sitting up in bed.
At ten, he was pulling on the shoes Derek had hidden at the back of the closet.
At twelve, he opened the internal phone line.
—Derek. I’m downstairs in five minutes. Tactical team, two vehicles, Bronx Plan B. Now.
—Yes, boss.
While getting dressed, he glanced for a moment at the low chair at the foot of the bed, where Laura had spent two weeks sitting and reading to him.
—Hang in there, Laura — he said softly, speaking to the empty room. — I’ll bring your grandfather-father-in-law back before nightfall.
He walked out.