Page 14 of Ground Truth

“Please, have a seat,” Rush said, waving to the chair beside him.

“Thanks.” Brand followed Rush’s invitation because, seated close together, they could talk quietly without being overheard and still enjoy the view.

Brand understood the psychology of Rush’s situation. His patients were invariably wealthy people whose entire worlds revolved around their own preferences.

Because patients were so wrapped up in their own worlds, they spent very little time quizzing him about his life. Which suited Brand perfectly. He had no desire to share his background. The less everyone knew, the better.

Rush gestured toward the beach. “What are those workers doing out there on the beach?”

Brand sighed. “Our beaches are pristine, but it doesn’t happen by magic. We have crews who work hard to keep the beaches open and inviting year-round.”

Rush shrugged. “I guess I thought the gentle surf out there would take care of things.”

“The waves do a good job. But right now we’re suffering through sargassum. It’s a type of seaweed that washes ashore. It needs to be removed and dealt with before it rots.” Brand shook his head. “Mother Nature needs a hand now and then, you know.”

“Are these people the same crews that handle the landscaping and gardening? Every plant I’ve seen so far on Atabei is lush and thriving.” Rush shrugged. “I wish my gardeners were as good as yours.”

“I’ll pass along your compliments to our groundskeeper,” Brand said with a smile.

The two spent a few minutes engaged in more polite small talk while a smartly clad waiter collected their orders and delivered lobster salads and sparkling water. Neither man ordered alcohol.

“Thanks for speeding down here, Jordan. Time is always of the essence in these situations,” Brand said, broaching the subject they’d come to discuss.

Rush could buy anything his weak heart desired and always did precisely that. This time was different, and it was obvious that he didn’t like the situation at all. “I’ve had my bag packed for weeks. I assume you have acquired a donor.”

Rush had been on the official organ donor lists for only ten months. He was no stranger to heart disease. He’d had his first heart attack at the age of thirty-five. He’d had five more since then. He’d had bypass surgeries and angioplasties, too. Each heart event left him weaker than the last.

He’d found his condition increasingly exhausting and time consuming. The procedures interfered with his lifestyle and his businesses.

Neither Rush’s wife nor his mistress was happy with his unavailability. His kids were all adults now, but they had no room in their lives for an invalid.

That truth infuriated Rush even as he understood it. He felt impotent about his circumstances, which made him furious, too. Waiting for an organ donor required patience and acceptance of likely failure, neither of which Jordan Rush or his family had ever needed or possessed.

“Schedules.” Brand gave him a level stare. “We’ve talked about this. What you need is a fairly common heart transplant. Any competent transplant surgeon can do the surgery for you. You didn’t need to wait for my particular skills.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Rush leveled a cold-eyed glare.

Brand offered a polite shrug in return.

He did understand the problem. Brand’s entire successful billion-dollar empire rested precisely on scratching this particular itch for patients like Jordan Rush.

Even in the world Rush inhabited, the world of polo and Alpine skiing and months-long jaunts on the world’s largest private yachts, healthy human hearts were one of a very few things not available to buy at the snap of his fingers.

The need for a heart transplant and his inability to satisfy that desire instantly by payment of a reasonable portion of his fortune fell a long, long way outside Rush’s usual experience.

Fortunately, the situation landed perfectly in Dr. Stephen Brand’s wheelhouse. Thanks to his wealthy amoral benefactor, he had access to a plentiful pool of donors more than willing to sell their organs.

For the right price, Brand could procure and transplant whatever the patient desired.

Brand, one of the top transplant surgeons in the United States at one time, was more than willing to profiteer. As it turned out, selling human organs for outrageous fees came easily and naturally to him as well as Hedinger.

Everybody wins, Brand had said to more than one prospective organ recipient.

He reached into his breast pocket. He retrieved a thick cream envelope embossed with his private hospital logo that contained the invoice and payment instructions. His fee was stiff. When Hedinger’s surcharge was added, only men with significant fortunes could afford the cost.

What price would such men pay? As it turned out, a much higher price than Brand had assumed.

Brand placed the envelope on the crisp white linen tablecloth between them. If Rush wanted the transplant, he’d first be required to pick up the envelope.

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