3:00 p.m., Thursday
Manhattan
After getting a cup of coffee from the ID office that looked more like sludge than coffee by that time of the day, Laurie pushed her way into the Thursday afternoon conference which was held in the conference room connected to Bingham’s office. This was the one opportunity for all the city’s medical examiners to get together and share cases and discuss diagnostic problems. Although the office of the chief medical examiner handled deaths in the Bronx as well as Manhattan, the boroughs of Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island had their own offices. Thursday was the day they all got together. Coming to the conference was not an option. As far as Bingham was concerned, it was a command performance.
As usual, Laurie took a seat near to the door. When the discussions became too administrative or political for her taste, she liked to slip away.
The most interesting part of these weekly conferences usually occurred before the meeting was called to order. It was in these casual conversations beforehand that Laurie was able to pick up interesting tidbits and details of particularly baffling or gruesome cases. In that respect, this Thursday’s meeting proved no different.
“I’d thought I’d seen it all,” Dick Katzenburg told Paul Plodgett and Kevin Southgate. Dick was a senior medical examiner assigned to the Queens office. Laurie’s ears perked up.
“It was the weirdest homicide I’d seen,” Dick continued. “And God knows I’ve seen some strange ones.”
“Are you going to tell us or do we have to beg?” Kevin asked, obviously as eager for the story. Medical examiners loved to swap “war stories” that were either intellectually stimulating or grotesquely bizarre.
“It was a young guy,” Dick said. “Done in a funeral home with the aspirator that they use for embalming.”
“He was bludgeoned to death?” Kevin asked. So far he was unimpressed.
“No!” Dick said. “With the trocar. The aspirator was running. It was as if the kid was embalmed alive.”
“Ugh,” Paul said, obviously impressed. “That is weird. It reminds me of the case—”
“Dr. Montgomery,” a voice called.
Laurie turned. Dr. Bingham stood before her. “I’m afraid there is something else I have to discuss with you,” he said.
Laurie felt queasy. She wondered what she’d done now.
“Dr. DeVries came to see me,” Bingham said. “He complained that you have been coming in his lab bothering him about some test results. Now I know that you are eager for those results, but you’re not the only one waiting. Dr. DeVries is swamped right now. I don’t think I have to tell you. But don’t expect special treatment. You’re going to have to wait like everyone else. I’ll thank you not to harass Dr. DeVries any further. Do I make myself clear?”
Laurie was tempted to say something like DeVries had a hell of a way of going after more funding, but Bingham turned away. Before Laurie had a chance to dwell on this, her third reprimand in four days, Bingham called the meeting to order.
Bingham began the conference, as usual, by summarizing the statistics for the previous week. Then he gave a short report on the status of the Central Park murder case since it had been so much in the news. He again rebutted the media’s charges of mismanagement of the case on the part of the medical examiner’s office. He concluded by advising everyone not to offer any personal opinions.
Laurie was certain that last remark was directed at her. Who else had been offering opinions from within the medical examiner’s ranks?
Following Bingham’s talk, Calvin spoke about administrative issues, particularly concerning how reduced city funding was affecting operations. Every other week one service or supply was being curtailed or eliminated.
Following Calvin’s talk, each of the deputy medical examiners from the other borough offices gave summaries. Some of the people present yawned, others nodded off.
When the borough chiefs were finished, the floor was opened up for general discussion. Dick Katzenburg described a few cases, including the rather grisly one at the Queens funeral home.
Once he was through, Laurie cleared her throat and began to address the group. She presented her six overdose cases as succinctly as possible, careful to delineate the demographic differences that set them apart from usual overdoses. Laurie described the deceased as single yuppies whose drug use came as a surprise to friends and family. She explained the cocaine was mainlined although not mixed with heroin.
“My concern,” Laurie said, avoiding looking at Bingham, “is that we are seeing the beginning of a series of unusual overdose deaths. I suspect a contaminant in the drug is to blame, but so far none has been found. What I’d like to request is that if anybody sees any cases similar to the ones I’ve described, please send them to me.”
“I’ve seen four myself over the last several weeks,” Dick said once Laurie was through. “Since we see so many overdose/toxicity cases I didn’t give the demographics much thought. But now that you mention it, all four seemed like overachievers. In fact, two were professionals. And three of the four took the cocaine intravenously, the fourth orally.”
“Orally?” someone echoed with surprise. “An oral cocaine overdose? That’s pretty uncommon. You usually only see that in drug-smuggling “mules’ coming from South America whose condoms break.”
“I’m never surprised what druggies do,” Dick said. “One of the cases that I had was found wedged in the refrigerator. Apparently he got so hot, he had to crawl into the ice box for relief.”
“One of mine climbed into a refrigerator, too,” Laurie said.
“I had one also,” Jim Bennett said. He was the chief at the Brooklyn office. “And now that I think about it, I had another who ran out into the street stark naked before he had a terminal seizure. He’d taken the drug orally but only after attempting to take it IV.”
“Did these two cases have the same unlikely demographics for a drug overdose?” Laurie asked Jim.
“Sure did,” Jim said. “The man who ran out in the street was a successful lawyer. And the families in both cases swore up and down that the deceased didn’t do drugs.”
Laurie looked to Margaret Hauptman, who headed the Staten Island office. “Have you seen any similar cases?” she asked.
Margaret shook her head.
Laurie asked Dick and Jim if they would mind faxing over the records on the cases they’d described. They immediately said that they would.
“One thing I have to mention,” Dick said. “In three out of four I’ve had a lot of pressure from the involved families to sign the case out as natural.”
“That’s a point I want to underline,” Bingham said, speaking for the first time since the beginning of the discussion. “With upscale overdose deaths like these the families will certainly want to keep the whole episode low profile. I think we should cooperate in this regard. Politically we cannot afford to alienate this constituency.”
“I don’t know what to make of this refrigerator aspect,” Laurie said. “Although it brings me back to the contaminant idea. Perhaps there is some chemical that has a synergistic effect with cocaine vis-á-vis causing hyperpyrexia. At any rate I’m concerned that all these deaths are coming from the same source of the drug. Now that we have this many cases we ought to be able to prove it by comparing the percentages of its natural hydrolysates. Of course we will need the lab to cooperate.”
Laurie looked nervously at Bingham to see if his expression changed with her reference to the lab. It didn’t.
“I don’t think a contaminant is a given,” Dick said. “Cocaine is fully capable of causing these deaths all by itself. On the four cases I’ve seen, the serum level was high. Very high. These people took big doses. Maybe the cocaine wasn’t cut with anything; maybe it was one-hundred-percent pure. We’ve all seen that kind of death with heroin.”
“I still think a contaminant is involved,” Laurie said. “With the general intelligence of this group of victims, it’s hard for me to believe that so many would mess up if it were purely dose related.”
Dick shrugged. “You may be right,” he admitted. “All I’m saying is let’s not jump to hasty conclusions.”
Leaving the conference, Laurie felt a strange and disturbing mixture of excitement, yet a renewed frustration and anxiety. Within a couple of hours her “series” had doubled from six cases to twelve. That was ominous. Her intuition about the number of cases increasing was already coming to pass, and at an alarming rate.
Now, even more than before, Laurie felt that the public had to be warned, especially this group of yuppie types. The problem was how to do it. Certainly she dared not go back to Bingham. But she had to do something.
Suddenly she thought of Lou. The police had a whole division devoted to drugs and vice. Perhaps that division had a way of putting out the word that a certain drug was particularly dangerous. With growing resolve, she went to her office and dialed Lou immediately. When he answered, she felt relieved.
“I’m so glad you’re still there,” she said with a sigh.
“You are?” Lou asked.
“I want to come right down and talk to you,” Laurie said.
“You do?”
“Will you wait for me?” Laurie demanded.
“Sure,” Lou said. He was puzzled and elated at the same time. “Come on down.”
Laurie hung up the phone, grabbed her briefcase, opened it, threw in some half-finished records, snapped it shut, snatched her coat, and literally ran down to the elevator.
A slight rain was falling as she stepped out onto First Avenue. She despaired of catching a cab, but as luck would have it, one pulled up to the curb and let off a passenger right in front of her. Laurie got in before the passenger had a chance to close the door.
Never having been to New York City police headquarters, Laurie was surprised to find it a relatively modern brick structure. Entering the front entrance, she had to sign in while a security person called up to Lou to make sure she was expected. Then they went through her briefcase. Armed with a visitor’s pass and directions, she found his office. Like the entire building, it reeked of cigarette smoke.
“Can I take your coat?” Lou asked as she stepped inside. Lou took the coat and hung it on a coatrack. While he was doing so he caught Harvey Lawson giving him a dirty look from across the hall. Lou closed his office door.
“You sounded excited on the phone,” Lou commented as he went around behind his desk. Laurie had taken one of the two straight-backed chairs. Her briefcase was on the floor next to her.
“I need your help,” Laurie said. She was intense and obviously nervous, clutching her hands in her lap.
“Oh, really?” Lou commented. “I was hoping this excitement had something to do with dinner tonight, like you had changed your mind.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. He was obviously disappointed.
“My “series’ has doubled,” Laurie said. “There are now twelve cases, not six.”
“That’s interesting,” Lou said flatly.
“I was hoping that you might know some way we can warn the public,” Laurie said. “I think we’re about to see a flood of these cases unless something is done, and done soon.”
“What would you have me do?” Lou asked. “Have an ad posted in The Wall Street Journal: “Yuppies, Just Say No’?”
“Lou, I’m serious,” Laurie said. “I’m truly worried about this.”
Lou sighed. He took out a cigarette and lit up.
“Must you smoke?” Laurie asked him. “I’ll only be here a few moments.”
“Jesus Christ,” Lou snapped. “It’s my office.”
“Then try to blow the smoke away, please,” Laurie said.
“I’ll ask you again,” Lou said. “What do you want me to do? You must have had something in mind if you bothered coming all the way down here.”
“No, nothing specific,” Laurie admitted. “I just thought the police narcotics squad might have some way of warning the public. Couldn’t they make some kind of announcement to the press?”
“Why doesn’t the medical examiner’s office do it?” Lou asked. “The police are around to arrest people with drugs, not help them.”
“The chief refuses to take a public stand so far. I’m sure he’ll come around, but in the meantime lives are being lost.”
Lou took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. “What about the other medical examiners? Are they as convinced as you about this thing exploding into a glut of dead yuppies?”
“I haven’t polled them,” Laurie said.
“Don’t you think you might be a little overly sensitive about these deaths because of your brother?” Lou offered.
Laurie became enraged. “I didn’t come down here for you to play amateur psychologist. But while we’re on the subject, sure, I’m sensitive. I know how it feels to lose a loved one to drugs. But I would say that kind of empathy is a boon to my work. Maybe if a few more jaded policemen like yourself had a little more empathy, we civil servants would be in the business of saving lives instead of picking corpses’ pockets.”
Lou held his temper. “Frankly, Dr. Montgomery, I’d love to be in the lifesaving business. In fact, I already consider myself to be in the lifesaving business. But unless you furnish me with more proof as to this grand contaminant theory of yours, I’m afraid Narcotics won’t do anything more than laugh me back to Homicide.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Me? A detective lieutenant in Homicide?” Lou was exasperated but he knew Laurie was genuinely concerned. “Can’t you go to the media?”
“I can’t,” Laurie said. “If I go to the media behind Dr. Bingham’s back, I’ll be looking for work. That much I know. We already had a run-in about that. How about you?”
“Me?” Lou questioned with surprise. “A homicide lieutenant suddenly involved with drug overdoses! They’d want names and where I got them, and I’d have to say I got them from you. Besides my bosses would wonder why I was worried about druggies and not solving the problem with the gangland slayings. No, I can’t go either. If I went to the media I’d probably be out looking for work as well.”
“Won’t you try talking with the narcotics division?” Laurie asked.
“I got an idea,” Lou said. “What about your boyfriend, the doctor. It’s sorta natural that a doctor would be interested in this kind of problem. Besides he seems to be pretty high profile with a limo and that posh office.”
“Jordan is not my boyfriend,” Laurie said. “He’s a male acquaintance. And how do you know about his office?”
“I went to see him this afternoon,” Lou said.
“Why?” Laurie asked.
“You want the truth or what I told myself?” Lou said.
“How about both,” Laurie said.
“I wanted to ask him about his patient Paul Cerino,” Lou said. “And also about his secretary now that she is a homicide victim. But I was also curious to meet the guy. And if you want my opinion, he’s a creep.”
“I don’t want your opinion,” Laurie snapped.
“What I don’t understand,” Lou persisted, “is why you’d be interested in such a fake, pompous, ostentatious bum. I’ve never seen such an office for a doctor. And a limo . . . please! The guy must be robbing his patients blind. Excuse the pun! What is it that attracts you? His money?”
“No!” Laurie said indignantly. “And as long as you are bringing up money, I called your Internal Affairs department—”
“So I heard,” Lou interrupted. “Well, I hope you sleep better now that you’ve probably gotten some poor patrolman in hot water while he’s trying to send his kids to college. Bravo for your strict morality. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go out to Forest Hills and try to solve some real crime.” Lou stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.
“So you won’t talk to your drug division?” Laurie asked, trying one more time.
Lou leaned over his desk. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I believe I’ll just let you rich people look after yourselves.”
Having reined in her anger over the last few minutes, Laurie now gave in to it. “Thanks for nothing, Lieutenant,” she said superciliously. Getting up, she got her coat, picked up her briefcase, and stalked out of Lou’s office. Downstairs she threw her visitors pass on the Security table and walked out.
Catching a cab was easy as they came in from the Brooklyn Bridge. With just about a straight shot up First Avenue, she was home in no time. Getting off the elevator on her floor, she glared at Debra Engler, then slammed her door.
“And at one point you thought he was charming,” she said out loud, ridiculing herself as she stripped down and got into the shower. She couldn’t believe that she had allowed herself to sit for as long as she had in Lou Soldano’s office absorbing all that abuse in the futile hopes that he might deign to help her. It had been a degrading experience.
Ensconced in a white terry robe, Laurie went to her answering machine and listened to her messages while a hungry Tom rubbed across her legs and purred. One was from her mother and the other was from Jordan. Both asked her to call when she got home.
Jordan had left a number different from his home number with an extension.
When she called Jordan at the number he’d left, she was told that he was in surgery but that she should hold on.
“Sorry,” said Jordan once he picked up a few minutes later. “I’m still in surgery. But I insisted on being told when you called.”
“You’re in the middle of an operation right now?” Laurie couldn’t believe it.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jordan said. “I can break scrub for a few minutes. I wanted to ask if we could make dinner tonight a bit later. I don’t want to keep you waiting again, but I have another case to go.”
“Maybe it would be just as well if we took a raincheck.”
“No, please!” Jordan said. “It’s been a hell of a day and I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Remember, you took a raincheck last night.”
“Won’t you be tired? Especially if you have another case.”
Laurie herself felt exhausted. The idea of going straight to bed sounded wonderful to her.
“I’ll get a second wind,” Jordan said. “We can make it an early evening.”
“What time can you meet for dinner?”
“Nine o’clock,” Jordan said. “I’ll send Thomas around then.”
Reluctantly, Laurie agreed. After she hung up, she called Calvin Washington at home.
“What is it, Montgomery?” Calvin demanded once his wife called him to the phone. He sounded grumpy.
“Sorry to bother you at home,” Laurie said. “But now that I have twelve cases in my series, I’d like to ask that I be assigned any more that might come in tomorrow.”
“You’re not on autopsy tomorrow. It’s a paper day for you.”
“I know. That’s why I’m calling. I’m not on call this weekend so I can catch up with my paperwork then.”
“Montgomery, I think you ought to cool it. You’re getting much too carried away with all this. You’re too emotionally involved; you’re losing your objectivity. I’m sorry, but tomorrow is a paper day for you no matter what comes through the door feetfirst.”
Laurie hung up the phone. She felt depressed. At the same time she knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Calvin had said. She was emotionally involved in the issue.
Sitting by the phone, Laurie thought about returning her mother’s call. The last thing she wanted to go through was the third degree about her budding relationship with Jordan Scheffield. Besides, she hadn’t quite decided what she thought of him herself. She decided to wait on calling back her mother.
As Lou drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway, he wondered why he insisted on continually bashing his head up against a brick wall.
There was no way a woman like Laurie Montgomery would look at someone like himself other than as a city servant. Why did he keep entertaining delusions of grandeur in which Laurie would suddenly say: “Oh, Lou, I’ve always wanted to meet a police detective who’s gone to a community college”?
Lou slapped the steering wheel in embarrassed anger. When Laurie had suddenly called and insisted on coming down to his office, he’d believed she’d wanted to see him for personal reasons, not some harebrained idea of using him to publicize a yuppie cocaine epidemic.
Lou exited the Long Island Expressway and got onto Woodhaven Boulevard, heading to Forest Hills. Feeling the need to do something rather than play with paper clips at his desk, he’d decided to go out and do a little gumshoeing on his own by visiting the surviving spouses. It was also better than going back to his miserable apartment on Prince Street in SoHo and watching TV.
Pulling up the Vivonettos’ long, curved driveway, Lou couldn’t help but be awed. The house was a mansion with white columns. Right away, lights went off in Lou’s head. This kind of opulence suggested serious money. And Lou had a hard time believing a simple restaurateur could make that kind of dough unless he had organized-crime connections.
Lou parked the car by the front door. He’d called ahead so Mrs. Vivonetto was expecting him. When he rang the bell, a woman wearing a ton of makeup came to the door. She was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder wool dress. There was not much suggestion of aggrieved mourning.
“You must be Lieutenant Soldano,” she said. “Do come in. My name is Gloria Vivonetto. Can I offer you a drink?”
Lou said that just water would be fine for him. “You know, on duty,” he muttered by way of explanation. Gloria poured him a glass at the bar in the living room. She fixed herself a vodka gimlet.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” Lou said. It was his standard intro for occasions like this.
“It was just like him,” Gloria said. “I’d told him time and time again he shouldn’t stay up and watch television. And now he goes and gets himself shot. I don’t know anything about running a business. I’m sure people are going to rob me blind.”
“Was there anyone that you know of who would have wanted your husband dead?” Lou asked. It was the first question in the standard protocol.
“I’ve been all over this with the other detectives. Do we have to go through it again?”
“Perhaps not,” Lou said. “Let me be frank with you, Mrs. Vivonetto. The way your husband was killed suggests an organized-crime involvement. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“You mean Mafia?”
“Well, there’s more to organized crime than the Mafia,” Lou said. “But that’s the general idea. Is there any reason that you can think of why people like the Mafia would want your husband killed?”
“Ha!” Gloria laughed. “My husband was never involved with anything as colorful as the Mafia.”
“What about his business?” Lou persisted. “Did Pasta Pronto have any connection whatsoever with organized crime?”
“No,” Gloria said.
“Are you sure?” Lou questioned.
“Well, no, I guess I’m not sure,” Gloria answered. “I wasn’t involved with the business. But I can’t imagine he ever had anything to do with the Mafia. And anyway, my husband was not a well man. He wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway. If someone wanted him out of the way they could have waited for him to keel over naturally.”
“How was your husband sick?” Lou asked.
“In what ways wasn’t he sick?” Gloria shot back. “Everything was falling apart. He had bad heart problems and had had two bypass operations. His kidneys weren’t great. He was supposed to have his gallbladder removed but they kept putting it off, saying his heart wouldn’t take it. He was going to have an eye operation. And his prostate was messed up. I’m not sure what was wrong with that, but his whole lower half didn’t work anymore. Hadn’t for years.”
“I’m sorry,” Lou said, unsure of what else to say. “I suppose he suffered a lot.”
Gloria shrugged her shoulders. “He never took care of himself. He was overweight, drank a ton, and he smoked like a chimney. The doctors told me he might not last a year unless he changed his ways, which wasn’t something he was about to do.”
Lou decided there wasn’t much more he’d learn from the not-so-aggrieved widow. “Well,” he said, standing up, “thank you for your time, Mrs. Vivonetto. If you think of anything else that might seem important, please give me a call.” He handed her one of his business cards.
Next Lou headed for the Singleton residence. The place was a simple, two-story, brick row house with two pink flamingos stuck in the front lawn. The street reminded him of his old neighborhood only a half dozen blocks away in Rego Park. He felt a stab of nostalgia for the evenings in the alleyway, playing stickball.
Mr. Chester Singleton opened the door. He was a big man, middle-aged and quite balding. He had a hounddog look thanks to his beefy jowls. His eyes were red and streaked. The instant Lou saw him he knew he was in the presence of true grief.
“Detective Soldano?”
Lou nodded and was immediately invited inside.
Inside, the furniture was plain but solid. A crocheted comforter was folded over the back of a plaid, well-worn couch. Dozens of framed photos lined the walls, most of them black and white.
“I’m very sorry about your wife,” Lou said.
Chester nodded, took a deep breath, and bit his lower lip.
“I know that other people have been by,” Lou continued. He decided to go right to the heart of the matter. “I wanted to ask you flat-out why a professional gunman would come into your home to shoot your wife.”
“I don’t know,” Chester said. His voice quavered with emotion.
“Your restaurant-supply business supplied some restaurants with organized-crime connections. Do any of the restaurants you supply have any complaints with your service?”
“Never,” Chester said. “And I don’t know anything about any organized crime. Sure, I heard rumors. But I never met anyone or saw anyone I would call a mobster type.”
“What about Pasta Pronto?” Lou asked. “I understand you had new business there.”
“I recently got some of their business, that’s true. But only a piece of it. I think they were just trying me out. I hoped to get more of their business eventually.”
“Did you know Steven Vivonetto?” Lou asked.
“Yes, but not well. He was a wealthy man.”
“You know he got shot last night as well?” Lou said.
“I know. I read about it in the paper.”
“Had you received any threats lately?” Lou asked. “Any attempts at extortion? Any kind of protection racket knocking on your door?”
Chester shook his head.
“Can you think of any reason your wife and Steven Vivonetto should have been killed during the same night, possibly by the same person?”
“No,” Chester said. “I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have wanted to kill Janice. Everyone loved Janice. She was the warmest, nicest person in the world. And on top of that, she was ill.”
“What was wrong with her?” Lou asked.
“Cancer. Unfortunately it had spread before they found it. She never liked to go to the doctor. If only she’d gone sooner, they might have been able to do more. As it was, she only had chemotherapy. She seemed okay for a while, but then she got this awful rash on her face. Herpes zoster they call it. It even got into one of her eyes and blinded it so that she needed to have an operation.”
“Did the doctors hold out much hope for her?” Lou asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Chester said. “They told me that they couldn’t say for sure, but they thought that it might be only a year or so, and shorter if the cancer came back quicker.”
“I’m so sorry to hear all this,” Lou said.
“Well, maybe what happened was just as well. Maybe it saved her a lot of suffering. But I miss her so. We were married for thirty-one years.”
After offering additional condolences and his business card, Lou bade farewell to Mr. Singleton. Driving back to Manhattan, he reviewed what little he’d learned. The organized-crime connection to either case was at best tenuous. He’d been surprised to learn that both victims were terminally ill. He wondered if their killers had known.
By reflex he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a cigarette. He pushed in the lighter. Then he thought about Laurie. Rolling down the window, he tossed the unlit cigarette into the street just as the lighter popped out. He sighed, wondering where that pompous Jordan Scheffield was taking her for dinner.
Vinnie Dominick came into the locker room at St. Mary’s and sat wearily on the bench. He was perspiring heavily. He was bleeding slightly from a small scratch on his cheek.
“You’re bleeding, boss,” Freddie Capuso said.
“Get out of my face,” Vinnie snapped. “I know I’m bleeding. But you know what bugs me? That bum Jeff Young said he never touched me and whined for ten minutes when I called a foul.”
Vinnie had just finished an hour’s worth of pickup three-on-three basketball. His team had lost and he was in a foul mood. His mood got even worse when his most trusted lieutenant, Franco Ponti, came in with a long face.
“Don’t tell me it’s true?” Vinnie asked.
Franco came over to the bench. He put one foot on it and leaned on his knee. His nickname since high school had been “falcon,” mostly because of his face. With a narrow hooked nose, thin lips, and beady eyes he resembled a bird of prey.
“It’s true,” Franco said. He spoke in a monotone. “Jimmy Lanso got whacked last night in his cousin’s funeral home.”
Vinnie bolted off the bench and hammered one of the metal lockers. The crashing noise reverberated around the small locker room like a clap of thunder. Everyone winced except Franco.
“Christ!” Vinnie cried. He began pacing. Freddie Capuso got out of his way.
“What am I going to tell my wife?” Vinnie cried. “What am I going to tell my wife?” he repeated, raising his voice. “I promised her I’d take care of it.” He pounded one of the lockers again. Perspiration flew off his face.
“Tell her that you made a mistake trusting Cerino,” Franco suggested.
Vinnie stopped in his tracks. “It’s true,” he snarled. “I thought Cerino was a civilized man. But now I know otherwise.”
“And there’s more,” Franco said. “Cerino’s men have been busy whacking all sorts of people besides Jimmy Lanso. Last night they hit two in Kew Gardens and two in Forest Hills.”
“I saw that on the news.” Vinnie was astounded. “That was Cerino’s people?”
“Yup,” Franco said.
“Why?” Vinnie asked. “I didn’t recognize any of the names.”
“Nobody knows.” Franco shrugged his shoulders.
“There must be some reason.”
“For sure,” Franco said. “I just don’t know what it is.”
“Well, find out!” Vinnie ordered. “It’s one thing putting up with Cerino and his bums as business rivals, but it’s quite another to sit around watching them ruin things for everyone.”
“There are cops crawling all over Queens,” Franco agreed.
“That’s just what we don’t need,” Vinnie said. “With the authorities up in arms, we’ll have to suspend a significant part of our operations. You have to find out what Cerino is up to. Franco, I’m depending on you.”
Franco nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’re not eating much,” Jordan said.
Laurie looked up from her plate. They were dining at a restaurant called Palio. Although the food was Italian, the décor was a relaxing meld of oriental and modern. Before her was a delicious seafood risotto. Her wineglass was filled with a crisp Pinot Grigio. But Jordan was right; she wasn’t eating much. Although she hadn’t eaten much that day, she just wasn’t hungry.
“You don’t like the food?” Jordan asked. “I thought you said you liked Italian.” His dress was as casually elegant as ever; he had on a black velvet blazer with a silk shirt open at the neck. He was not wearing a tie.
The logistics had worked much better this evening. As Jordan had promised, he’d called just before nine when he was leaving surgery, saying that Thomas was on his way to pick her up while he went back to his apartment to change. By the time Thomas and Laurie got back to the Trump Tower, Jordan was waiting curbside. From there it had been a short ride over to West Fifty-first Street.
“I love the food,” Laurie said. “I guess I’m just not that hungry. It’s been a long day.”
“I’ve been avoiding talking about the day,” Jordan admitted. “I thought it better to get a bit of wine under our belts. As I mentioned on the phone, my day was atrocious. That’s the only word for it, starting from your phone call about poor Marsha Schulman. Every time I think about her, I get this sick feeling. I even feel guilty about being so angry with her for not showing up to work, and here she was a headless corpse floating in the East River. Oh, God!” Jordan couldn’t continue. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head slowly. Laurie reached across the table and put a hand on Jordan’s arm. She felt for him but was also relieved to see this display of emotion. Up until this moment she’d felt he’d been incapable of such demonstrativeness and rather dispassionate about his secretary’s murder. He suddenly seemed a lot more human.
Jordan pulled himself together. “And there’s more,” he said sadly. “I lost a patient today. Part of the reason I went into ophthalmology was because I knew I’d have a hard time dealing with death, yet I still wanted to do surgery. Ophthalmology seemed an ideal compromise, until today. I lost a preop by the name of Mary O’Connor.”
“I’m sorry,” Laurie said. “I understand how you feel. Dealing with dying patients was hard for me too. I suppose it’s one of the reasons I went into pathology, especially forensics. My patients are already dead.”
Jordan smiled weakly. “Mary was a wonderful woman and such an appreciative patient,” he said. “I’d already operated on one eye and was about to do the other this afternoon. She was a healthy lady with no known heart trouble, yet she was found dead in her bed. She’d died watching television.”
“What a terrible experience for you,” Laurie sympathized. “But you have to remember that occult medical problems are always found in such cases. I imagine we’ll be seeing Mrs. O’Connor tomorrow, and I’ll be sure to let you know what it was. Sometimes knowing the pathology makes it easier to deal with the death.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Jordan said.
“I suppose my day wasn’t as bad as yours,” Laurie said. “But I’m beginning to understand how Cassandra felt when Apollo made sure that she was not to be heeded.”
Laurie told Jordan all about her overdose series and that she was sure there would be more cases if no appropriate warnings were issued. She told him how upsetting it had been that she’d been unable to convince the chief medical examiner to go public with the story. Then she told him she’d gone to the police, and even they refused to help.
“Sounds frustrating,” Jordan said. “There was one good thing about my day,” he said, changing the subject. “I did a lot of surgery, and that makes me and my accountant very happy. Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been doing double my normal number of cases.”
“I’m glad,” Laurie said. She couldn’t help but notice Jordan’s propensity for turning the conversation to himself.
“I just hope it keeps up,” he said. “There are always fluctuations. I can accept that. But I’m getting spoiled at the current rate.”
Once they had finished their meal and their places were cleared, the waiter rolled a tempting dessert trolley to their table. Jordan selected a chocolate cake. Laurie chose berries. Jordan had an espresso, Laurie a decaf. As she stirred her coffee, she discreetly glanced at her watch.
“I saw that,” Jordan said. “I know it’s getting late. I also know it’s a “school night.’ I’ll get you home in a half hour if we can make the same deal we made last night. Let’s have dinner again tomorrow night.”
“Again?” Laurie asked. “Jordan, you’re sure to get sick of me.”
“Nonsense,” Jordan said. “I’m enjoying every minute. I just wish it weren’t so rushed, and tomorrow is Friday. It’s the weekend. Maybe you’ll even have some news about Mary O’Connor. Please, Laurie.”
Laurie couldn’t believe she was being asked to dinner for a third night in a row. It was certainly flattering. “All right,” she said at last. “You have yourself a date.”
“Wonderful,” Jordan said. “Have any suggestions for a restaurant?”
“I think you have a lot more experience,” Laurie said. “You pick.”
“Okay, I will. Shall we say nine o’clock again?”
Laurie nodded as she sipped her decaf. Looking into Jordan’s clear eyes, she thought of Lou’s negative description of the man. For a second Laurie was tempted to ask how the meeting with the detective lieutenant had gone, but decided against it. Some things were better left unsaid.