4:30 p.m., Friday
Manhattan
Laurie was hesitant to visit the lab again. She didn’t want to risk another run-in with John DeVries. But attempting any more paperwork just then was ridiculous. She was far too distracted. She decided to find Peter. Surely he had to have more results by then.
“I know you promised to call if you found anything,” Laurie said once she’d found him, “but I couldn’t help but stop by just to check how you were doing.”
“I haven’t found a contaminant yet,” Peter said. “But I did learn something that might be significant. Cocaine is metabolized in the body in a variety of different ways producing a variety of metabolites. One of the metabolites is called benzoylecgonine. When I calculated the ratio of cocaine and benzoylecgonine in the blood, urine, and brain of your victims, I can estimate the amount of time from injection to death.”
“And what did you find?” Laurie asked.
“I found it was pretty consistent,” Peter said. “Roughly an hour in thirteen of the fourteen. But in one of the cases it was different. For some reason Robert Evans had practically no benzoylecgonine at all.”
“Meaning?” Laurie questioned.
“Meaning that Robert Evans died very quickly,” Peter said. “Maybe within minutes. Maybe even less, I really can’t say.”
“What do you think the significance is?” Laurie questioned.
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “You’re the medical detective, not me.”
“I suppose he could have suffered an instantaneous cardiac arrhythmia.”
Peter shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “And I haven’t given up on a contaminant. But if I find something, it’s going to be in nanomoles.”
Leaving the toxicology department, Laurie felt discouraged. Despite all her efforts she didn’t feel any further along in her investigation of these unlikely overdoses than she had been at the start. Intending to talk again with George Fontworth and have him explain what had surprised him on the autopsies, Laurie descended to the basement level and poked her head into the autopsy room. She didn’t see George, but she saw Vinnie and asked about George.
“He left about an hour ago,” Vinnie said.
Laurie went upstairs to George’s office. The door was open but he wasn’t there. Since his room was adjacent to one of the serology labs, Laurie went in and asked if anyone had seen George.
“He had a dentist’s appointment,” one of the techs said. “He mentioned he’d be back later, but he didn’t know when.”
Laurie nodded.
Stepping out of the lab, she paused outside George’s office. From where she was standing she could see the autopsy folders from the two overdose cases he’d handled that day.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Laurie stepped into the office and opened the top folder. It was Julia Myerholtz’s file. That was the case George had been working on when Laurie had gone over to his table. She hastily read through George’s autopsy notes. Immediately she understood what he had meant by the “surprise.” Obviously he’d responded the same way Laurie had with Duncan Andrews.
Looking at the forensic investigator’s report, Laurie noticed that the victim had been identified at the scene by “Robert Nussman, boyfriend.”
Taking a piece of scratch paper from a pad on George’s desk, Laurie jotted down Julia’s address.
Laurie was just about to open the second file when she heard someone coming down the hall. Sheepishly, she closed the folder, pocketed the piece of scrap paper, and stepped back out into the hall. She nodded and smiled guiltily as one of the histology techs passed by.
Although Bingham had chastised Laurie for visiting Duncan Andrews’ apartment, she decided she would go to Julia Myerholtz’s place. Hailing a cab, she convinced herself that Bingham’s anger had more to do with the unique fact that the case was such a political hot potato. He hadn’t objected to examination of the scene per se—or so Laurie rationalized.
Julia’s apartment was in a large posh building on East Seventy-fifth Street. Laurie was quite surprised when the doorman came to the curb to open her door for her as she paid the cab fare. It amazed her to experience the kind of style some people enjoyed in the city. The ambience was certainly a far cry from her own in Kips Bay.
“May I help you, madame?” the doorman asked. He had a thick Irish brogue.
Laurie showed her medical examiner’s badge and asked to see the superintendent. A few minutes later the man appeared in the foyer.
“I’d like to view Julia Myerholtz’s apartment,” Laurie told him. “But before I go up, I want to make certain that no one is there just now.”
The superintendent asked the doorman if the apartment was empty.
“It is indeed,” the doorman said. “Her parents aren’t due in until tomorrow. You want the key?”
The superintendent nodded. The doorman opened a small cabinet, took out a key, and handed it to Laurie.
“Just give it back to Patrick here when you leave,” the superintendent said.
“I’d prefer if you came along.”
“I have a hot water leak in the basement,” the superintendent explained. “You’ll be okay—9C. It’s to the right when you get off the elevator.”
The elevator stopped on 9, and Laurie got out. Just to be sure, she rang the bell of 9C several times and even pounded on the door before going in. She didn’t want to run into any of the deceased’s loved ones this time around.
The first thing Laurie noticed were the shards of a plaster cast statue scattered over the floor of the foyer. Judging by the larger pieces, Laurie guessed the piece had been a replica of Michelangelo’s David.
The roomy apartment was decorated in a comfortable, country style. Not sure of what she was looking for, Laurie simply roamed from room to room, surveying the scene.
In the kitchen Laurie opened the refrigerator. It was well stocked with health food: yogurt, bean sprouts, fresh vegetables, and skim milk.
In the living room the coffee table was loaded with art books and magazines: American Health, Runner’s World, Triathlon, and Prevention. The room was lined with bookshelves filled with more art books. On the mantel, Laurie noticed a small plaque. She went closer to read the inscription: “Central Park Triathlon, Third Place, 3034.”
In the bedroom Laurie discovered an exercise bike and lots of framed photographs. Most of the photos featured an attractive woman and a handsome young man in various outdoor settings: on bikes in a mountain setting, camping in a forest, finishing a race.
As she wandered back into the living room, Laurie tried to imagine why an amateur athlete like Julia Myerholtz was apparently taking drugs. It just didn’t make any sense. The health food, the magazines, and the accomplishments just didn’t jibe with cocaine.
Laurie’s musings were abruptly cut short when she heard a key in the door. For a second of absolute panic she contemplated trying to hide, as if she expected Bingham to come through the door.
When the door opened, the young man who entered seemed as surprised as Laurie to meet someone in the apartment. Laurie recognized him as the man in many of the bedroom photos.
“Dr. Laurie Montgomery,” Laurie said, flipping open her badge. “I’m from the medical examiner’s office, investigating Miss Myerholtz’s death.”
“I’m Robert Nussman. I was Julia’s boyfriend.”
“I don’t mean to be a bother,” Laurie said, moving to leave. “I can come back at another time.” She did not want Bingham to get wind of this.
“No, it’s all right,” Robert said, holding up a hand. “Please stay. I’ll only be here a moment.”
“Terrible tragedy,” Laurie said. She felt the need to say something.
“Tell me about it,” Robert said. He suddenly looked very sad. He also acted as if he needed to talk.
“Did you know she took drugs?” Laurie asked.
“She didn’t,” he said. “I know that’s what you people say,” he added as his face flushed, “but I’m telling you, Julia never did drugs. It just wasn’t in her nature. She was totally into health. She got me into running.” He smiled at the memory. “Last spring she had me do my first triathlon. I just can’t figure it. My God, she didn’t even drink.”
“I’m sorry,” Laurie said.
“She was so gifted,” Robert said wistfully. “So strong-willed, so committed. She cared about people. She was religious: not overly, but enough. And she was involved in everything, like pro choice, the homeless, AIDS, you name it.”
“I understand you identified her here at the scene,” Laurie said. “Were you the one who found her?”
“Yes,” Robert managed. He looked away, struggling with tears.
“It must have been awful,” Laurie said. Memories of finding her brother crowded in with graphic intensity. She did her best to dismiss them. “Where was she when you came in?”
Robert pointed toward the bedroom.
“Was she still alive at that point?” Laurie asked gently.
“Sort of,” Robert said. “She was breathing off and on. I gave her CPR until the ambulance got here.”
“How did you happen to come by?” Laurie asked.
“She’d called me earlier,” Robert said. “She said to be sure to come over later on.”
“Was that customary?” Laurie asked.
Robert looked puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess.”
“Did she sound normal?” Laurie asked. “Could you tell if she’d taken any drugs yet?”
“I don’t think she’d taken anything,” Robert said. “She didn’t sound high. But I guess she didn’t seem normal either. She sounded tense. In fact, I was a little afraid she was planning on telling me something bad, like she wanted to break up or something.”
“Was there some problem in your relationship?” Laurie asked.
“No,” Robert said. “Things were great. I mean, I thought they were great. It’s just that she sounded a little funny.”
“What about that broken statue by the front door?”
“I saw that the second I came through the door last night,” Robert said. “It was her favorite possession. It was a couple of hundred years old. When I saw it was broken, I knew something bad was going on.”
Laurie glanced over at the shattered statue and wondered if Julia could have broken it while in the throes of a seizure. If so, how did she get from the foyer to the bedroom?
“Thank you for your help,” Laurie said. “I hope I haven’t upset you with my questions.”
“No,” Robert said. “But why are you going to all this trouble? I thought medical examiners just did autopsies and only got involved with murders, like Quincy.”
“We try to help the living,” Laurie said. “That’s our job. What I’d really like to do is prevent future tragedies like Julia’s. The more I learn, the more I may be able to do that.”
“If you have any more questions, call me,” Robert said. He handed Laurie his card. “And if it somehow turns out that it wasn’t drugs, please let me know. It would be important because . . .” Suddenly overcome with emotion, he wasn’t able to continue.
Laurie nodded. She gave Robert her own business card after scribbling her home phone number on the back. “If you have any questions for me or if you think of anything I should know, please give me a call. You can call anytime.”
Leaving Robert to grieve in private, Laurie left the apartment and boarded the elevator. As she was riding down, she recalled that Sara Wetherbee had said that Duncan had invited her over the night he’d overdosed. Laurie thought both Duncan’s and Julia’s invitations to their significant others were odd. If both were doing such a good job hiding their drug abuse, why invite someone over the very night they were indulging?
Laurie returned the key to Patrick the doorman and thanked him on her way out. She was a half dozen steps from the door when she turned around and went back.
“Were you on duty last night?” Laurie asked him.
“Indeed I was,” Patrick said. “Three to eleven. That’s my shift.”
“Did you happen to see Julia Myerholtz yesterday evening?” Laurie asked.
“I did,” Patrick said. “I’d see her most every evening.”
“I suppose you’ve heard what happened to her,” Laurie said. She didn’t want to offer any information the doorman might not be privy to.
“I have,” Patrick said. “She took drugs like a lot of young people. It’s a shame.”
“Did she seem depressed when she came in last night?” Laurie asked.
“I wouldn’t say depressed,” Patrick said. “But she didn’t act normal.”
“In what way?” Laurie asked.
“She didn’t say hello,” Patrick said. “She always said hello except for last night. But maybe that was because she wasn’t alone.”
“Do you remember who was with her?” Laurie questioned with interest.
“I do,” Patrick said. “Normally I can’t remember things like that since we have a lot of traffic going in and out. But since Ms. Myerholtz hadn’t said hello, I looked at her companions.”
“Did you recognize them?” Laurie said. “Had they been here before?”
“I didn’t know who they were,” Patrick said. “And I don’t think I’d ever seen them. One was tall, thin, and well dressed. The other was muscular and on the short side. No one said anything when they came in.”
“Did you see them when they went out?” Laurie asked.
“No, I didn’t,” Patrick said. “They must have left during my break.”
“What time did they come in?” Laurie asked.
“Early evening,” Patrick said. “Something like seven o’clock.”
Laurie thanked Patrick yet again and hailed a cab to return to her office. It was almost dusk. The skyscrapers were already lit and people were hurrying home from work. As the cab headed downtown in the heavy traffic, she thought about her conversations with the boyfriend and the doorman. She wondered about the two men Patrick had described. Although they were probably co-workers or friends of Julia’s, the fact that they had visited the same night that Julia overdosed made them important. Laurie wished there was some way she could find out their identities so she could talk with them. The thought even went through her mind that they could have been drug dealers. Could Julia Myerholtz have had a secret life her boyfriend wasn’t privy to?
Back at the medical examiner’s building, Laurie went first to George’s office to see if he’d returned from the dentist. Obviously he had come and gone; his office was dark.
Disappointed, Laurie tried the door, but it was locked. Not being able to talk with George, she’d had the sudden idea to get the address of the other overdose, Wendell Morrison.
Leaving her coat in her room and picking up some rubber gloves, Laurie went down to the morgue. She found the evening mortuary tech, Bruce Pomowski, in the mortuary office.
“Any idea of the dispensation of the Myerholtz remains?” Laurie asked. “Have they been picked up?”
“Was she one of today’s cases?” Bruce asked.
“Yes,” Laurie said.
Bruce opened a thick ledger and ran a finger down the day’s entries. When he got to Myerholtz, his finger ran across the page. “Hasn’t been picked up yet,” he said. “We’re waiting on a call from an out-of-town funeral home.”
“Is she in the walk-in?” Laurie asked.
“Yup,” Bruce said. “Should be on a gurney near the front.”
Laurie thanked him and walked down the corridor toward the walk-in refrigerator. In the evenings the environment of the morgue changed considerably. During the day it was full of frantic activity. But now as Laurie walked she could hear the heels of her shoes echo through the deserted and mostly dark, blue-tiled corridors. All at once she remembered Lou’s response when they’d come down Tuesday morning. He’d called it a grisly scene.
Laurie stopped and looked down at the stained cement floor that Lou had pointed out. Then she raised her eyes to the stacks of pine coffins destined for Potter’s Field with unclaimed, unidentified remains. She started walking again. It was amazing how her normal mental state shielded the ghastly side of the morgue from her consciousness. It took a stranger like Lou and a time when the morgue was empty of the living for her to appreciate it.
Reaching the large, cumbersome stainless-steel door of the walk-in, Laurie put on her gloves and pressed the thick handle to release the latch. With a hefty yank she pulled the heavy door open. A cold, clammy mist swirled out around her feet. Reaching in, she turned on the light.
Reacting to her mind-set of only moments earlier, Laurie viewed the interior of the walk-in cooler from the perspective of a nonprofessional person, not the forensic pathologist she was. It was definitely horrifying. Bare wooden shelves lined the walls. On the shelves was a ghoulish collection of cold, dead bodies and body parts that having been autopsied and examined were waiting to be claimed. Most were nude, although a few were covered with sheets stained with blood and other body fluids. It was like an earthly view of hell.
The center of the room was crowded with old gurneys, each bearing a separate body. Again, some were covered, others naked and blankly staring up at the ceiling like some sort of macabre dormitory.
Feeling uncharacteristically squeamish, Laurie stepped over the threshold, her eyes nervously darting around the gurneys to locate Julia Myerholtz. Behind her the heavy door slammed shut with a loud click.
Irrationally, Laurie spun around and rushed back to the door, fearful that she’d been locked into the cooler. But the latch responded to her push and the door swung open on its bulky hinges.
Embarrassed at her own imagination, Laurie turned back into the refrigerator and began methodically going through the bodies on the gurneys. For identification purposes each body had a manila name tag tied around the right big toe. She found Julia not far from the doorway. Her body was one of those that had been covered.
Stepping up to the head, Laurie drew down the sheet. She gazed at the woman’s pallid skin and her delicate features. Judging by her appearance alone, if she hadn’t been so pale, she could have been sleeping. But the rude, Y-shaped autopsy incision dispelled any hope that she might still be alive.
Looking more closely, Laurie saw multiple bruised areas on Julia’s head, an indication of her probable seizure activity. In her mind’s eye Laurie could see the woman bumping up against her statue of David and knocking it to the floor. Opening up Julia’s mouth, Laurie looked at the tongue, which had not been removed. She could see that it had been bitten severely: more evidence of seizure activity.
Next Laurie looked for the IV site where Julia had injected herself. She found it as easily as she had the others. She also noticed that Julia had scratched her arms the way Duncan Andrews had done. She had probably experienced similar hallucinations. But Laurie noticed Julia’s scratches were deeper, almost as if they had been done with knives.
Looking at Julia’s carefully manicured nails, Laurie could see why the scratches were so deep. Julia’s nails were long and immaculately polished. While she was admiring the woman’s nails, Laurie noted a bit of tissue wedged beneath the nail of the right middle finger.
After finding no other tissue under any of the other nails, Laurie went to the autopsy room for two specimen jars and a scalpel. Returning to Julia’s side, she teased a bit of tissue free and put it into one of the specimen jars. Using the scalpel, she sliced a small sliver of skin from the margin of the autopsy wound and slipped it into the other specimen jar.
After covering Julia’s body with the sheet, Laurie took the two samples up to the DNA lab, where she labeled them and signed them in. On the request form she asked for a match. Even though it was fairly obvious the woman had scratched herself, Laurie thought it was worth checking. Just because the M.E.’s office was overworked was no reason not to be thorough. Still, she was relieved that it was evening and the lab was empty. She wouldn’t have wanted to explain the need for this test.
Laurie walked back to her office. With everyone else gone, she thought she might take advantage of the quiet and turn her attention to some of that paperwork she’d been so studiously neglecting.
Still feeling slightly tense from her strange reaction to the cooler door closing, Laurie was ill prepared to deal with what awaited her in her office. As she rounded the corner of the doorway, preoccupied with her thoughts, a figure shouted and leaped at her.
Laurie screamed from someplace deep down in her being. It was a purely reflex response, and of a power that caused the sound to reverberate up and down the cinderblocked hallway like some charged subatomic particle in an accelerator. She’d had no control. Simultaneous with the scream her heart leaped in her chest.
But the attack that Laurie feared did not occur. Instead her brain frantically changed the message and told her that the terrifying figure had cried “Boo!”—hardly what a mad rapist or some supernatural demon would yell. At the same time her brain identified the face as belonging to Lou Soldano.
All this had happened in the blink of an eye, and by the time Laurie was capable of responding, her fear had changed to anger.
“Lou!” she cried. “Why did you do that?”
“Did I scare you?” Lou asked sheepishly. He could see that her face had turned to ivory. His ears were still ringing from her scream.
“Scare me?” she yelled. “You terrified me, and I hate to be scared like that. Don’t ever do that again.”
“I’m sorry,” Lou said contritely. “I suppose it was juvenile. But this place has been scaring me; I thought I could get you back a little.”
“I could bop you in the nose,” Laurie said, shaking a clenched fist in front of his face. Her anger had already subsided, especially with his apology and apparent remorse. She walked around her desk and fell into her chair. “What on earth are you doing here at this hour anyway?” she asked.
“I was literally driving by,” Lou said. “I wanted to talk with you, so I pulled into the morgue loading dock on the chance that you’d be here. I really didn’t expect you to be, but the fellow downstairs said you’d just been in his office.”
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Your boyfriend, Jordan,” Lou said.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Laurie snapped. “You’re really going to irritate me if you persist in calling him that.”
“What’s the problem?” Lou asked. “It seems to me to be a relatively accurate term. After all, you go out with him every night.”
“My social life is no one’s business but mine,” Laurie said. “But for your information, I do not “go out’ with him every night. I’m obviously not going out tonight.”
“Well, three out of four ain’t bad,” Lou said. “But look, down to business: I wanted to let you know that I talked with Jordan about his patients being professionally bumped off.”
“What did he have to say?” Laurie asked.
“Not a lot,” Lou said. “He refused to talk about any of his patients specifically.”
“Good for him.”
“But more important than what he said was how he acted. He was really nervous the whole time I was there. I don’t know what to make of that.”
“You don’t think he was involved with these murders in any way, do you?”
“No,” Lou said. “Robbing his patients blind—no pun intended—yes, shooting them, no. He’d be killing the golden goose. But he was definitely nervous. Something’s on his mind. I think he knows something.”
“I think he has plenty of reason to be nervous,” Laurie said. “Did he tell you that Cerino threatened him?”
“No, he didn’t,” Lou said. “How did he threaten him?”
“Jordan wouldn’t say,” Laurie said. “But if Cerino is the kind of person you say he is, then you can just imagine.”
Lou nodded. “I wonder why Jordan didn’t tell me.”
“Probably he doesn’t think you could protect him. Could you?”
“Probably not,” Lou said. “Certainly not forever. Not someone as high profile as Jordan Scheffield.”
“Did you learn anything helpful talking with him?” Laurie asked.
“I did learn that the murder victims did not have the same diagnosis,” Lou said. “At least according to him. That was one harebrained idea I had. And I learned that they are not related in any other obvious way vis-á-vis Jordan Scheffield other than being his patients. I asked about every way I could imagine. So, unfortunately, I didn’t learn much.”
“What are you going to do now?” Laurie asked.
“Hope!” Lou said. “Plus I’ll have my investigative teams find out the individual diagnoses. Maybe that will tell us something. There has to be some aspect I’m missing in all this.”
“That’s the way I feel about my overdose cases,” Laurie said.
“By the way,” Lou said. “What are you doing here so late?”
“I was hoping to get some work done. But with my pulse still racing thanks to you, I’ll probably take the paperwork home and tackle it there.”
“What about dinner?” Lou asked. “How about coming with me down to Little Italy. You like pasta?”
“I love pasta.”
“How about it then?” Lou asked. “You already told me you aren’t going out with the good doctor, and that’s your favorite excuse.”
“You are persistent.”
“Hey, I’m Italian.”
Fifteen minutes later Laurie found herself in Lou’s Caprice heading downtown. She did not know if it was a good idea to have dinner with the man, but she really hadn’t been able to think of a reason not to go. And although he’d been somewhat rude on previous occasions, now he seemed nothing but charming as he regaled her with stories of growing up in Queens.
Although Laurie had grown up in Manhattan, she’d never been to Little Italy. As they drove up Mulberry Street she was delighted by the ambience. There was a multitude of restaurants and throngs of people strolling the streets. Just like Italy itself, the place seemed to be throbbing with life.
“It’s definitely Italian,” Laurie said.
“It looks it, doesn’t it?” Lou said. “But I’ll tell you a little secret. Most of the real estate here is owned by Chinese.”
“That’s strange,” Laurie said, a bit disappointed although she didn’t know why.
“Used to be an Italian neighborhood,” Lou said, “but the Italians for the most part moved out to the suburbs, like Queens. And the Chinese with a nose for business came in and bought up the properties.”
They pulled into a restricted parking zone. Laurie pointed to the sign.
“Please!” Lou said. He positioned a little card on the dash by the steering wheel. “Once in a while I’m entitled to take advantage of being one of New York’s finest.”
Lou led her down a narrow street to one of the less obvious restaurants.
“It doesn’t have a name,” Laurie said as they entered.
“It doesn’t need one.”
The interior was a kitschy blend of red and white checked tablecloths and trellis interlaced with artificial ivy and plastic grapes. A candle stuck in a jug with wax drippings coating the sides served as each table’s light fixture. A few black velvet paintings of Venice hung on the walls. There were about thirty tables packed tightly in the narrow room; all seemed to be occupied. Harried waiters dashed about attending to the customers. Everyone seemed to know each other by their first names. Over the whole scene hung a babble of voices and a rich, savory, herbed aroma of spicy food.
Laurie suddenly realized how hungry she was. “Looks like we should have made a reservation,” she said.
Lou motioned for her to be patient. In a few minutes a very large and very Italian woman appeared and gave Lou an enveloping hug. She was introduced to Laurie. Her name was Marie.
As if by magic, an available table materialized and Marie seated Laurie and Lou.
“I have a feeling you’re pretty well known here,” Laurie said.
“With as many times as I’ve eaten here I’d better be. I’ve put one of their kids through college.”
To Laurie’s chagrin there were no menus. She had to listen to the choices as they were recited by a waiter with a heavy Italian accent. But no sooner had he finished his impressive litany than Lou leaned over and encouraged her to choose the ravioli or the manicotti. Laurie quickly settled on the ravioli.
With dinner ordered and a bottle of white wine on the table, Lou disappointed Laurie by lighting a cigarette.
“Maybe we could compromise,” Laurie said. “How about you having only one.”
“Fine by me.”
After a glass of wine, Laurie began to revel in the chaotic atmosphere. When their entrées arrived, Giuseppe, the owner-chef, appeared to pay his respects.
Laurie thought the dinner was wonderful. After the last few nights in such formal settings, this lively spot was a welcome relief. Everyone seemed to know—and love—Lou. He received much good-natured kidding for having brought Laurie along. Apparently he usually dined solo.
For dessert Lou insisted they take a walk up the street to an Italian-style coffee bar that served decaf espresso and gelato.
With their espressos and ice creams before them, Laurie looked up at Lou. “Lou,” she said, “there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Uh-oh,” Lou said. “I was hoping we could avoid any potentially troublesome subjects. Please don’t ask me to go to the narc boys again.”
“I only want your opinion,” Laurie said.
“OK,” Lou said. “That’s not so scary. Shoot.”
“I don’t want you to laugh at me, OK,” Laurie said.
“This is starting to sound interesting,” Lou said.
“I have no definitive reason why I’ve been thinking this,” Laurie said. “Just some little facts that bother me.”
“It’s going to take you all night to get this out at this rate,” Lou said.
“It’s about my overdose series,” Laurie said. “I want to know what your opinion would be if I suggested that they were homicides, not accidental overdoses.”
“Keep talking,” Lou said. Absently he took out a cigarette and lit it.
“A case came in where a woman died suddenly in the hospital,” Laurie said. “She has lots of cardiac disease. But when you looked at her and you examined her carefully, you couldn’t help but think that she could have been smothered. The case is being signed out as “natural’ mainly because of the other details—where she was, the fact that she was overweight, and had a history of heart disease. But if the lady had been found someplace else, it might have been considered a homicide.”
“How does this relate to your overdoses?” Lou asked. He leaned forward, the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were squinting from the smoke.
“I started thinking about my overdoses in the same light. Take away the fact that these people were found alone in their apartments with syringes by their sides. It’s hard not to view murders in context. But what if the cocaine wasn’t self-administered?”
“Wow—that would be a twist,” Lou said. He sat back and took the cigarette from his mouth. “It’s true; homicides have been committed with drugs. There’s no doubt about that. But the motive is usually more apparent: robbery, sex, retribution, inheritance. A lot of small-time pushers get killed by their disgruntled clients that way. The cases in your series don’t fit that mold. I thought the whole reason these cases are so striking is the fact that in each case the deceased was apparently such a solid citizen with no history of drug abuse or run-ins with the law.”
“That’s true,” Laurie admitted.
“Do you mean to say you think these yuppies were forcibly administered the cocaine? Laurie, get real. With users willing to pay big bucks for the stuff, why would anyone go on a personal crusade to rid the city of some of its best and brightest? What would they have to gain? Isn’t it likelier that these people were really into drugs on the sly, maybe even dealing?”
“I don’t think so,” Laurie said.
“Besides,” Lou said, “didn’t you say that these people were shooting the coke rather than sniffing it?”
“That’s right,” Laurie said.
“Well, how is someone going to stick a needle in someone who isn’t cooperating? I mean, don’t nurses in hospitals have a hard enough time sticking patients? Now you’re telling me some struggling victim who’s trying to just say no can get shot up against his will? Give me a break.”
Laurie closed her eyes. Lou had stumbled upon the weakest point of her homicide theory.
“If these people were being injected against their will, there would be signs of struggle. Have there been any?”
“No,” Laurie admitted. “At least I don’t think so.” She suddenly recalled the shattered statue in Julia’s apartment.
“The only other way I could conceive of this happening is if the victims had been drugged to beat the band with some kind of knockout cocktail beforehand. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you people at the M.E. office would have found a drug like that if there’d been one. Am I right?”
“You’re right,” Laurie conceded.
“Well, there you go,” Lou said. “I’m not going to fault you for considering homicide, but I think it’s a mighty remote possibility.”
“There are a few other facts I’ve discovered that have made me suspicious,” Laurie persisted. “I visited the apartment of one of the more recent overdose cases today, and the doorman said that on the evening the woman died, she’d come home with two men he’d never seen before.”
“Laurie, you can’t mean to tell me that the fact a woman comes home with two men the doorman doesn’t recognize has spawned this huge conspiracy theory. Is that it?”
“OK! OK!” Laurie said. “Go easy on me. Do you mind that I bring this stuff up? The problem is that these things are bothering me. It’s like a mental toothache.”
“What else?” Lou said patiently. “Out with it.”
“On two of the cases the respective girlfriend or boyfriend was called by the victim an hour or so before and asked to come over.”
“And?” said Lou.
“And nothing,” said Laurie. “That’s it. I just thought it was curious that these people who were allegedly hiding their drug abuse invited their non-druggie significant others over if they were planning a night of coked-out debauchery.”
“These two could have called for a million different reasons. I don’t think either had any idea this trip was going to turn out the way it did. If anything, it’s more support for self-administration. They probably believed in the popular myth of cocaine’s aphrodisiac powers and wanted their playmates to be available at the height of their turn-on.”
“You must think I’m nuts,” Laurie said.
“Not at all,” Lou insisted. “It’s good to be suspicious, particularly in your line of work.”
“Thank you for the consult. I appreciate your patience.”
“My pleasure,” Lou said. “Any time you want to run something by me, don’t hesitate.”
“I enjoyed dinner very much,” Laurie said. “But I think I’d better be thinking of getting home. I still have to make good on my plans to get some work done.”
“If you liked this restaurant,” Lou said, “I’d love to take you to one in Queens. It’s out in the middle of a real Italian neighborhood. Authentic Northern Italian cuisine. How about tomorrow night?”
“Thank you for asking,” Laurie said, “but I do have plans.”
“Of course,” Lou said sarcastically. “How could I forget Dr. Limo.”
“Lou, please!” Laurie said.
“Come on,” Lou said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll take you home. If you can stand my humble, stripped-down Caprice.”
Laurie rolled her eyes.
Franco Ponti pulled his black Cadillac up in front of the Neapolitan Restaurant on Corona Avenue up the street from the Vesuvio and got out. The valet recognized him and rushed over to assure him that good care would be taken of his car. Franco gave the valet a ten-dollar bill and walked through the door.
At that hour on a Friday night, the restaurant was in full swing. An accordion player went from table to table serenading the customers. Between the laughter and din, an air of conviviality marked the evening. Franco paused for a moment, just inside the red velvet curtain separating the foyer from the dining area. He easily spotted Vinnie Dominick, Freddie Capuso, and Richie Herns at one of the upholstered booths along with a pair of buxom, miniskirted bimbos.
Franco walked directly to the table. When Vinnie saw him, he patted the girls and told them to go powder their noses. As soon as they left, Ponti sat down.
“You want something to drink?” Vinnie asked.
“A glass of wine would be fine,” Franco said.
Vinnie snapped his fingers. A waiter instantly appeared for instructions. Just as quickly, he reappeared with the requested glass. Vinnie poured Franco some wine from the bottle standing on the table.
“You got something for me?” Vinnie asked.
Franco took a drink and twisted the bottle around to look at the label.
“Angelo Facciolo and Tony Ruggerio are with Cerino tonight. So they’re idle. But last night they were out hustling. I don’t know what they did early in the evening because I’d lost them. But after some midnight pizza I picked them up again, and they were busy. You read about those murders in Manhattan last night?”
“You mean that big-shot banker and the auction house guy?” Vinnie asked.
“Those are the ones,” Franco said. “Angelo and Tony did both those jobs. And they were messy. They almost got nabbed both times. In fact, I had to be careful not to get picked up for questioning, especially on the banker job. I was parked out front when the cops came.”
“What the hell did they whack them for?” Vinnie said. His face had gotten quite red and his eyes started to bulge.
“I still don’t know,” Franco said.
“Every day the cops are more agitated!” Vinnie bellowed. “And the more of an uproar they’re in, the worse it gets for business. We’ve had to shut most of our gambling clubs down temporarily.” He glared at Franco. “You got to find out what’s going on.”
“I’ve put out some feelers,” Franco said. “I’ll be asking around as well as tailing Angelo and Tony. Somebody’s got to know.”
“I have to do something,” Vinnie said. “I can’t sit around forever while they ruin everything.”
“Give me a couple more days,” Franco said. “If I can’t figure it out, I can get rid of Angelo and Tony.”
“But that would mean a war,” Vinnie said. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that either. That’s even worse for business.”
“You know something, Doc?” Cerino said. “That wasn’t so bad at all. I really was worried but I didn’t feel a thing when you operated. How’d it go?”
“Like a dream,” Jordan said. He was holding a small penlight and shining it in the eye on which he’d just performed surgery. “And it looks fine now. The cornea’s as clear as a bell and the chamber’s deep.”
“If you’re happy,” Cerino said, “I’m happy.”
Cerino was in one of the private rooms of the Goldblatt wing of Manhattan General Hospital. Jordan was making late postoperative rounds since he’d finished his last corneal transplant only half an hour earlier. He’d done four in that day alone. In the background Angelo was leaning against the wall. In an armchair next to the door to the bathroom, Tony was fast asleep.
“What we’ll do is give this eye a few days,” Jordan said, straightening up. “Then if all goes well, which I’m sure it will,” he hastily added, “we’ll do the other eye. Then you’ll be as good as new.”
“You mean I have to wait for the other operation, too?” Cerino demanded. “You didn’t tell me about that. When we started you just said I had to wait for the first operation.”
“Relax!” Jordan urged. “Don’t get your blood pressure up. It’s good to put a little time between operations so that your eye has a chance to recover before I work on the other one. And at the rate we’ve been going today, you shouldn’t have long to wait.”
“I don’t like surprises from doctors,” Cerino warned. “I don’t understand this second waiting period. Are you sure this eye you operated on is doing OK?”
“It’s doing beautifully,” Jordan assured him. “No one could have done better, believe me.”
“If I didn’t believe you I wouldn’t be laying here,” Cerino said. “But if I’m doing this good and if I got to wait for a few days what am I doing in this depressing room. I want to go home.”
“It’s better that you stay. You need medication in your eye. And should any infection set in—”
“Anybody can put a couple of drops in my eyes,” Paul said. “With all that’s happened, my wife Gloria has gotten pretty good at it. I want out of here!”
“If you are determined to go, I can’t keep you,” Jordan said nervously. “But at least be sure to rest and stay quiet.”
Three quarters of an hour later an orderly pushed Cerino to Angelo’s car in a wheelchair. Tony had already moved the Town Car to the curb in front of the hospital’s entrance. He had the engine idling.
Cerino had paid his hospital bill in cash, a feat that had stunned the cashier who was on duty. After a snap of his boss’s fingers, Angelo had peeled hundred-dollar bills off a big roll he had in his pocket until he’d surpassed the total.
“Hands off,” Cerino said when Angelo tried to help him out of the wheelchair when it reached the side of the car and the orderly had activated the wheel brakes. “I can do it myself. What do you think I am, handicapped?” Cerino pushed himself into a standing position and swayed for a moment getting his considerable bulk directly over his legs.
He was dressed in his street clothes. Over his operated eye he had a metal shield with multiple tiny holes.
Slowly he eased himself into the front passenger seat. He allowed Angelo to close the door for him. Angelo got in the backseat. Tony started driving, but as he reached the street he misjudged the curb. The car bounced.
“Jesus Christ!” Cerino yelled.
Tony cowered over the steering wheel.
They drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway. Cerino became expansive.
“You know something, boys,” Cerino beamed, “I feel great! After all that worry and planning, it finally happened. And as I told the doc, it wasn’t half bad. Of course I felt that first needle stick.”
Angelo cringed in the backseat. He’d been squeamish about going into the operating room from the start. When he’d seen Jordan direct that huge needle into Cerino’s face, just below the eye, Angelo had almost passed out. Angelo hated needles.
“But after the needle,” Cerino continued, “I didn’t feel a thing. I even fell asleep. Can you believe that? Can you, Tony?”
“No, I can’t,” Tony said nervously.
“When I woke up it was done,” Cerino said. “Jordan might be an ass, but he’s one hell of a surgeon. And you know something? I think he’s smart. I know he’s practical. We might very well go into business, he and I. What do you say about that, Angelo?”
“An interesting idea,” Angelo said without enthusiasm.