Second Honeymoon

Chapter 66

THE CALLER ID on my cell said QUEENS MED. EXAM.

I put down my glass of OJ, muted the small television in my kitchen, and answered “Hello?” before the second ring.

“Agent O’Hara, this is Dr. Papenziekas,” he said.

The deputy medical examiner was getting back to me in the morning, as promised. Bright and early, too.

“What’s your verdict on our airport couple?” I asked. “You have anything good for me?”

“You were right,” he said.

“Cyclosarin?”

“Lots of it.”

“Are you sure?”

I’d expected the doctor with the Noo Yawk attitude to fire back with a smartass retort like, “Hey, numbnuts, feel free to get a second opinion if you want!” But the ground had shifted a bit. I was no longer just some random guy with a crazy hunch. I was clearly on to something.

So the attitude was gone. Sidelined. “Yes, I’m sure it’s cyclosarin,” he said. “I take it you’ve had some experience with poisoning?”

“Yes,” I answered. Firsthand, no less. Let’s just say I’m very careful who cooks for me nowadays.

“Of course, this isn’t just any poison,” he said, his voice trailing off.

He was hinting around now, trying to see what, if anything, I might tell him. I could practically read his mind, what he was thinking. A busy New York airport. A deadly substance unleashed by terrorists.

But I wasn’t about to elaborate, if for no other reason than I still didn’t know what to make of all this. Two dead newlywed couples, both victims of an exotic poison. It wasn’t officially a pattern, but—call me Einstein—it was certainly more than a coincidence.

“When are you due to deliver the autopsy report?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Unless, of course, there’s a reason I shouldn’t be delivering it.”

I had to hand it to the guy; he wasn’t giving up easily. He was basically offering to delay the report in exchange for my telling him how I knew he should look for cyclosarin.

The fact that he had TMZ on the TV in his office when I was there made complete sense now. Dr. Papenziekas liked to be in the know. Of course, I couldn’t really blame him; he spent his days dissecting dead people. Anything to liven things up, right?

“That’s okay,” I said. “You can release that autopsy report when—”

“Jesus Christ!” he blurted out.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you anywhere near a television?”

Clearly, he had one front and center.

“Yeah, why?” I asked.

“Turn to CNN, because…um…well…” He was stumbling over his words, as if trying to figure out how to explain it. “It’s…um…”

I pushed him. “What? What is it?”

Finally, he spit it out.

“It’s you!” he said.