Blindsight

7

Although she hadn’t slept much thanks to her late-night call, Laurie made it a point to arrive at work a little early to compensate for having been late the day before. It was only seven forty-five as she mounted the steps to the medical examiner’s office.

Going directly to the ID office, she detected a mild electricity in the air. Several of the other associate medical examiners who usually didn’t come in until around eight-thirty were already on the job. Kevin Southgate and Arnold Besserman, two of the older examiners, were huddled around the coffeepot in heated debate. Kevin, a liberal, and Arnold, an arch-conservative, never agreed on anything.

“I’m telling you,” Arnold was saying when Laurie squeezed through to get herself some coffee, “if we had more police on the streets, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”

“I disagree,” Kevin said. “This kind of tragedy-”

“What happened now?” Laurie asked as she stirred her coffee.

“A series of homicides in Queens,” Arnold said. “Gunshot wounds to the head from close range.”

“Small-caliber bullets?” Laurie asked.

Arnold looked at Kevin. “I don’t know about that yet.”

“The posts haven’t been done yet,” Kevin explained.

“Were they pulled out of the river?”

“No,” Arnold said. “These people were asleep in their own homes. Now, if we had more police presence-”

“Come on, Arnold!” Kevin said.

Laurie left the two to their bickering and went over to check the autopsy schedule. Sipping her coffee, she checked at who was on autopsy besides herself and what cases were assigned. After her own name were three cases, including Stuart Morgan. She was pleased. Calvin was sticking by his promise.

Noting that the other two cases were drug overdose/toxicity cases as well, Laurie flipped through the investigator’s reports. She was immediately dismayed to see that profiles of the deceased resembled the previous suspicious cases. Randall Thatcher, thirty years old, was a lawyer; Valerie Abrams, thirty-three, was a stockbroker.

The day before she’d feared there’d be more cases, but she’d hoped her fears wouldn’t materialize. Obviously that wasn’t to be the case. Already there were three more. Overnight her modest series had jumped one hundred percent.

Laurie walked through Communications on her way to the medical forensic investigative department. Spotting the police liaison office, she wondered what she should do about the suspected thievery at the Morgan apartment. For the moment she decided to let it go. If she saw Lou she might discuss the matter with him.

Laurie found Cheryl Myers in her tiny windowless office.

“No luck so far on that Duncan Andrews case,” Cheryl told her before she could say a word.

“That’s not why I stopped by,” Laurie said. “I left word last evening with Bart that I wanted to be called if any upscale drug overdose cases came in like Duncan Andrews or Marion Overstreet. I was called last night for one. But this morning I discovered there were two others that I wasn’t called on. Have you any idea why I wasn’t called?”

“No,” Cheryl said. “Ted was on last night. We’ll have to ask him this evening. Was there a problem?”

“Not really,” Laurie admitted. “I’m just curious. Actually I probably couldn’t have gone to all three scenes. And I will be handling the autopsies. By the way, did you check with the hospital about the Marion Overstreet case?”

“Sure did,” Cheryl said. “I spoke with a Dr. Murray and he said that they were just following policy orders from you.”

“That’s what I figured,” Laurie said. “But it was worth a check. Also, I have something else I’d like to ask you to do. Would you see what kind of medical records you can get, particularly surgical, on a woman by the name of Marsha Schulman. I’d love to get some X-rays. I believe she lived in Bayside, Queens. I’m not sure of her age. Let’s say around forty.” Ever since Jordan had told Laurie about his secretary’s husband’s shady dealings and arrest record, she’d had a bad feeling about the woman’s disappearance, particularly in view of the odd break-in at Jordan’s office.

Cheryl wrote the information down on a pad on her desk. “I’ll get right on it.”

Next Laurie sought out John DeVries. As she’d feared, he was less than cordial.

“I told you I’d call you,” John snapped when Laurie asked about a contaminant. “I’ve got hundreds of cases besides yours.”

“I know you’re busy,” Laurie said, “but this morning I have three more overdoses like the three I had before. That brings the body count to a total of six young, affluent, well-educated career people. Something has to be in that cocaine, and we have to find it.”

“You’re welcome to come up here and run the tests yourself,” John said. “But I want you to leave me alone. If you don’t, I’ll have to speak to Dr. Bingham.”

“Why are you acting this way?” Laurie asked. “I’ve tried to be nice about this.”

“You’re being a pain in the neck,” John said.

“Fine,” Laurie said. “It’s wonderful to know we have a nice cooperative atmosphere around here.”

Exasperated, Laurie stalked out of the lab, grumbling under her breath. She felt a hand grip her arm and she spun around, ready to slap John DeVries for having the nerve to touch her. But it wasn’t John. It was one of his young assistants, Peter Letterman.

“Could I talk to you a moment?” Peter said. He glanced warily over his shoulder.

“Of course,” Laurie said.

“Come into my cubbyhole,” Peter said. He motioned for Laurie to follow him. They entered what had originally been designed as a broom closet. There was barely enough room there for a desk, a computer terminal, a file cabinet, and two chairs. Peter closed the door behind them.

Peter was a thin, blond fellow with delicate features. To Laurie he appeared as the quintessential graduate student, with a marked intensity to his eyes and demeanor.

Under his white lab coat was an open-necked flannel shirt.

“John is a little hard to get along with,” he said.

“That’s an understatement,” Laurie answered.

“Lots of artists are like that,” Peter continued. “And John is an artist of sorts. When it comes to chemistry and toxicology in particular, he’s amazing. But I couldn’t help overhearing your conversations with him. I think one of the reasons he’s giving you a hard time is to make a point with the administration that he needs more funding. He’s slowing up a lot of reports, and for the most part it makes little difference. I mean the people are dead. But if your suspicions are right it sounds like we could be in the lifesaving business for a change. So I’d like to help. I’ll see what I can do for you even if I have to put in some overtime.”

“I’d be grateful, Peter,” Laurie said. “And you’re right.”

Peter smiled self-consciously. “We went to the same school,” he said.

“Really?” Laurie said. “Where?”

“Wesleyan,” Peter said. “I was two years behind you, but we shared a class. Physical chemistry.”

“I’m sorry but I don’t remember you,” Laurie said.

“Well, I was kinda a nerd then. Anyway, I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

Laurie returned to her office feeling considerably more optimistic about mankind with Peter’s generous offer to help. Going through the day’s autopsy folders, she came up with only a few questions on two of the cases similar to her question about Marion Overstreet. Just to be thorough she called Cheryl to ask her to check them out.

After changing in her office, Laurie went down to the autopsy room. Vinnie had Stuart Morgan “up” and was well prepared for her arrival. They started work immediately.

The autopsy went smoothly. As they were finishing the internal portion, Cheryl Myers came in holding a mask to her face. Laurie glanced around to make sure Calvin wasn’t in sight to complain that Cheryl had not put on scrubs. Happily he wasn’t in the room.

“I had some luck with Marsha Schulman,” she said, waving a set of X-rays. “She’d been treated at Manhattan General because she worked for a doctor on the staff. They had recent chest film which they sent right over. Want me to put it up?”

“Please,” Laurie said. She wiped her hands on her apron and followed Cheryl over to the X-ray view box. Cheryl stuck the X-rays into the holder and stepped to the side.

“They want them back right away,” Cheryl explained. “The tech in X-ray was doing me a favor by letting them out without authorization.”

Laurie scanned the X-rays. They were an AP and lateral of the chest taken two years before. The lung fields were clear and normal. The heart silhouette looked normal as well. Disappointed, Laurie was about to tell Cheryl to remove the films when she looked at the clavicles, or collarbones. The one on the right had a slight angle to it two-thirds along its length, associated with a slight increase in radiopacity. Marsha Schulman had broken her collarbone sometime in the past. Though well healed, there had definitely been a fracture.

“Vinnie,” Laurie called out. “Get someone to bring the X-ray we took on the headless floater.”

“See something?” Cheryl asked.

Laurie pointed out the fracture, explaining to Cheryl why it appeared as it did. Vinnie brought the requested X-ray over to the view box. He snapped the new film up next to Marsha Schulman’s.

“Well, look at that!” Laurie cried. She pointed to the fractured clavicle. They were identical on both films. “I think we’re looking at the same person,” she said.

“Who is it?” Vinnie asked.

“The name is Marsha Schulman,” Laurie said, pulling down the X-rays from the Manhattan General and handing them to Cheryl. Then she asked Cheryl to check if Marsha Schulman had had a cholecystectomy and a hysterectomy. She told her it was important and asked her to do it immediately.

Pleased with this discovery, Laurie started her second case, Randall Thatcher. As with her first case of the day, there was essentially no pathology. The autopsy went quickly and smoothly. Again Laurie was able to document with reasonable certainty that the cocaine had been taken IV. By the time they were sewing up the body, Cheryl was back in with the news that Marsha Schulman had indeed had both operations in question. In fact, both had been performed at Manhattan General.

Thrilled by this additional confirmation, Laurie finished up and went to her office to dictate the first two cases and to make several calls. First she tried Jordan’s office, only to learn that Dr. Scheffield was in surgery.

“Again?” Laurie sighed. She was disappointed not to get him right away.

“He’s been doing a lot of transplants lately,” Jordan’s nurse explained. “He always does quite a bit of surgery, but lately he’s been doing even more.”

Laurie left word for Jordan to call back when he could. Then she called police headquarters and asked for Lou.

To Laurie’s chagrin, Lou was unavailable. Laurie left her number and asked that he return her call when he could.

Somewhat frustrated, Laurie did her dictation, then headed back to the autopsy room for her third and final case of the day. As she waited for the elevator she wondered if Bingham might be willing to change his mind about making some kind of public statement now that there were six cases.

When the elevator doors opened, Laurie literally bumped into Lou. For a moment they looked at each other with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It was my fault,” Lou told her. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“I was the one who wasn’t looking,” Laurie said.

Then they both laughed at their self-conscious behavior.

“Were you coming to see me?” Laurie asked.

“No,” Lou said. “I was looking for the Pope. Someone said he was up here on the fifth floor.”

“Very funny,” Laurie said, leading him back to her office. “Actually I just this minute tried to call you.”

“Oh, sure!” Lou teased.

“Honest,” Laurie said. She sat down at her desk. Lou took the chair he’d been in the day before. “I made an ID on the headless floater that was found with Marchese. The name is Marsha Schulman. She is Jordan Scheffield’s secretary.”

“You mean Dr. Roses? She was his secretary?” Lou pointed at the flowers, which had not lost any of their freshness.

“One and the same,” Laurie said. “Just last night he told me that she’d not shown up for work. But he also told me that her husband, who’s no Boy Scout, has ties to organized crime.”

“What’s the husband’s name?” Lou asked.

“Danny Schulman,” Laurie said.

“Could that be the Danny Schulman who owns a restaurant in Bayside?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” Laurie said. “Apparently he’s had several brushes with the law.”

“Damn right he has. He’s associated with the Lucia crime family. At least they used his place to run some of their operations like fencing stolen goods, gambling, that sort of thing. We picked up old Danny-boy hoping he’d finger some of the higher-ups, but the guy took the fall without talking.”

“You think his wife might have gotten killed because of his business?” Laurie asked.

“Who knows?” Lou admitted. “Threats could have been made, warnings not heeded. I’ll certainly look into that angle.”

“What a nasty business,” Laurie said.

“That’s an understatement,” Lou said. “And speaking of nasty business, have you gotten any results on Frankie DePasquale’s eyes? Could they document acid?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t heard back yet. Dr. DeVries has not been terribly accommodating. I don’t think he’s looked at the specimen yet. But there is some good news: a young assistant of his is going to help me on the q.t. I think I’ll finally start getting some results.”

“I hope so,” Lou said. “Something big is about to happen in the Queens crime world. There were four gangland-style slayings there last night. People shot in their own homes. And on top of that a friend of Frankie’s and Bruno’s was killed in a funeral home in Ozone Park. Whatever tensions were brewing are bubbling big time.”

“I’d heard there were a number of homicides in Queens,” Laurie said.

“One couple was shot right in their bed while they were sleeping. The other two, one man and one woman, were sleeping as well. As far as we can tell, none of these people had any previous association with organized crime.”

“Sounds like you’re not convinced.”

“I’m not. The manner in which they were killed is almost an indictment. Anyway, I’ve got three separate detective teams working on the three cases, and this is in addition to the organized crime unit who is doing the same. We have so many people out there they are running into each other.”

“Sounds like the Vaccarro and Lucia families are moving toward a showdown,” Laurie said. “But you know something? Somehow mobsters offing mobsters doesn’t bother me so much. At least not as much as the deaths of the accomplished people I’m seeing with this rash of cocaine overdoses. I’ve got three more today. That makes six.”

“I guess we view things from a different perspective,” Lou said. “I feel just the opposite. As far as I’m concerned, I can’t get too overly sympathetic about rich, privileged people doing themselves in trying to get high. In fact I couldn’t care less about druggies of any sort ODing, because they are the ones that create the demand for drugs. If it weren’t for the demand there wouldn’t be a drug problem. They’re more to blame for this current national disaster than the starving peasant down in Peru or Colombia growing coca leaves. If the druggies knock themselves off, all the better. With each death there is that much less demand.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing you correctly,” Laurie snapped. “These are productive members of society that we are losing. People on whom society has spent time and money educating. And why are they dying? Because some bastard put a contaminant in the drug or cut it with something lethal. Stopping these unnecessary deaths is a lot more important than stopping a bunch of gangsters from killing each other. Hell, they’re the ones who are doing a service to society.”

“But not only gangsters get hurt when crime wars break out,” Lou yelled. “Besides, organized crime reaches way down into our lives. In a city like New York it is all around us. Take trash collection-”

“I don’t care about trash collection!” Laurie yelled. “That’s the most stupid comment that I-”

All of a sudden Laurie stopped in midsentence. She realized she’d become angry, and that getting angry at Lou was ridiculous.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice,” Laurie said. “I sound like I’m mad at you, but I’m not. I’m just frustrated. I can’t get anyone else to share my concern about these particular overdose deaths-not even you-and I think future deaths are preventable. But at the rate I’m going we’re like to have forty more ODs before anybody blinks about them.”

“And I’m sorry for raising my voice,” Lou said. “I suppose I’m frustrated too. I need some kind of break. Plus I have the police commissioner breathing down my back. I’ve only been a lieutenant on homicide for a year. I want to save lives, but I also want to save my job. I like being a policeman. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“Speaking of police,” Laurie said, changing the subject, “I had a little shock last night I wanted to share with you. I’d like your advice.”

Laurie described the experience she’d had the night before at Stuart Morgan’s apartment. She tried to be as objective as possible since there had been no hard evidence. Yet as she told the story, especially with the three dollars remaining in the money belt, she became even more convinced that the uniformed patrolmen had stolen things from the Stuart Morgan apartment.

“That’s too bad,” Lou said dejectedly.

There was a pause. Laurie looked at Lou expectantly.

“Is that all you can say?” Laurie questioned finally.

“What else can I say? I hate to hear stories like that, but it happens. What can you do?”

“I thought you’d demand to know the names of the officers involved so that you could reprimand them and-”

“And what?” Lou asked. “Get them fired? I’m not going to do that. You have to expect a little thievery once in a while with the kind of money the typical uniformed patrolman pulls down. A few bucks here and there. It’s like incentive pay. Remember, police work is Godawful frustrating as well as dangerous. So it’s not so surprising. Not that I personally condone it, but you have to expect some.”

“That sounds like convenient morality,” Laurie said. “When you start allowing the “good guys’ to break the law, where do you stop? And not only is this kind of thievery morally objectionable, it’s also a disaster from a medical-legal point of view. These guys mucked around with a scene, distorting and destroying evidence.”

“It’s bad and it’s wrong, but I’m not about to make an issue about this kind of illicit behavior at a drug overdose scene. I’d feel differently if it had been a homicide. I’m sure the officers would too.”

“I can’t believe what a double standard you have! Any drug user can drop dead as far as you’re concerned, and if cops steal from a victim before the M.E. arrives, so much the better.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Lou said, “but this is just the way I feel. You asked me how I felt, I’ve told you. If you want to pursue the matter, I suggest you call Internal Affairs at police headquarters and tell the story to them. Me, I’d rather concentrate on serious bad guys.”

“Once again I can’t believe I’m hearing you correctly,” Laurie said. “I’m floored. What am I, too naive?”

“I take the fifth amendment,” Lou said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “But I tell you what. Why don’t we discuss it further this evening. How about dinner tonight?”

“I have plans,” Laurie said.

“Of course,” Lou said. “How silly of me to think you might be available. I suppose it is Dr. Roses again. But don’t tell me. What’s left of my ego couldn’t take it. With his limo and all, he’s probably taking you to those places where I couldn’t afford to check my coat. Like I said yesterday, let me know if your lab decides to do any of the tests that might show anything. Ciao!”

With that, Lou got up and left the room. Laurie was happy to see him go. He could be so irritating. If he wanted to take personally her turning him down for that evening, he was welcome to. What did he expect her to do? Drop everything?

She was about to call Internal Affairs as Lou had facetiously suggested, but before she could pick up the receiver, the phone rang. It was Jordan returning her call.

“I hope you didn’t call to cancel for tonight,” he said.

“Nothing like that,” Laurie said. “It’s about your secretary, Marsha Schulman.”

“You mean my former secretary,” Jordan said. “She didn’t show up or call this morning either, so I’m in the process of replacing her. I already have a temp.”

“I’m afraid she’s dead,” Laurie said.

“Oh, no!” Jordan said. “Are you serious?”

Laurie explained how she had made the identification of the headless corpse with the chest X-ray, and the fact of the two surgeries.

“The forensic medical investigators are following up to make the identification even more certain,” Laurie said, “but with what we have already, I think we can be quite confident.”

“I wonder if that bastard husband was involved,” Jordan wondered aloud.

“I’m sure the police will be looking into the possibility,” Laurie said. “Anyway, I thought you should know.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Jordan said. “What horrible news.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings,” Laurie said.

“It’s not your fault,” Jordan said. “And I had to be told. Anyway, I’ll still see you at eight.”

“Eight it is.”

Laurie hung up and dialed Internal Affairs. She spoke to a disinterested secretary who took down the details of her story, promising to pass them along to her boss.

Laurie sat at her desk to compose her thoughts before returning to the autopsy room for her last case. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed. It felt as if every aspect of her life-personal, professional, ethical-was spinning out of control.

“I’m Lieutenant Lou Soldano,” Lou said politely. He passed his credentials to the bright-eyed secretary at the reception desk.

“Homicide?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Lou said. “I’d like to speak with the doctor. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

“If you’ll have a seat in the waiting room, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Lou sat down and idly flipped through a recent edition of The New Yorker. He noticed the drawings on the walls, especially one that was blatantly pornographic. He wondered if someone had actually chosen them or if they had come with the office. Either way, thought Lou, there was no accounting for some people’s taste.

Other than the drawings, Lou was impressed with the waiting room. The walls were paneled with mahogany. A tasteful, inch-thick oriental carpet covered the floor. But then Lou already knew the good doctor did quite well for himself.

Lou looked at the faces of the patients who paid for this opulence, plus the limo and the roses. There were about ten in the waiting room, some with eyepatches, some who looked totally healthy, including one middle-aged woman draped in jewels. Lou would have loved to ask her what she was there for, just to get an idea, but he didn’t dare.

Time passed slowly as one by one the patients disappeared into the depths of the office. Lou tried to contain his impatience, but after three-quarters of an hour, he began to get irritated. He began to think it was a deliberate snub on Jordan Scheffield’s part. Although Lou didn’t have an appointment, he’d expected to be seen relatively quickly, perhaps to schedule a future visit if it were needed. It wasn’t every day a detective lieutenant from Homicide dropped by someone’s office. Besides, Lou hadn’t planned on taking much of the doctor’s time.

Lou’s reason for the visit was twofold. He wanted to find out more about Marsha Schulman, but he also wanted to talk about Paul Cerino. It was a kind of fishing trip; the doctor might be able to fill him in on some details he didn’t yet know. He resisted the nagging thought at the back of his mind: he was really there to check out the guy who was seeing Doctor Laurie Montgomery every night for dinner.

“Mr. Soldano,” the secretary said at last, “Dr. Scheffield will see you now.”

“It’s about time,” Lou mumbled as he got to his feet and tossed his magazine aside. He walked toward the door being held open by the secretary. It wasn’t the same door that all the patients had disappeared into.

After a short hall, Lou was shown into Jordan’s private office. He strode into the center of the room. Behind him he heard the door close.

Lou looked at the top of Jordan’s blond head. The doctor was writing in a record.

“Sit down,” Jordan said without looking up.

Lou debated what he wanted to do. The idea of disregarding what sounded more like a command than an offer appealed to him, so he stayed where he was. His eyes roamed the office. He was impressed and couldn’t help compare the environment with his own utilitarian, metal-desked, peeling-walled rathole. Who said life was fair? Lou mused.

Redirecting his attention to the doctor, Lou couldn’t tell much other than that the man was well groomed. He was dressed in a typical doctor white coat that appeared to be whiter than white and starched to boardlike stiffness. On his ring finger he wore a large gold signet ring, probably from some fancy school.

Jordan finished his writing and meticulously organized the pages of the record before folding over its cover. Then he looked up. He appeared genuinely surprised that Lou was still standing in the middle of his office, hat in hand.

“Please,” Jordan said. He got to his feet and gestured toward one of the two chairs facing his desk. “Sit down. Sorry to have made you wait, but I’m tremendously busy these days. Lots of surgery. What can I do for you? I suppose you are here about my secretary, Marsha Schulman. Tragic situation. I hope you people are planning on looking into her husband’s probable involvement.”

Lou’s eyes traveled up to Jordan’s face. He was dismayed the man was so tall. It made him feel short by comparison, although he was almost six feet himself.

“What do you know about Mr. Schulman?” Lou asked. With Jordan’s more cordial offer, Lou sat down. Jordan did the same. Lou listened while Jordan told all he knew about Marsha’s husband. Since Lou already knew considerably more than Jordan, he took the time to observe the “good” doctor, noticing things like a mild yet probably fake English accent. Before Jordan had even finished talking about Danny Schulman, Lou had decided that Jordan was a pompous, affected, arrogant creep. Lou couldn’t understand what a down-to-earth girl like Laurie could see in him.

Lou decided it was time to change the subject. “What about Paul Cerino?” he asked.

Jordan hesitated for a moment. He was surprised at the mention of Paul’s name. “Pardon me for asking,” he said, “but what does Mr. Cerino have to do with anything?”

Lou was glad to see Jordan squirm. “I’d appreciate your telling me all you know about Mr. Cerino.”

“Mr. Cerino is a patient,” Jordan said stiffly.

“I already know that,” Lou said. “I’d like to hear how his treatment is coming along.”

“I don’t talk about my patients,” Jordan said coldly.

“Really?” Lou asked, raising his eyebrows. “That’s not what I’ve heard. In fact, I have it from a reliable source that you’ve been discussing Mr. Cerino’s case in detail.”

Jordan’s lips narrowed some.

“But we can leave that subject for the moment,” Lou said. “I also wanted to ask if you or any of your staff had been the subject of any extortion attempt.”

“Absolutely not,” Jordan said. He laughed nervously. “Why would anyone threaten me?”

“When you start involving yourself with people like Cerino, things like extortion have a way of happening. Could your secretary have been threatened in some way?”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” Lou said. “You tell me.”

“Cerino wouldn’t want to extort me or any of my employees. I’m taking care of the man. I’m helping him.”

“These organized-crime people think differently than normal people,” Lou said. “They consider themselves special and above the law: in fact above everything. If they don’t get exactly what they want, they kill you. If they do get what they want but decide they don’t like you or they owe you too much money, they kill you.”

“Well, I’m certainly giving them what they want.”

“Whatever you say, Doc. I’m just trying to explore all the angles. You’ve got one dead secretary and somebody whacked her rather brutally. And whoever did it didn’t want anyone finding out who she was anytime soon. I want to know why.”

“Well, all I can tell you is I’m quite certain Marsha’s disappearance, or death, hasn’t anything to do with Mr. Cerino. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I have patients to attend to. If you have any additional questions, perhaps you should contact me through my attorney.”

“Sure, Doc, sure,” Lou said. “I’ll be on my way. But a word to the wise: I’d be very careful where Paul Cerino is concerned. The Mafia may seem glamorous when you read about them or see them in the movies, but I think you’d develop a different point of view if you got a glimpse of what Mrs. Schulman looks like now. And one last piece of advice. I’d be careful about sending him a bill. Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

Lou walked out of the building, embarrassed to an extent that he had come. It had been a worthless encounter that had only annoyed him. He couldn’t stand pompous silver-spoon-fed fools like Jordan Scheffield. If he got into trouble with Paul Cerino, it was his own fault. He was so full of his own self-importance that he couldn’t see the danger.

Half an hour later Lou arrived at his office at police headquarters. For a moment he stood on the threshold, surveying the mess within. His digs were a far cry from Jordan Scheffield’s posh surroundings. The furniture was the usual gray metal, city issue with the burns from innumerable cigarettes left on the edges and with stains from spilled coffee. The floor was dried and cracked linoleum. The walls had been painted years previously in a pale green that had blistered from a water leak from the floor above. Papers and reports were stacked on every horizontal surface, since the file cabinets were full.

Lou had never thought much about his office, but today it seemed oppressively dingy. It was irrational, he knew, but he got mad at the smug doctor all over again.

Just then Harvey Lawson, another detective lieutenant on the force, interrupted Lou’s thoughts. “Hey, Lou,” Harvey called, “you know that broad you were talking about yesterday? The one from the medical examiner’s office?”

“Yeah?”

“I just heard she called Internal Affairs. Made some beef about two uniformed guys stealing from an overdose scene. What do you think of that?”

Tony and Angelo were back in Angelo’s Town Car. They were parked across the street from the Greenblatt Pavilion of Manhattan General Hospital. The Greenblatt Pavilion was the fancy part of the hospital where pampered, wealthy patients could order from special menus that included amenities such as wine, provided their doctors permitted such treats as part of their diet.

It was 2:48 in the afternoon and Tony and Angelo were exhausted. They’d hoped to sleep after their busy night, but Paul Cerino had other plans for them.

“What time did Doc Travino say we should pull this off?” Tony asked.

“Three o’clock,” Angelo said. “Supposedly that’s the time there’s most confusion in the hospital. That’s when the day shift of nurses are getting ready to leave and the evening shift is just coming on.”

“If that’s what the doc says, it’s good enough for me.”

“I don’t like it,” Angelo said. “I still think it’s too risky.” He surveyed the vicinity with wary eyes. There was a lot of activity and plenty of cops. In the ten minutes they’d been parked there, Angelo had spotted three squad cars cruising by.

“Think of it as a challenge,” Tony suggested. “And think about all the money we’re getting.”

“I like working at night better,” Angelo said. “And I don’t need any challenges at this point of my life. Besides, I should be sleeping right this minute. I shouldn’t be working when I’m so tired. I might make a mistake.”

“Lighten up,” Tony said. “This should be fun.”

But Angelo wouldn’t let it go. “I got a bad feeling about this job,” he said. “Maybe we should just go home and sleep. We got another big night ahead of us tonight.”

“Why don’t you wait here and I’ll go in by myself. I’ll still split the money with you.”

Angelo bit his lip. It was tempting to send the kid into the hospital alone, but if anything went wrong he knew Cerino would be furious. And even under the best circumstances, if Tony went in by himself, there was a good chance things would go awry. Reluctantly, Angelo came to the conclusion that he really didn’t have a choice.

“Thanks for the offer,” Angelo said, scanning the neighborhood once more, “but I think we should do this together.” It was then that Angelo turned to Tony and saw, to his horror, that Tony had his gun out. He was checking the magazine.

“For Chrissake!” Angelo shouted. “Put your goddamn gun away. What if someone was to walk by the car and see you monkeying around with that thing? There’s cops all over this place.”

“All right already,” Tony exclaimed. He clicked the magazine back into his gun and slipped the gun into its holster. “You are in one hell of a bad mood. I looked around before I took my piece out. What do you think I am, a moron? There’s nobody anywhere near this car.”

Angelo closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. His headache was getting worse. His nerves were frayed. He hated being so tired.

“It’s getting close to three,” Tony said.

“All right,” Angelo said. “You remember the plan of what we’re going to do when we get inside the hospital?”

“I remember what we’re supposed to do,” Tony repeated. “No problem.”

“All right,” Angelo said again. “Let’s do it.”

They got out of the car. Angelo gave one more glance around the immediate area. Satisfied, he led Tony across the street and into the lobby of bustling Manhattan General Hospital.

Their first stop was the hospitality shop, where Angelo purchased two bunches of cut flowers. Handing one to Tony, Angelo carried the other. Taking the flowers back to the entrance area, they waited in line for information.

“Mary O’Connor,” Angelo said politely once it was his turn.

“Five zero seven,” the desk attendant told him after consulting her computer screen.

Joining the crowd at the elevators, Tony leaned toward Angelo and whispered: “So far so good.”

Angelo glowered at Tony again, but said nothing. Nurses just coming on duty had them surrounded. It was no time for a reprimand. At the fifth floor Angelo and Tony got off the elevator along with three nurses.

Angelo waited to see which way the nurses went, then chose the opposite direction. He immediately saw that room 507 was the other way, but he walked until the nurses had reached the busy nurses’ station before retracing his steps.

Angelo behaved as if he knew exactly where he was going. He sauntered past the nurses’ station without so much as a glance in its direction.

Once beyond the nurses’ station, it was easy to find 507. Slowing down, Angelo glanced inside. Satisfied that no staff was in the room, he stepped over the threshold and looked at the woman in the bed. She was watching a TV mounted on a mechanical arm attached to the bed frame.

The woman had an eyepatch over one eye. Her unprotected eye switched its attention from the TV to Angelo. She gave him a questioning look.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. O’Connor,” Angelo said affably. “You have a visitor.”

Angelo waved for Tony to come into the room.

“Who are you?” Mrs. O’Connor asked.

Tony came smiling into the room with his bouquet of flowers out in front of him. Mrs. O’Connor’s eyes went from Angelo to Tony. She smiled.

“I think you must have the wrong room,” she said. “Maybe the wrong O’Connor.”

“Oh?” Angelo questioned. “Aren’t you the O’Connor who’s scheduled for surgery later today?”

“Yes,” Mrs. O’Connor said, “but I don’t know either of you. Do I?”

“I can’t imagine you do,” Angelo said. He stepped back to the door and looked up and down the hall. The nurses’ station was still a flurry of activity. No one was coming the other way. “I think it’s time for Mrs. O’Connor’s treatment.”

Tony’s smile broadened. He laid his flowers on the night table.

“What treatment?” Mrs. O’Connor asked.

“Relaxation therapy,” Tony said. “Let me take your pillow.”

“Did Dr. Scheffield order this?” Although she was suspicious, Mrs. O’Connor did not resist as Tony pulled the pillow from beneath her head. She wasn’t accustomed to second-guessing her physicians.

“Not exactly,” Tony said.

The confession emboldened Mrs. O’Connor. “I’d like to speak with Nurse Lang,” she began to say. But she didn’t get a chance to finish. Tony crammed the pillow down over her face, then sat on her chest.

A few muffled sounds followed, but Mrs. O’Connor didn’t struggle for long. She kicked several times, but the move seemed less defensive than an uncontrollable reaction to being deprived of air.

Angelo acted as lookout throughout. He kept his eyes on the nurses’ station. No problem there. The nurses were engrossed in conversation. Angelo looked down the hall in the other direction. His heart missed a beat when he spotted a middle-aged woman approaching 507 pushing a cartful of water pitchers. She was only fifteen feet away.

Stepping back into the room, Angelo closed the door. Tony hadn’t quite finished dispensing his “treatment.” He was still sitting on top of Mrs. O’Connor.

“Someone’s coming!” Angelo warned him. He pulled his gun from his pocket and fumbled with the silencer.

Tony kept pressure on the pillow. There was a knock at the door.

Angelo motioned toward the bathroom. “Come on,” he urged in a whisper when Tony failed to follow him in. After another ten seconds there was a second knock. Tony reluctantly lifted the pillow. Mary O’Connor was blue and motionless. Her unpatched eye stared blankly at the ceiling.

Frantically Angelo motioned for Tony to join him in the bathroom as a third knock sounded. Then, as the door to the hall opened, Tony pushed off the bed and crowded into the bathroom, forcing Angelo to straddle the toilet. Tony pulled the bathroom door partially closed as the woman with the cart of water pitchers entered the room.

Angelo had his gun ready. The silencer was in place. He did not like the idea of using it, but he was afraid he didn’t have any choice. With the bathroom door open a fraction of an inch, he was able to watch as the woman switched O’Connor’s water pitcher for a fresh one. He held his breath. The woman was only a few feet away. His plan was to wait for her to spot Mrs. O’Connor before he made his move. To his surprise, the woman disappeared from view without so much as a glance in Mrs. O’Connor’s direction.

After waiting for a full minute, Angelo told Tony to take a careful peek.

Slowly Tony opened the bathroom door enough so that he could get his head around the door.

“She’s gone,” Tony said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Angelo said.

Exiting the bathroom, Tony paused at the bedside. “You think she’s dead?” he questioned.

“You can’t be that blue and still be alive,” Angelo said. “Come on. Grab your flowers. I want to be long gone before they find her.”

They made it to the car without incident. Angelo was thinking it was a good thing he’d gone in. Trigger-happy Tony would have left a trail of bodies in his wake.

Angelo was just pulling away from the curb when Tony confided in him. “Smothering wasn’t bad. But I still like shooting them better. It’s surer, quicker, and definitely more satisfying.”

Lou took out a cigarette and lit up. He didn’t even feel like smoking particularly. He was just interested in killing time. The meeting was to have started half an hour earlier but officers were still drifting in. The subject was the three gangland-style executions that had occurred in Queens overnight. Lou had thought the cases would have inspired a sense of urgency in the department, but three detectives were missing.

“Screw them,” Lou said finally, referring to the missing officers. He motioned to Norman Carver, a detective sergeant, to start. Norman was nominally in charge of the investigation, although in point of fact the three units covering the cases were acting independently.

“I’m afraid we don’t have much,” Norman said. “The only link we’ve established between the three cases, other than the manner of murder, is that each of the men was involved in the restaurant business in one way or another, either as an owner, partner, or supplier.”

“That’s not much of an association,” Lou commented. “Let’s review each case.”

“The first one was the Goldburgs in Kew Gardens,” Norman said. “Both Harry and Martha Goldburg were shot dead in their sleep. The preliminary report suggests two guns were involved.”

“And Harry’s occupation?” Lou asked.

“Owned a successful restaurant here in Manhattan,” Norman said. “Place is called La Dolce Vita. East side. Fifty-fourth. He was partners with an Anthony DeBartollo. So far we’ve come up with no problems, financial or personal, involving the partnership or the restaurant.”

“Next,” Lou said.

“Steven Vivonetto of Forest Hills,” Norman said. “Owned a chain of fast-food joints all over Nassau County called Pasta Pronto. Again no financial problems that we’ve come across, but these are all just preliminaries.”

“And finally.”

“Janice Singleton, also of Forest Hills,” Norman said. “Married to Chester Singleton. He has a restaurant-purveyor business and was recently picked up by the Vivonetto chain as a supplier. Again, no financial problems. In fact things had been looking up with the Pasta Pronto account.”

“Who’d been supplying the Pasta Pronto before Singleton?” Lou asked.

“Don’t know that yet,” Norman said.

“I think we should find that out,” Lou said. “Did the Singletons and the Vivonettos know each other personally?”

“We haven’t established that yet,” Norman said. “But we will.”

“What about any organized-crime associations?” Lou asked. “The way these people were killed certainly suggests as much.”

“That’s what we thought when we started,” Norman said. He glanced around at the five other men in the room. They all nodded. “But we’ve found almost nothing. A couple of the restaurants that Singleton supplied have some loose association, but nothing major.”

Lou sighed. “There’s got to be some connection linking the three.”

“I agree,” Norman said. “The slugs we got from the medical examiners suggest that Harry Goldburg, Steven Vivonetto, and Janice Singleton were shot with the same gun, Martha Goldburg from another. But that’s not the ballistics report. It’s just from preliminary examination. But they were all the same caliber. So we have a strong suspicion the same people were behind all three murders.”

“What about burglary?” Lou asked.

“Relatives of the Goldburgs say that Harry had a big gold Rolex. We haven’t found it. Also his wallet could not be located. But at the other scenes, nothing seems to have been taken.”

“Seems that the answer has to be in the restaurant connection,” Lou said. “Get detailed financial statements on all the operations. Also try to find out if these guys had been subjected to extortion or other threats. And do it sooner rather than later. The commissioner is on my back.”

“We’ve got people working around the clock,” Norman said.

Lou nodded.

Norman handed a typewritten sheet to Lou. “Here’s a summary of what I just told you. Sorry for the typos.”

Lou read it over quickly. He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. Something big and bad was going on in Queens. There was no doubt about it. He wondered if these murders could have had anything to do with Paul Cerino. It seemed unlikely. But then Lou thought of Marsha Schulman. He wondered if any of the deceased were acquainted with her husband, Danny. It was a long shot, but there was a chance he was the connecting thread.