Chromosome 6

CHAPTER 10

MARCH 5, 1997

2:15 P.M.

NEW YORK CITY

“EXCUSE me, Laurie,” Cheryl Myers said, standing in the doorway to Laurie’s office. Cheryl was one of the forensic investigators. “We just received this overnight package, and I thought you might want it right away.”

Laurie stood up and took the parcel. She was curious about what it could be. She looked at the label to find out the sender. It was CNN.

“Thanks, Cheryl,” Laurie said. She was perplexed. She had no idea for the moment what CNN could have sent her.

“I see Dr. Mehta is not in,” Cheryl said. “I brought up a chart for her that came in from University Hospital. Should I put it on her desk?” Dr. Riva Mehta was Laurie’s office mate. They’d shared the space since both had started at the medical examiner’s office six and a half years previously.

“Sure,” Laurie said, preoccupied with her parcel. She got her finger under the flap and pulled it open. Inside was a videotape. Laurie looked at the label. It said: Carlo Franconi shooting, March 3,1997.

After having finished her final autopsy that morning, Laurie had been ensconced in her office, trying to complete some of the twenty-odd cases that she had pending. She’d been busy reviewing microscopic slides, laboratory results, hospital records, and police reports, and for several hours had not thought of the Franconi business. The arrival of the tape brought it all back. Unfortunately the video was meaningless without the body.

Laurie tossed the tape into her briefcase and tried to get back to work. But after fifteen minutes of wasted effort, she turned the light off under her microscope. She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind kept toying with the baffling question of how the body had disappeared. It was as if it had been an amazing magic trick. One minute the body was safely stored in compartment one eleven and viewed by three employees, then poof, it was gone. There had to be an explanation, but try as she might, Laurie could not fathom it.

Laurie decided to head down to the basement to visit the mortuary office. She’d expected at least one tech to be available, but when she arrived the room was unoccupied. Undaunted, Laurie went over to the large, leather-bound log. Flipping the page, she looked for the entries that Mike Passano had shown her the previous night. She found them without difficulty. Taking a pencil from a collection in a coffee mug and a sheet of scratch paper, Laurie wrote down the names and accession numbers of the two bodies that had come in during the night shift: Dorothy Kline #101455 and Frank Gleason #100385. She also wrote down the names of the two funeral homes: Spoletto in Ozone Park, New York, and the Dickson in Summit, New Jersey.

Laurie was about to leave when her eye caught the large Rolodex on the corner of the desk. She decided to call each home. After identifying herself, she asked to speak to the managers.

What had sparked her interest in telephoning was the outside chance that either one of the pickups could have been bogus. She thought the chances were slim, since the night tech, Mike Passano, had said the homes had called before coming and presumably he was familiar with the people.

As Laurie expected, the pickups indeed were legitimate, both managers attesting to the fact that the bodies had come in to their respective homes and were at that time on view.

Laurie went back to the logbook and looked again at the names of the two arrivals. To be complete, she copied them down along with their accession numbers. The names were familiar to her, since she’d assigned them as autopsies the following morning to Paul Plodgett. But she wasn’t as interested in the arrivals as the departures. The arrivals had come in with longtime ME employees, whereas the bodies that had gone out had done so with strangers.

Feeling frustrated, Laurie drummed her pencil on the desk surface. She was sure she had to be missing something. Once again, her eye caught the Rolodex which was open to the Spoletto Funeral Home. In the very back of Laurie’s mind, the name made a hazy association. For a moment, she struggled with her memory. Why was that name familiar? Then she remembered. It had been during the Cerino affair. A man had been murdered in the Spoletto Funeral Home on orders from Paul Cerino, Franconi’s predecessor.

Laurie pocketed her memo, pushed away from the desk and returned to the fifth floor. She walked directly to Jack’s office. The door was ajar. She knocked on the jamb. Both Jack and Chet looked up from their respective labors.

“I had a thought,” Laurie said to Jack.

“Just one?” Jack quipped.

Laurie threw her pencil at him, which he easily evaded. She plopped down in the chair to his right and told him about the mob connection with the Spoletto Funeral Home.

“Good grief, Laurie,” Jack complained. “Just because there is a mob hit in a funeral home, doesn’t mean that it is mob-connected.”

“You don’t think so?” Laurie asked. Jack didn’t have to answer. She could see by his expression. And, now that she thought about her idea, she understood it was a ridiculous notion. She’d been grabbing for straws.

“Besides,” Jack said. “Why won’t you just leave this alone?”

“I told you,” Laurie said. “It’s a personal thing.”

“Maybe I can channel your efforts into a more positive direction,” Jack said. He motioned toward his microscope. “Take a look at a frozen section. Tell me what you think.”

Laurie got up from the chair and leaned over the microscope. “What is this, the shotgun entrance wound?” she asked.

“Just as sharp as usual,” Jack commented. “You’re right on the money.”

“Well, it’s not a hard call,” Laurie said. “I’d say the muzzle was within inches of the skin.”

“My opinion exactly,” Jack said. “Anything else?”

“My gosh, there’s absolutely no extravasation of blood!” Laurie said. “None at all, so this had to have been a postmortem wound.” She raised her head and looked at Jack. She was amazed. She’d assumed it had been the mortal wound.

“Ah, the power of modern science,” Jack commented. “This floater you foisted on me is turning into a bastard of a case.”

“Hey, you volunteered,” Laurie said.

“I’m teasing,” Jack said. “I’m glad I got the case. The shotgun wounds were definitely postmortem, so was the decapitation and removal of the hands. Of course the propeller injuries were, too.”

“What was the cause of death?” Laurie asked.

“Two other gunshot wounds,” Jack said. “One through the base of the neck.” He pointed to an area just above his right collarbone. “And another in the left side that shattered the tenth rib. The irony was that both slugs ended up in the mass of shotgun pellets in the right upper abdominal area and were difficult to be seen on the X ray.”

“Now that’s a first,” Laurie said. “Bullets hidden by shotgun pellets. Amazing! The beauty of this job is that you see new things every day.”

“The best is yet to come,” Jack said.

“This is a ‘beaut,’ ” Chet said. He’d been listening to the conversation. “It’ll be perfect for one of the forensic pathology dinner seminars.”

“I think the shotgun blasts were an attempt to shield the victim’s identity as much as the decapitation and removal of the hands,” Jack said.

“In what way?” Laurie asked.

“I believe this patient had had a liver transplant,” Jack said. “And not that long ago. The killer must have understood that such a procedure put the patient in a relatively small group, and hence jeopardized the chances of hiding the victim’s identity.”

“Was there much liver left?” Laurie asked.

“Very little,” Jack said. “Most of it was destroyed by the shotgun injury.”

“And the fish helped,” Chet said.

Laurie winced.

“But I was able to find some liver tissue,” Jack said. “We’ll use that to corroborate the transplant. As we speak, Ted Lynch ip in DNA is running a DQ alpha. We’ll have the results in an hour or so. But for me the clincher was the sutures in the vena cava and the hepatic artery.”

“What’s a DQ alpha?” Laurie asked.

Jack laughed. “Makes me feel better that you don’t know,” he said, “because I had to ask Ted the same question. He told me it is a convenient and rapid DNA marker for differentiating two individuals. It compares the DQ region of the histocompatibility complex on chromosome six.”

“What about the portal vein?” Laurie asked. “Were there sutures in it as well?”

“Unfortunately, the portal vein was pretty much gone,” Jack said. “Along with a lot of the intestines.”

“Well,” Laurie said. “This should all make identification rather easy.”

“My thought exactly,” Jack said. “I’ve already got Bart Arnold hot on the trail. He’s been in contact with the national organ procurement organization UNOS. He’s also in the process of calling all the centers actively doing liver transplants, especially here in the city.”

“That’s a small list,” Laurie said. “Good job, Jack.”

Jack’s face reddened slightly, and Laurie was touched. She thought he was immune to such compliments.

“What about the bullets?” Laurie asked. “Same gun?”

“We’ve packed them off to the police lab for ballistics,” Jack said. “It was hard to say if they came from the same gun or not because of their distortion. One of them made direct contact with the tenth rib and was flattened. Even the second one wasn’t in good shape. I think it grazed the vertebral column.”

“What calibre?” Laurie asked.

“Couldn’t tell from mere observation,” Jack said.

“What did Vinnie say?” Laurie asked. “He’s become pretty good at guessing.”

“Vinnie’s worthless today,” Jack said. “He’s been in the worst mood I’ve ever seen him in. I asked him what he thought, but he wouldn’t say. He told me it was my job, and that he wasn’t paid enough to be giving his opinions all the time.”

“You know, I had a case similar to this back during that awful Cerino affair,” Laurie said. She stared off and for a moment, her eyes glazed over. “The victim was a secretary of the doctor who was involved with the conspiracy. Of course, she’d not had a liver transplant, but the head and the hands were gone, and I did make the identification because of her surgical history.”

“Someday you’ll have to tell me that whole grisly story,” Jack said. “You keep dropping tantalizing bits and pieces.”

Laurie sighed. “I wish I could just forget the whole thing. It still gives me nightmares.”

Raymond glanced at his watch as he opened the Fifth Avenue door to Dr. Daniel Levitz’s office. It was two forty-five. Raymond had called the doctor three times starting just after eleven a.m., without success. On each occasion, the receptionist had promised Dr. Levitz would phone back, but he hadn’t. In his agitated state, Raymond found the discourtesy aggravating. Since Dr. Levitz’s office was just around the corner from Raymond’s apartment, Raymond thought it was better to walk over than sit by the phone.

“Dr. Raymond Lyons,” Raymond said with authority to the receptionist. “I’m here to see Dr. Levitz.”

“Yes, Dr. Lyons,” the receptionist said. She had the same cultivated, matronly look as Dr. Anderson’s receptionist. “I don’t have you down on my appointment sheet. Is the doctor expecting you?”

“Not exactly,” Raymond said.

“Well, I’ll let the doctor know you are here,” the receptionist said noncommitally.

Raymond took a seat in the crowded waiting room. He picked up one of the usual doctor waiting-room magazines and flipped the pages without focusing on the images. His agitation was becoming tinged with irritation, and he began to wonder if it had been a bad decision to come to Dr. Levitz’s office.

The job of checking on the first of the other two transplant patients had been easy. With one phone call Raymond had spoken with the recruiting doctor in Dallas, Texas. The doctor had assured Raymond that his kidney-transplant patient, a prominent local businessman, was doing superbly and was in no way a possible candidate for an autopsy. Before hanging up the doctor had promised Raymond to inform him if the situation were ever to change.

But with Dr. Levitz’s failure to return Raymond’s phone call, Raymond had not been able to check on the last case. It was frustrating and anxiety-producing.

Raymond’s eyes roamed the room. It was as sumptuously appointed as Dr. Anderson’s, with original oils, deep burgundy-colored walls, and oriental carpets. The patients patiently waiting were all obviously well-to-do as evidenced by their clothes, bearing, and jewels.

As the minutes ticked by, Raymond found his irritation mounting. What was adding insult to injury at the moment was Dr. Levitz’s obvious success. It reminded Raymond of the absurdity of his own medical license being in legal limbo just because he’d gotten caught padding his Medicare claims. But here was Dr. Levitz working away in all this splendor with at least part of his receipts coming from taking care of a number of crime families. Obviously, it all represented dirty money. And on top of that Raymond was sure Levitz padded his Medicare claims. Hell, everybody did.

A nurse appeared and cleared her throat. Expectantly, Raymond moved to the edge of his seat. But the nurse called out another name. While the summoned patient got up, replaced his magazine, and disappeared into the bowels of the office, Raymond slouched back against the sofa and fumed. Being at the mercy of such people made Raymond long for financial security all the more. With this current “doubles” program he was so close. He couldn’t let the whole enterprise crumble for some stupid, unexpected, easily remedied reason.

It was three-fifteen when finally Raymond was ushered into Daniel Levitz’s inner sanctum. Levitz was a small, balding man with multiple nervous tics. He had a mustache but it was sparse and decidedly unmanly. Raymond had always wondered what it was about the man that apparently inspired confidence in so many patients.

“It’s been one of those days,” Daniel said by way of explanation. “I didn’t expect you to drop by.”

“I hadn’t planned on it myself,” Raymond said. “But when you didn’t return my calls, I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“Calls?” Daniel questioned. “I didn’t get any calls from you. I’ll have to have another talk with that receptionist of mine. Good help is so difficult to come by these days.”

Raymond was tempted to tell Daniel to cut the bull, but he resisted. After all, he was finally talking to the man, and turning the meeting into a confrontation wouldn’t solve anything. Besides, as irritating as Daniel Levitz could be, he was also Raymond’s most successful recruit. He had signed up twelve clients for the program as well as four doctors.

“What can I do for you?” Daniel asked. His head twitched several times in its usual and disconcerting way.

“First I want to thank you for helping out the other night,” Raymond said. “From the absolute pinnacles of power it was thought to be an emergency. Publicity at this point would have meant an end to the whole enterprise.”

“I was glad to be of service,” Daniel said. “And pleased that Mr. Vincent Dominick was willing to help out to preserve his investment.”

“Speaking of Mr. Dominick,” Raymond said. “He paid me an unexpected visit yesterday morning.”

“I hope on a cordial note,” Daniel said. He was quite familiar with Dominick’s career as well as his personality, and surmised that extortion would not be out of the question.

“Yes and no,” Raymond admitted. “He insisted on telling me details I didn’t want to know. Then he insisted on paying no tuition for two years.”

“It could have been worse,” Daniel said. “What does that mean to my percentage?”

“The percentage stays the same,” Raymond said. “It’s just that it becomes a percentage of nothing.”

“So, I help and then get penalized!” Daniel complained. “That’s hardly fair.”

Raymond paused. He’d not thought about Daniel’s loss of his cut of Dominick’s tuition, yet it was something that had to be faced. At present, Raymond was reluctant to upset the man.

“You have a valid point,” Raymond conceded. “Let’s say we’ll discuss it in the near future. At the moment, I have another concern. What’s the status of Cindy Carlson?”

Cindy Carlson was the sixteen-year-old daughter of Albright Carlson, the Wall Street junk-bond mogul. Daniel had recruited Albright and his daughter as clients. As a youngster the daughter had suffered from glomerulonephritis. The malady had worsened during the girl’s early teens to the point of kidney failure. Consequently, Daniel not only had the record number of clients, he also had the record number of harvests, two: Carlo Franconi and Cindy Carlson.

“She’s been doing fine,” Daniel said. “At least healthwise. Why do you ask?”

“This Franconi business has made me realize how vulnerable the enterprise is,” Raymond admitted. “I want to be sure there are no other possible loose ends.”

“Don’t worry about the Carlsons,” Daniel said. “They certainly aren’t going to cause us any trouble. They couldn’t be any more grateful. In fact, just last week Albright was talking about getting his wife out to the Bahamas to give a bone-marrow sample so she can become a client as well.”

“That’s encouraging,” Raymond said. “We can always use more clients. But it’s not the demand side of the enterprise that has me worried. Financially we couldn’t be doing any better. We’re ahead of all projections. It’s the unexpected that has me worried, like Franconi.”

Daniel nodded and then twitched. “There’s always uncertainty,” he said philosophically. “That’s life!”

“The lower the level of uncertainty, the better I’ll feel,” Raymond said. “When I asked you about Cindy Carlson’s status, you qualified your positive response as healthwise. Why?”

“Because she’s a basket case mentally,” Daniel said.

“How do you mean?” Raymond asked. Once again his pulse quickened.

“It’s hard to imagine a kid not being a bit crazy growing up with a father like Albright Carlson.” Daniel said. “Think about it. And then add the burden of a chronic illness. Whether that contributed to her obesity, I don’t know. The girl is quite overweight. That’s tough enough for anybody but especially so for a teen. The poor kid is understandably depressed.”

“How depressed?” Raymond asked.

“Depressed enough to attempt suicide on two occasions,” Daniel said. “And they weren’t just childish bids for attention. They were bona fide attempts, and the only reason she’s still with us is because she was discovered almost immediately and because she’d tried drugs the first time and hanging herself the second. If she’d had a gun she surely would have succeeded.”

Raymond groaned out loud.

“What’s the matter?” Daniel asked.

“All suicides are medical examiner cases,” Raymond said.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Daniel said.

“This is the kind of loose end I was referring to,” Raymond said. “Damn! Just our luck!”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” Daniel said.

“It’s not your fault,” Raymond said. “The important thing is that we recognize it for what it is, and that we understand we can’t sit idly by and wait for catastrophe.”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” Daniel said.

“What about Vincent Dominick?” Raymond said. “He’s helped us once and with his own child ill, he has a vested interest in our program’s future.”

Dr. Daniel Levitz stared at Raymond. “Are you suggesting…?”

Raymond didn’t reply.

“This is where I draw the line,” Daniel said. He stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have a waiting-room full of patients.”

“Couldn’t you call Mr. Dominick and just ask?” Raymond said. He felt a wave of desperation wash over him.

“Absolutely not,” Daniel said. “I might take care of a number of criminally connected individuals, but I certainly don’t get involved with their business.”

“But you helped with Franconi,” Raymond complained.

“Franconi was a corpse on ice at the medical examiner’s office,” Daniel said.

“Then give me Mr. Dominick’s phone number,” Raymond said. “I’ll call him myself. And I’ll need the Carlsons’ address.”

“Ask my receptionist,” Daniel said. “Just tell her you’re a personal friend.”

“Thank you,” Raymond said.

“But just remember,” Daniel said. “I deserve and want the percentages that are due to me regardless of what happens between you and Vinnie Dominick.”

At first the receptionist was reluctant to give Raymond the phone number and the addresses, but after a quick call to her boss, she relented. Wordlessly, she copied the information onto the back of one of Dr. Daniel Levitz’s business cards and handed it to Raymond.

Raymond wasted no time getting back to his apartment on Sixty-fourth Street. As he came through the door, Darlene asked how the meeting with the doctor had gone.

“Don’t ask,” Raymond said curtly. He went into his paneled study, closed the door, and sat down at his desk. Nervously, he dialed the phone. In his mind’s eye, he could see Cindy Carlson either scrounging around in the medicine cabinet for her mother’s sleeping pills or hanging out in the local hardware store buying a length of rope.

“Yeah, what is it?” a voice said on the other end of the line.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Vincent Dominick,” Raymond said with as much authority as he could muster. He detested the necessity to deal with the likes of these people, but he had little choice. Seven years of intense labor and commitment were on the line, not to mention his entire future.

“Who’s calling?”

“Dr. Raymond Lyons.”

There was a pause before the man said: “Hang on!”

To Raymond’s surprise he was put on hold with one of Beethoven’s sonatas playing in the background. To Raymond it seemed like some sort of oxymoron.

A few minutes later Vinnie Dominick’s dulcet voice came over the line. Raymond could picture the man’s practiced and deceptive banality as if Vinnie were a well-dressed character actor playing himself.

“How did you get this number, Doctor?” Vinnie asked. His tone was nonchalant, yet somehow more threatening because of it. Raymond’s mouth went bone-dry. He had to cough.

“Dr. Levitz gave it to me,” Raymond managed.

“What can I do for you, Doctor?” Vinnie asked.

“Another problem has come up,” Raymond croaked. He cleared his throat again. “I’d like to see you to discuss it.”

There was a pause that went on for longer than Raymond could tolerate. Just when he was about to ask if Vinnie was still there, the mobster responded: “When I got involved with you people I thought it was supposed to give me peace of mind. I didn’t think it was supposed to make my life more complicated.”

“These are just minor growing pains,” Raymond said. “In actuality, the project is going extremely well.”

“I’ll meet you in the Neopolitan Restaurant on Corona Avenue in Elmhurst in a half hour,” Vinnie said. “Think you can find it?”

“I’m certain I can,” Raymond said. “I’ll take a cab, and I’ll leave immediately.”

“See you there,” Vinnie said before hanging up.

Raymond rummaged hastily through the top drawer of his desk for his New York City map that included all five boroughs. He spread the map out on his desk, and using the index, located Corona Avenue in Elmhurst. He estimated that he could make it easily in half an hour provided the traffic wasn’t bad on the Queensborough Bridge. That was a concern because it was almost four o’clock: the beginning of rush hour.

As Raymond came flying out of his study, pulling his coat back on, Darlene asked him where he was going. He told her he didn’t have time to explain. He said he’d be back in an hour or so.

Raymond ran to Park Avenue, where he caught a cab. It was a good thing he’d brought his map along because the Afghan taxi driver had no idea even where Elmhurst was, much less Corona Avenue.

The trip was not easy. Just getting across the East Side of Manhattan took almost a quarter of an hour. And then the bridge was stop-and-go. By the time Raymond was supposed to be at the restaurant, his cab had just reached Queens. But from there it was easy going, and Raymond was only fifteen minutes late when he walked into the restaurant and pushed aside a heavy, velvet curtain.

It was immediately apparent the restaurant was not open for business. Most of the chairs were upside down on top of the tables. Vinnie Dominick was sitting by himself in one of the curved, red velvet-upholstered booths that lined the walls. In front of him were a newspaper and a small cup of expresso. A lighted cigarette lay in a glass ashtray.

Four other men were smoking at the bar, sprawled on bar stools. Two of them Raymond recognized from their visit to his apartment. Behind the bar was an overweight bearded man washing glassware. The rest of the restaurant was empty.

Vinnie waved Raymond to his booth.

“Sit down, Doc,” Vinnie said. “A coffee?”

Raymond nodded as he slid into the banquette. It took some effort because of the nap of the velvet. The room was chilly, damp, and smelled of the previous night’s garlic and the accumulated smoke of five-years’ worth of cigarettes. Raymond was happy to keep on his hat and coat.

“Two coffees,” Vinnie called out to the man behind the bar. Wordlessly, the man turned to an elaborate Italian expresso machine and began manipulating the controls.

“You surprised me, Doc,” Vinnie said. “I truly never expected to hear from you again.”

“As I mentioned on the phone there’s another problem,” Raymond said. He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice just above a whisper.

Vinnie spread his hands. “I’m all ears.”

As succinctly as he could, Raymond outlined the situation with Cindy Carlson. He emphasized the fact that all suicides were medical examiner cases and had to be autopsied. There were no exceptions.

The overweight man from behind the bar brought out the coffees. Vinnie didn’t respond to Raymond’s monologue until the bartender had gone back to his glassware.

“Is this Cindy Carlson the daughter of Albright Carlson?” Vinnie asked. “The Wall Street legend?”

Raymond nodded. “That’s partly why this situation is so important,” he said. “If she commits suicide it will undoubtedly garner considerable media attention. The medical examiners will be particularly vigilant.”

“I get the picture,” Vinnie said as he took a sip of his coffee. “What is it exactly that you would want us to do?”

“I wouldn’t presume to offer any suggestions,” Raymond said nervously. “But you can appreciate that this problem is on a par with the Franconi situation.”

“So you want this sixteen-year-old girl to just conveniently disappear,” Vinnie said.

“Well, she has tried to kill herself twice,” Raymond said limply. “In a way, we’d just be doing her a favor.”

Vinnie laughed. He picked up his cigarette, took a drag, and then ran his hand over the top of his head. His hair was slicked back smoothly from his forehead. He regarded Raymond with his dark eyes.

“You’re a piece of work, Doc,” Vinnie said. “I gotta give you credit for that.”

“Perhaps I can offer another year of free tuition,” Raymond said.

“That’s very generous of you,” Vinnie said. “But you know something, Doc, it’s not enough. In fact, I’m getting a little fed up with this whole operation. And I’ll tell you straight: if it weren’t for Vinnie Junior’s kidney problems, I’d probably just ask for my money back, and we’d go our separate ways. You see, I’m already looking at potential problems from the first favor I did for you. I got a call from my wife’s brother who runs the Spoletto Funeral Home. He’s all upset because a Dr. Laurie Montgomery called asking embarrassing questions. Tell me, Doc. Do you know this Dr. Laurie Montgomery?”

“No, I don’t,” Raymond said. He swallowed loudly.

“Hey, Angelo, come over here!” Vinnie called out.

Angelo slid off his bar stool and came to the table.

“Sit down, Angelo,” Vinnie said. “I want you to tell the good doctor here about Laurie Montgomery.”

Raymond had to move farther into the booth to give room for Angelo. He felt distinctly uncomfortable being sandwiched between the two men.

“Laurie Montgomery is a smart, persistent individual,” Angelo said with his husky voice. “To put it bluntly, she’s a pain in the ass.”

Raymond avoided looking at Angelo. His face was mostly scar tissue. Since his eyes didn’t close properly, they were red and rheumy.

“Angelo had an unfortunate run-in with Laurie Montgomery a few years back,” Vinnie explained. “Angelo, tell Raymond what you learned today after we heard from the funeral home.”

“I called Vinnie Amendola, our contact in the morgue,” Angelo said. “He told me that Laurie Montgomery specifically said that she was going to make it her personal business to find out how Franconi’s body disappeared. Needless to say he’s very concerned.”

“See what I mean,” Vinnie said. “We got a potential problem here just because we did you a favor.”

“I’m very sorry,” Raymond said lamely. He couldn’t think of any other response.

“It brings us back to this tuition issue,” Vinnie said. “Under the circumstances I think the tuition should just be waived. In other words, no tuition for me or Vinnie junior forever.”

“I do have to answer to the parent corporation,” Raymond squeaked. He cleared his throat.

“Fine,” Vinnie said. “Doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Explain to them it’s a valid business expense. Hey, maybe you could even use it as a deduction on your taxes.” Vinnie laughed heartily.

Raymond shuddered imperceptibly. He knew he was being unfairly muscled, yet he had little choice. “Okay,” he managed.

“Thank you,” Vinnie said. “Gosh, I guess this is going to work out after all. We’ve become sort’a business partners. Now I trust you have Cindy Carlson’s address?”

Raymond fumbled in his pocket and produced Dr. Levitz’s business card. Vinnie took it, copied down the address from the back, and handed it back. Vinnie gave the address to Angelo.

“Englewood, New Jersey,” Angelo said, reading aloud.

“Is that a problem?” Vinnie asked.

Angelo shook his head.

“Then, it’s arranged,” Vinnie said, looking back at Raymond. “So much for your latest problem. But I advise you not to come up with any more. With our current tuition understanding it seems to me you’re out of bargaining chips.”

A few minutes later, Raymond was out on the street. He realized he was shaking as he looked at his watch. It was close to five and getting dark. Stepping off the curb, he raised his hand to flag a cab. What a disaster! he thought. Somehow he would have to absorb the cost of maintaining Vinnie Doinick’s and his son’s double for the rest of their lives.

A cab pulled over. Raymond climbed in and gave his home address. As he sped away from the Neopolitan Restaurant, he began to feel better. The actual cost of maintaining the two doubles was minuscule, since the animals lived in isolation on a deserted island. So the situation wasn’t that bad, especially since the potential problem with Cindy Carlson was now solved.

By the time Raymond entered his apartment his mood had improved significantly, at least until he got in the door.

“You’ve had two calls from Africa,” Darlene reported.

“Problems?” Raymond asked. There was something about Darlene’s voice that set off alarm bells.

“There was good news and bad news,” Darlene said. “The good news was from the surgeon. He said that Horace Winchester is doing miraculously and that you should start planning on coming to pick him and the surgical team up.”

“What’s the bad news?” Raymond asked.

“The other call was from Siegfried Spallek,” Darlene said. “He was a little vague. He said there was some trouble with Kevin Marshall.”

“What kind of trouble?” Raymond asked.

“He didn’t elaborate,” Darlene said.

Raymond remembered specifically asking Kevin not to do anything rash. He wondered if the researcher had not heeded his warning. It must have had something to do with that stupid smoke Kevin had seen.

“Did Spallek want me to call back tonight?” Raymond asked.

“It was eleven o’clock his time when he called,” Darlene said. “He said he could talk to you tomorrow.”

Raymond groaned inwardly. Now he’d have to spend the entire night worrying. He wondered when it was all going to end.