Likely To Die

14

IT WAS CLOSE TO SEVEN O’CLOCK FRIDAY evening as I pounded up the staircase in the station house. The excitement that had animated the task force team members in the morning had dissipated. An aura of dejection was palpable.

Jerry McCabe was talking on the phone behind a desk against the window. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and called out to me, “They’re in the room at the end of the hall with Bailey, Alex. Go ahead on in.”

I left my coat and books in Peterson’s office and went down to the locker room. The lieutenant and Wallace were standing with their backs to me, a couple of other men were leaning against the wall, and Pops was sitting on the table stripped down to a filthy green pair of boxer shorts.

A medic from the Emergency Medical Service was kneeling in front of Austin Bailey examining his left leg from the thigh down the calf to the sole of his foot.

“Not a scratch,” he announced to the lieutenant as he stood up and pushed away from the table.

Peterson introduced me to Juan Guerra, who had just finished a head-to-toe inspection of Austin Bailey. The prisoner was still atop the table, his chin resting against his bare chest, mumbling to himself as this small band of unhappy cops looked at him like a specimen in a public zoo.

“Mercer, you got a copy of the Polaroid of Pops’s pants showing the bloodstains?” I asked.

As Wallace removed a batch of photos from his jacket pocket, Bailey looked up at me and grinned. “I told you it’s paint, lady.”

I passed the Polaroid to Guerra, pointing out to him the large areas of discoloration on the lower part of the left pants leg and explaining that there had been a substantial amount of blood on the right side and in his shoes as well.

He nodded his head as he viewed the picture and spoke a single word: “Varicosities.”

A chorus of “What?” echoed in the locker room.

“I’m ready to throw the switch on the electric chair myself ‘cause of this bloodbath and you’re telling me this guy’s got varicose veins?” Wallace asked.

“See it all the time, especially with a lot of the homeless population who haven’t had any regular medical care.” Guerra kneeled in front of Bailey again and calmly asked him to extend both his legs. He picked up the older man’s feet one at a time and ran his hand over the skin, circling the area around the prominent bone that protruded from the inner aspect of each ankle. “He’s certainly got varicose veins. And when they burst, he could bleed to death right on the spot if you don’t control the puncture.”

Pops was looking back and forth as everyone talked about him, scratching his midriff with one hand and nervously running his fingers over the desk with the other.

I squatted and looked at Bailey’s ankles with the medic.

“I know my grandmother had ‘em, Juan,” said Peterson, “but what the hell are varicose veins, anyway?”

“Keep a watch, Lieutenant,” the young EMS worker told him, “they’re usually hereditary. Dilated or twisted veins, most often in the legs and thighs, develop a weakness.

“The valves in the vein that circulate the blood back up to the heart, they can’t do the job. Could be old injuries from drug use or just-”

Wallace pointed at the lines of old needle marks on Bailey’s arms and thighs. “Damn, he’s got more tracks than the B and O Railroad.”

“But there’s not a new mark there that I can see. Not a scratch, not a scar, not a blemish, except for those dried-up old areas,” I said.

Guerra continued. “Miss Cooper, I’ve seen ‘em spurt like an oil well. Heart keeps pumping, the vein opens up, and the blood’s got nowhere to go. Last week, my partner and I responded to a call on Thirty-sixth Street. Old guy’s shoes just filled up with blood and flooded over.

“I put my finger right on the vein-that big one next to the ankle bone-applied pressure for a minute, and stopped it right up. Go to look at it half an hour later and there’s nothin‘ to see. Comes out of a hole the size of a pinprick. You either stop it pretty quick or the patient can bleed to death.”

“Well, why the hell didn’t he just tell us it was hisown blood?” Mercer asked of no one in particular.

Pops reached for my hand as I pulled away from the table. “Told you it was a bucket of paint. Told you I was sorry about hurting that lady.”

It was clear that Bailey didn’t know which end was up and probably wasn’t even aware of what was staining his own clothes.

“Let the guy get dressed,” I said, leaving the room. “When you deliver him to Bellevue, make sure they give him a complete physical. He might as well get something for himself out of all this aggravation.”

The squad room was quiet. Peterson and the others followed me inside while the pair of medics packed up their bags to leave.

I fished through my pocketbook to dig out my Filofax and look up Chet Kirschner’s home telephone. The Chief Medical Examiner listened to me repeat Juan Guerra’s story about a burst varicose vein and assured me that it was a logical explanation to account for the blood that had made Pops Bailey such an outstanding suspect.

When I hung up, I could hear Peterson talking to Bill Dietrich. He wanted the hospital administration to know as soon as possible that the murder had not been solved and the probability remained that staff and patients were still at risk.

“Anybody checking on Maureen?” I asked.

“Charles agreed to go along with the plan so he’s spending the evening with her.” Maureen’s husband had retired from the Police Department to run the investigations division of a major corporation. “Everything was smooth today. The men who went into her room to hook up her television service were actually our tech guys. They installed a microcamera and recorder behind a duct in the ceiling linked up to a monitor in their truck. They’re parked right behind Minuit Medical College. So she can get a good night’s sleep, Alex-she’s covered.”

“You want to tell me what we do now?”

“I vote we knock off for the night,” Wallace said. “We come in fresh tomorrow morning and begin right back over at the hospital. Underground and above-ground.

“Start looking real close at Gemma Dogen. Once we focused on Pops, we were all thinking this was a random thing, he just hit on whoever was around. Now we got everyone telling us how aloof she was and how strong her dislikes were, gotta go back to thinking somebody was trying to get rid ofher in particular.”

“I can’t believe we lost twenty-four hours on this red herring.”

“Where’s Chapman?” Peterson asked, looking at his watch, already more than twelve hours into his working day.

Mercer and I exchanged looks, bringing a smile to my face for the first time since Schaeffer beeped me with the blood results. Mike was undoubtedly taking a fifteen-minute break in a bar somewhere between Mid-Manhattan and the station house, enjoying a beer while he matched wits with Alex Trebek.

“I’m getting out of here before he shows up, otherwise I’ll get stuck for the rest of the evening.

“I’ll be around home all weekend, Loo. Call if you need me for anything, will you?” I said, picking up my case folder and readying myself for the short trip to my apartment.

“Sure thing. Get some rest. I have a feeling we’ll be coasting the ups and downs of this thing ‘til we get back on track. Need a ride?”

“The sergeant on the desk will stick me in a patrol car. I’m just over the precinct line. G’night, Mercer. ‘Night, Loo. Speak to you guys tomorrow.”

I sat in the rear seat of an RMP with two young uniformed officers who dropped me in front of my building. The doorman told me I had packages in the back room so I waited until he returned with a bundle of mail and magazines and a load of clothes from the dry cleaner.

When I opened the door to my apartment, Prozac was splayed in the middle of the entryway on my needlepoint rug. Her stubby tail was wagging before she lifted her head and I was delighted to have her company for the weekend.

David Mitchell’s housekeeper had brought Zac into my apartment with a note she left on the table next to the lamp, underneath the dog’s leash. “I fed her dinner before I left at six o’clock. She just needs another walk before you go to bed.”

I put my things away, changed into leggings and an oversized man-tailored shirt, and splashed some Calèche behind my ears and on my pulse points. I’d been off my favored Chanel since my last romance had soured.

I walked into the kitchen to study the freezer contents. The bottom shelves held a few containers of ice cream-assorted flavors with the common denominator of chocolate as an ingredient-several stacks of Lean Cuisine above the desserts, and a plastic holder full of cubes from the automatic ice maker. More than enough supplies for a perfect evening at home.

I decided on a 143-calorie lasagna dinner, removed its cellophane wrap, and popped it into the microwave. While it started on its six-minute route from rock solid to well done, I filled a Baccarat glass with cubes. It always made me feel better to use crystal and china when I dined alone, as if I were having a real meal.

The Scotch decanter was in the den, and Zac followed my footsteps as I poured a drink. I set one place at the table, with a matching linen napkin and placemat, facing out my window toward the spectacular view of midtown. When I turned on the CD player and heard Smokey telling his girl how he lost her when his heart went out to play, I assisted the backup singers with some “Oooh, baby, baby”s ‘til the buzzer told me my entrée was ready.

TheTimes was too unwieldy for the dinner table, the tabloids were too full of crime stories to let me escape the events of the day, and the misfortunes of Trollope’s Lady Eustace were too convoluted to accompany my modest repast and were better left until bedtime. I plucked the April issue ofIn Style from the unread magazine stack in the den and hoped that the elegant spring fashions would uplift my spirits.

After dinner, I lounged in the den and called some of my friends. I didn’t expect to find many at home at this hour on a Friday night so I tried Nina Baum, figuring that the three-hour time difference to the Coast might make her available for a chat. The answering machine took my message, asking her to call back over the weekend.

At ten o’clock, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I pulled my ski jacket out of the closet and hooked Zac’s leash on to take her for a walk. I headed out the north end of the driveway and turned left. The wind had died down and the night air was comfortable, so I led her to Third Avenue, across Lexington, and squared the block on to Park.

I stopped in the bodega just off the corner of Lex to buy orange juice and some Colombian cinnamon beans for the morning.

The sidewalks were fairly empty, except for some other dog owners and a couple of joggers and bladers. Zac and I walked the last block, past town houses and a private school that was darkened and empty. I waited for the light to change on Third Avenue and stepped off the curb as the rectangular sign invited me toWALK.

A little man with a muffler wrapped around his neck and a Boston terrier heeling at his side was approaching from the middle of the next street. Zac pulled on the leash, straining to reach the sidewalk, while I was still on the blacktop of the roadway. “Easy, girl,” I said, trying to pull her back.

Over my right shoulder I could hear the sound of a car braking as though to make a sharp turn. My attention had been on the dog but my head whipped to the side to see what was happening. The car was coming toward me as it took the corner at a ridiculous speed, two wheels seeming to lift off the ground, racing directly at me.

Zac lurched forward to sniff at the terrier and I let go of her leash, throwing myself against the last car parked at the curb before the corner.

The terrier’s master grabbed Zac by the collar and called out to me from the sidewalk. “Are you all right? Did he hit you?”

I caught my breath and ran to embrace Zac, kneeling beside her as I held on to make sure she hadn’t been hurt. My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

“Don’t worry, Miss,” the man, who most resembled the nearsighted Mister Magoo, went on. “The dog wasn’t in any danger. It was onlyyou. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I answered, standing up and brushing myself off. “Whoever was driving must have been out of control, drinking or-”

“Whoever was driving looked like he was out to get you, if you ask me. Seemed deliberately to be heading for you.” He tugged at his dog to try to separate him from Zac, chuckling as he asked, “Want me to call the police? You got any enemies?”

“Too many to tell you about. Why? Did you notice the plate on the car?” I tried to tell myself that it was ridiculous to think someone had been aiming for me with that car; at the same time it struck me as a distinct possibility.

“No. Fool turned his headlights off as he went through the light. Couldn’t see anything except that it was large and dark colored.”

I thanked him for his concern and stroked Zac’s smooth cocoa coat, holding her close against me-on the side away from the street-as we walked the short distance to my apartment.

I took my weekend charge upstairs with me and I undressed, carrying a nightcap into the bedroom in an effort to calm my nerves before trying to sleep. I wanted to believe the speeding car had just been an accidental swipe yet couldn’t help but wonder who wanted me dead.