Loving Time

forty-nine

The three chairs in Sergeant Joyce’s office were already occupied when April arrived six minutes after the hour, panting a little from her sprint up the stairs.

“Thanks for joining us, Detective,” her supervisor said sourly. She nodded at the narrow-faced man in the gray suit sitting next to Sanchez. “This is Special Agent Daveys from the New York Branch. Detective Woo.”

Sanchez still retained his smiling Buddha countenance from the morning. He winked at April April bobbed her head at Daveys.

“Detective.” Daveys held out his hand so that April had to advance and take it. “Nice to meet you.” The guy was thin and didn’t look particularly strong, but he had a muscular grip that didn’t let go when April did. Her expression remained blank as her bones crunched. She cracked a few knuckles when her hand was returned to her.

Sergeant Joyce raised an eyebrow at her. Problem? April’s shoulders moved about half an inch. The agent looked vaguely familiar. She had a feeling she’d seen him before.

“So, Daveys, you were about to tell us the reason we’re joined together this lovely afternoon,” Joyce said.

Daveys smiled beatifically. “Sergeant Sanchez, Sergeant Joyce, Detective—Woo? Looks like the U.N. around here.”

Joyce’s eyes narrowed. “Yep, we can help in any language. You have a problem, Daveys?” She looked ready for a juicy sneeze, pressed a finger to the base of her nose to contain it.

“From what I understand, Sergeant, you’re the one with the problem. I’m here to assist with the solution.”

“Well, that’s just great. Why don’t you fill us in on the case and your reasons for involvement?” Joyce was the supervisor, so she was the speaker. She looked feverish, though, germy and damp.

“Why don’t I start with the questions?” Daveys replied.

“Well, this is just a little unusual. Generally, when our department thinks we need help, we get people from our own bureau,” Joyce said.

“Uh-huh,” Daveys replied. “So?”

“So, what’s the story here? What interests you about a local unnatural?”

“We want to help you out with your case. On our end there may be some question of conspiracy.”

“Oh, yeah, what kind?”

“Corruption,” Daveys answered.

“That’s very interesting,” Joyce said, not appearing very interested. “Corruption covers a lot of territory, Agent Daveys. It could mean something. It could mean nothing. You want to share with us what your connection is?”

“Well, that remains to be seen. What we’re looking for at this time is some cooperation. You let us see what you have, we’ll work closely with you on the thing, help you with your case, give you the use of our people, our facilities, our labs. Whatever you need.”

Sergeant Joyce sneezed suddenly. The sound resembled the explosive blowout of a tire. No one blessed her. When she recovered she murmured, “That’s very decent, very generous of you, Daveys.”

“We try to please.”

“We try to please also, don’t we, Sergeant?”

Sanchez stopped licking the ends of his mustache and said they did.

“So …” Daveys spread out his hands. “What’ve we got here?”

Joyce glanced at April. April had a finger in one of the ivy pots on the windowsill, testing the soil for wetness. The plant didn’t look so good. Maybe it had caught the Sergeant’s cold.

“You want to brief us on the investigation, April?”

Now April knew where she’d seen Daveys. The dark blue sedan. He’d been cruising the street in Westchester while they were interviewing Dickey’s widow.

She said, “Dr. Harold Dickey died of a massive heart attack on Sunday afternoon, November 7, as the result of ingesting a large amount of alcohol mixed with Amitriptyline. He was with Dr. Clara Treadwell at the time of his seizure and death. Dr. Treadwell’s story is that she returned from out of town and met Dickey at his office at the Centre. From his appearance she immediately deduced he’d been drinking for some time. Within minutes of her arrival, he collapsed. She tried to resuscitate him, called for the paramedics. They took him to the emergency room, where he was pronounced dead after all measures to save him had failed.”

April glanced at Joyce. The Sergeant’s head was buried in her hands. She looked bad. “Rotten kids,” she muttered. “They’re back at school, and I’m sick as a dog. I can’t afford to be sick. Go on.”

“As I said, the M.E.’s report showed that the victim was poisoned by the aforementioned substance. Our first line of questioning was to determine whether the victim might have ingested the drug by accident. We ruled that out this morning when the lab results showed drug residue in the glass he’d been drinking from. So far, there has been no indication that the victim was depressed at the time of his death and might have taken the substance voluntarily.

“Dickey was a drinker, but not a fan of medications of any kind. He has been described by his wife and colleagues as strictly conscientious. He had a full schedule for the coming weeks—classes, an academic conference, a vacation trip to Aruba in December. He had no family history of suicide. The six people I spoke to about him, including his wife, all said he was not the type to commit suicide. In addition, his behavior in the days before his death indicated that he was concerned about something and working on something. And although he left his office a mess, there was no sign of a liquor bottle or a container for the drug.”

Daveys scratched his neck. “So you think someone poured him the lethal mixture. Like Socrates, the victim drank it, then the aforementioned murderer took away the evidence, hoping the death would look like a heart attack.”

Joyce flashed him a dirty look.

Daveys didn’t seem to mind. “Well, kids, that’s pretty quick work. How many people had a reason to kill him?”

“At this moment the prime suspect seems to be Clara Treadwell, the person with him at the time of his death,” Sergeant Joyce said flatly.

“And what’s her motive?”

“She’s named in a multimillion-dollar malpractice case involving the suicide of a patient about a week before. Apparently Dr. Dickey supervised her in the case years ago. He was also her lover.”

“Anyone else?” Daveys asked.

Joyce turned to April. “Anyone else?”

“Dr. Treadwell suspects a former male nurse name of Boudreau. A year ago Boudreau gave an inpatient an overdose of Amitriptyline. The patient jumped off a terrace.”

Daveys grimaced. “Messy. Have you talked with Boudreau?”

Joyce gave him another dirty look. “Not yet.”

“Well, get him in here so we can talk.”

“All in good time, Daveys.”

“Well, you don’t want grass growing under your feet, now, do you?”

Joyce turned to Sanchez. “Sergeant? Anything you’d like to add?”

“Not at this time.”

“Well, thanks a lot, kids. Our people would like to see everything you have. Get the stuff together, will you.”

“Stuff, what stuff?” Sanchez asked.

“Whatever you have—notes, lab results, death report.” Daveys got up to leave. “Good working with you. I’ll be in touch.”

For a minute or so after Daveys’s departure, no one said anything. Then Joyce checked her watch, shaking her head at how time had flown. The shift had ended half an hour before.

“Well, I’m out of here,” she announced. “And so are you. April, go talk to Treadwell. Mike, go home.”

April raised her eyebrow at Sanchez. He shrugged. Then, as they were filing out, Joyce added, “Good working with you,” as if she’d just thought of it. She neglected to mention their gathering any stuff together to hand over to anybody.