NYPD Red

Chapter 46

That section of Furmanville Avenue in Queens was a quiet working-class neighborhood lined with small two-story homes, even smaller front yards, and a schizophrenic mix of Japanese compacts and oversized gas-guzzling SUVs. In the middle of it all was a serviceable 1960s white-brick, four-story building that strived for nondescript, but landed on ugly.

The maroon canopy in front said PARADISE GARDEN.

“It’s nice to see that the zoning laws in New York City are flexible enough to allow someone to build a funny farm right in the middle of a neighborhood filled with impressionable youth,” Kylie said.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Detective,” I said. “Maybe the nut jobs were here first, and the happy little neighborhood just sprang up around them.”

“I’ve been to places like this before,” Kylie said. “Private clinics, nursing homes, psych hospitals. You try to ask them a few questions and they’re more defensive than a mob lawyer. Usually there’s some smarmy little weasel who really wishes he could help, then falls back on doctor-patient confidentiality and won’t tell you squat without a subpoena.”

“Maybe we could threaten to bust the smarmy little weasel for false advertising,” I said. “The sidewalk is cracked, the grass is brown, and the building is an eyesore. Paradise Garden, my ass.”

The lobby was warm and humid. If the inmates were paying for air-conditioning, they weren’t getting their money’s worth.

The receptionist was a middle-aged woman who obviously bought her red hair coloring by the gallon. She looked up and gave us a welcoming smile. We were off to an excellent start.

“Gud aftanoon. Kin I help ya?” she said in an accent that branded her as born, raised, and educated in Queens.

“NYPD,” I said, flashing my badge. “We’re looking for Gabriel Benoit.”

“Who?”

I pronounced the name slowly. Ben-oyt. B-E-N-O-I-T.

“Oh. Ben-wah,” she said, shaking her head at my lousy diction. “He’s no lawnga a resident.”

“Where can we find him?” I said.

“You’d hafta tawk to our directah, Dr. Ben-David,” she said. “Have a seat.”

The waiting area was filled with overstuffed furniture that might have been considered gracious during the Truman administration. At this point in its life cycle, the grace had turned to gloom.

We sat. “Bet you five bucks he’s a die-hard Mets fan,” Kylie said.

I was about to turn down the chump bet when we heard a piercing scream. People who live in psych wards scream day and night. But this was different. This was someone in agony. I knew it, Kylie knew it, and the receptionist knew it.

“Oh my Gawd,” the receptionist said and started running down the hall. “It’s Dr. Ben-David.”