I pick out a few promising prospects. First up is a twenty-six-year-old cancer nurse from Manhattan. I reach her at Sloan Kettering, at the tail end of her shift.
“I figured someone would be calling. I read about it in The Times. It’s horrible.” She’s not the airheaded groupie that I had expected. She looks like she could use a shower and some shut-eye.
“Where did you and Rudy meet?”
“At a charity event; we were both on the board of Make-A-Wish. But I haven’t seen him in a couple of years.”
“Rudy’s phone records show you talked to him twice last month.”
“He still calls, when he knows he’s going to be in the City. Sometimes we chat on the phone, but I don’t fool around with married guys. At least not knowingly.”
The next call is to a personal trainer in Minneapolis. She tells us she saw Rudy last month; they met up in Vegas for a two-night tryst, but she has no idea where he could be. Most of the women are equally unhelpful, but we do learn something important: a pattern is emerging.
“Nurse, physical therapist, personal trainer,” I say.
“He likes people who know about anatomy. That’s not unusual for athletes.”
“Or most men.”
“Maybe we’re going at this wrong,” Kevin says. “Rebecca said she got a call from one of the women last week. Let’s pull Rebecca’s phone records.”
Kevin does a phone dump. He zeros in on last week and scans Rebecca’s incoming calls. Most are easily identifiable: Rudy’s cell, Cecilia’s cell, the sisters’ mother. He flips to the next page.
“Here’s a call from the Mass General Hospital. Maybe Rudy’s girlfriend is a nurse.”
I dial the number and get a recording: You have reached the office of Dr. Davidson. To make, change, or cancel an appointment, press one. Either it’s the Maddox family physician or Rudy’s lover works in the doctor’s office. I cut to the chase, hit zero, and get the receptionist on the phone.
“What kind of medicine does Dr. Davidson practice?”
“She’s an orthopedist.”
“I think I have the wrong number.”
“The call fits the time frame,” Kevin says, “and the caller fits the profile.”
I check my watch. It’s after six. We’ve been cooped up in my office for hours, and I’m eager to get into the field.
“Grab your coat,” I say. “Let’s pay Dr. Davidson a house call.”
Chapter Twelve
Dr. Jane Davidson lives in 5 Longfellow Place, one of the concrete towers that make up Charles River Park. Up until about sixty years ago, the area was a jumble of tenements, occupied by a mix of immigrants: Polish, Italian, Irish, Greek, Lithuanian, Russian, Lebanese. The ethnic diversity was a rarity in a city whose neighborhoods have always been clustered according to ethnic groups. In the 1950s the tenements were bulldozed and replaced with mid- and high-rise buildings that were given names such as Whittier, Emerson, and Longfellow.
Kevin flashes his badge and asks the security guard for Jane Davidson’s apartment number.
“That name doesn’t ring a bell,” the guard says.
“It’s probably hard to keep track of everyone, coming and going,” I say.
“Not really. I pretty much know everyone in here.”
He scans his roster, searching his computer screen for her name, but comes up empty. “Do you have a photo? I’m pretty good with faces.”
Kevin holds up a recent picture, from her Mass General ID badge.
The guard nods in recognition. “That’s Dr. Shire. When she moved in, she told me she just split from her husband—Davidson must be her married name.” He picks up the phone. “I’ll give her a jingle, let her know you’re on your way up to see her.”
“No, please don’t,” I say. “We’d like to surprise her.”
“Gotcha.” He winks and hits the button to release the sliding glass door.
We take the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor.
Kevin rings the buzzer. “Boston Police. Please open the door.”
There’s a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor. We hear the shuffling of footsteps as a shadow comes into view and a voice calls out, “Just a sec.”
A couple of minutes later, Jane Shire Davidson opens the door. She’s about ten pounds heavier and six inches shorter than Rudy’s wife, Rebecca. Her heavy tortoiseshell glasses are a smidgen too big for her face. Her eyes are rimmed in red, as though she’s been crying.
Kevin starts to explain the reason for our visit but she stops him.
“I know Rudy is missing. I’ve seen it all over the news.” Her voice trembles, her throat catches. “At first I thought he wasn’t returning my calls because he was avoiding me.”
“I take it you’re more than his doctor,” Kevin says.
She gestures us inside. The apartment has the generic look of a corporate rental, devoid of any personal photos or books. It doesn’t look as if she plans to nest. We take seats in the living room, on the pleather sofa.
“I’d offer you coffee, but I don’t have any.” Her voice is deep, but not masculine.
“How long have you been living here?” I say.
She checks her watch as though she could count the minutes. “I left my husband six days ago.”
She walks us over to the balcony and looks outside.
“Because of Rudy?” Kevin says.
She nods, blows her nose. “I never imagined that he’d vanish.”
I walk over to windows and stand beside her. The view stretches from the waterfront to the Charles River and beyond. It reminds me of when I lived in the Back Bay, in a condo that had a view, and a terrace, and hot water.
“Did your husband know about Rudy?” I say.
She takes off her glasses, fogs them with her breath, and wipes them off with her shirtsleeve.
“My husband found out last week.”
“Do you think he could have had anything to do with Rudy’s disappearance?”
“I doubt it. My husband had been unfaithful more times than I can count.”
“How did you and Rudy meet?” I say.
“He came in to the Mass General last year, when he injured his shoulder.” She adjusts a crooked lampshade, only making it more crooked. “There were a lot of follow-up visits.”
“Did he leave any of his belongings here?” Kevin says.
“I hardly have any of my own belongings in this place.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “He’s only been here once.”
I don’t think she’s lying about the nature of their relationship, but I think she’s holding back. She’s antsy, and fidgety. Maybe Rudy has been here more than once. Maybe she’s hiding something about him or about herself. Something is making her squirm.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom before we go?” I say.
She doesn’t respond. Not exactly consent, but it’s not a denial either. Kevin catches my eye. He knows I never use a witness’s bathroom unless there’s an emergency—like my bladder is going to burst or I want to snoop around.
On my way to the bathroom, I take a quick peek inside the bedroom. Nothing unusual. The bed is made, the comforter feels synthetic, the pillowcases look new but inexpensive. There’s no sign of a male presence—nothing like a shaving kit or stray cuff links—but then again, there’s no sign of a female presence either, except for the clothes in the closet.
The bathroom is barely big enough to fit a toothbrush. By law, I’m allowed to look around, but only at things that are in plain sight. Technically, I need a warrant to open cabinets or containers. Since the shower curtain is pulled back halfway, I peer behind it. Nothing is there, not even a bottle of shampoo. I flush the toilet, even though I haven’t used it, and wash my hands. There’s no towel in plain sight. Oops. I guess I have look in the vanity. I’m not conducting an illegal search—I need something to dry my hands.
When I open the top, I am shocked by what I see. It’s not a man’s razor. It’s six small vials of clear liquid an
d a stash of syringes. Steroids.
Back in the living room, Kevin is talking to Jane, getting background information. I walk in, remain silent, and hold up a vial.
“Is that what I think it is?” Kevin says.
“Steroids. There’s a drawer full of steroids in the bathroom. Tell us, what’s the legitimate medical reason that allows you to keep steroids at home?”
Kevin stands and inspects the bottle.
“I’m an orthopedist,” Jane says. “I dispense steroids all the time.”
“I understand,” I say. “That’d be a valid response if we were in your office.”
“Did you give Rudy steroids?” Kevin says.
She considers her response, then murmurs, “He was my patient.”
“Did you write him a prescription? A legal one?” I say. “Is there a record of the dosage?”
She walks to the window, her back to us. “I may have bent the rules.”
I look to Kevin and give him a nod. “Go ahead.”
He knows what to do. He unclips the handcuffs from his belt and moves to Jane. “You’re under arrest for illegal possession of a Class C substance with intent to distribute.” Kevin slaps opens one of the cuffs and reaches for her arm.
She trembles, starts to cry. “But I’m a doctor.”
“Enjoy the title while you can,” Kevin says. “When the medical board catches wind of this, you may not have an MD behind your name anymore.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dr. Jane Davidson’s arraignment is the hottest ticket in town. Reporters are lined up outside the Boston Municipal Courthouse, ready for the security check. After retrieving their keys and wallets and phones from the conveyor belt, each stands, arms extended, to be wanded. I glance at a sampling of the credentials dangling from chains around their necks: Sports Illustrated, The Wall Street Journal, The Boston Globe, Entertainment Tonight. Also in the crowd is a Boston city councillor, an investigator from the medical licensing board, and the general counsel for the Red Sox.
A cluster of prosecutors and defense attorneys are gathered by the elevator bank. I turn without acknowledging anyone and take the stairs to the fifth floor; I’m not in the mood for chitchat, and I could use the exercise.
The small courtroom is stifling. I can barely breathe, which is probably for the best. Eau de stale cigarettes and body odor are the perfumes du jour. I walk through the gallery. The three rows of pews are already jam-packed. I cross the bar to the prosecutor’s table, take a seat, and pull the case file from my tote. I don’t need to prepare, but studying the reports gives me something to focus on and makes me look occupied. Anything to avoid interacting with others.
A couple of minutes later, Kevin joins me at the table. Behind us, tongues are wagging. I eavesdrop on the gossip.
I heard they found Rudy last night, under the bleachers in Fenway, with a bullet in his head.
I heard Rebecca filed for divorce and that she threw his clothes out the window.
I heard Rudy’s not really missing—he’s just gone to rehab. This is all a publicity stunt.
A door in the front of the courtroom creaks open and a court officer busts in. He bangs on the wall to get everyone’s attention. “All rise.”
The courtroom quiets as Judge Victor Denton takes the stand. He doesn’t need someone to announce his arrival; he’s a commanding presence at six foot six and about 260 pounds. He’s a former college linebacker, and he’s also a former prosecutor. A few years ago, when he was in the DA’s Office, we tried a difficult three-codefendant homicide together; after three guilty verdicts, and too many cocktails, we wound up at his place. It was fun, but neither of us was interested in pursuing a relationship. If this were more than a simple arraignment, he’d probably make up an excuse and withdraw from the case.
The clerk calls out, “Commonwealth v. Jane Davidson.”
A few seconds later, Jane appears from behind a door. She’s wearing pearl studs in her ears, and steel cuffs on her hands.
Her lawyer hurtles into the courtroom, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, and files an appearance. “Preston Chisolm for the defendant. Apologies for my lateness, Your Honor. I was stuck in the line to get into the courthouse.”
I’ve never seen this lawyer before, and he looks as if he’s never laid eyes on the inside of a courtroom—at least not a municipal court arraignment session. His briefcase, big enough to double as a weekender, probably weighs more than he does. He’s sporting a platinum Rolex and chunky gold cuff links with the Yale insignia: Lux et veritas—“light and truth.”
The clerk signals Preston and hands him an appearance form, which he signs.
Kevin raises his eyebrows, wanting to tell me something. “I don’t know this clown, but odds are fifty-fifty that he gets mugged in the elevator on his way out of the building.”
With great ceremony, Preston unpacks a stack of legal pads, pens, and evidence books. It looks as if he were planning to be here all week.
Judge Denton reads the charges. “How do you now plead?”
Preston stands and bellows, as though he were in the grand ballroom at Buckingham Palace about to announce the arrival of the queen.
“Your Honor, may it please the court, I wish to enter a plea on behalf of my client. She is one hundred percent not guilty. And pursuant to the rules of criminal procedure, we are filing an omnibus motion—”
Judge Denton waves his hand. “No grandstanding, sir. It’s only an arraignment. Save the theatrics for the jury.”
“May I be heard on bail?” I say.
“You’re asking for bail?” Judge Denton says. “On a simple possession charge? The defendant doesn’t seem to pose a risk of flight.”
In the scheme of things, a small amount of steroids doesn’t call for high bail, or any bail at all, but Dr. Davidson is not your average defendant. She has money, and I need to be sure that she’ll come back to court. If Rudy turns up dead, and we end up charging someone with murder, I might want to flip Jane and have her testify.
“It’s not just a simple drug case. The charges are connected to a potential kidnapping, possibly a homicide investigation,” I say. “The Commonwealth requests the defendant be held on one-million-dollar cash bail.”
Jane starts to cry. The murmurs in the peanut gallery compete with Preston’s rambling argument. He says something about the presumption of innocence, and the constitutionality of holding someone without bond. I’m not sure if the judge is listening, but if he is, he’s not impressed.
“I’m allowing Ms. Endicott’s request for a million dollars’ cash bail, without prejudice.”
“But you can’t,” Jane says. “I don’t have that kind of cash.”
“We’ll be filing an appeal sua sponte,” Preston says.
“We’re adjourned,” Judge Denton says, stepping off the bench.
Aware that the world is watching, Judge Denton is playing it safe. He’s leaving the heavy lifting to the judge who will inevitably hear the bail appeal.
When court recesses, Kevin goes to the police room to make some calls, and I go out into the hallway to find Preston. I find him on a bench, fumbling with papers.
“Do you want to conference the case?” I say.
“I’ll check my schedule and have my paralegal contact you to make the necessary arrangements. What’s your availability?”
“How about now?”
Preston should jump at the chance to hear me out. There’s no downside—he doesn’t have to agree to anything, and he could learn something about my case—but he doesn’t seem to appreciate that. He’s probably intelligent and would be the perfect choice of lawyer if we were arguing before the US Supreme Court, but this is the BMC, and I’m looking to make a bargain-basement offer. His client would be better served by a workaday ham-and-egger who knows how to play Let’s Make a Deal.
After a little more back-and-forth, I suggest he confer with some of the local lawyers, and I point out a few hacks who are huddled in a corner across the hallway
. Preston takes my suggestion, and a few minutes later, he returns and agrees to meet me and Kevin at the jail.
Kevin and I take the ten-minute walk to Nashua Street. I still have a headache from the stench in the courtroom, and the cool April air feels good. We cut across Charles River Park, following the cement path, and stop at Pace’s for a bite. Kevin gets a turkey sub and ice tea; I get a piece of chocolate peanut-butter cake and two cups of coffee. Next week, I’m going to give up sugar. This time I mean it.
“The doc has a nitwit for a lawyer,” Kevin says.
“He’s definitely out of his depth.”
“There’s a lot of lawyers in this town, too many if you ask me. Why not hire someone who knows the ropes?”
“Preston’s firm represents the hospital. They’re big and fancy, which she probably thinks is a good thing.”
“That’d be like going to a brain surgeon for an ingrown toenail. She oughta know better.”
When we reach the jail, we check in at the front desk. Kevin puts his gun in a locker and I surrender my pepper spray. We’re led through a series of locked doors, each one closing before the next one opens, which always makes me claustrophobic. We wait in a conference room until Preston and Jane are brought in.
“My client demands an apology and dismissal of all charges,” Preston says.
“This doesn’t have to be contentious,” I say. “We’re here to hammer out an agreement that we can all live with. Your client can help get herself out of this mess.”
Preston eyes me with suspicion, as though I might be trying to pull a fast one. Even though it’s not beyond the realm, I’m not. I turn my attention to Jane.
“It’s in everyone’s best interest that you cooperate. It’d be to your advantage to join our efforts, rather than fight us at trial.”
“What do you want me to do?” she says.
Preston puts his hand up. I have this under control, let me handle it. “What do you want her to do?”
For that pearl of wisdom, this guy is probably charging $750 an hour.
“Make a proffer, be truthful and tell us everything you know. In return, we’ll dismiss the charges against you,” I say.
The Fens Page 5