Juan Moreno nodded. “You, your organization and your people, have lived in this city for many years, far longer than we have. You possess channels of distribution that my people lack. If possible, we wish to take advantage of these channels.”
“Do you?” Javier Garcia frowned. “You never have before.”
“We never needed to, before. Now we do.”
“As you say, things change. Why this change? Why now?”
Juan Moreno leaned forward. “Do you know Sergei Ostrovsky?”
Javier Garcia blinked. He sipped his rum and pondered this question for a long moment, then he smiled. “Tell me more,” he said.
“I don’t get it,” Kurtz said. “He was telling me just a week ago about his plans to start a new practice.”
“That’s not uncommon, actually,” Bill Werth said. “People often come up with grandiose schemes before blowing their brains out.” Bill Werth was a psychiatrist, and as such, eminently qualified to make pronouncements on what made a man blow his brains out.
Steve Ryan’s dead body had been found in his office, along with a short note declaring his love and devotion to his wife and kids and a declaration that he had reached the end of his rope and just couldn’t continue.
They were sitting in Kurtz’ office, along with Lew Barent and Harry Moran. Barent looked grim. Moran had on his usual poker face.
Lydia James, after lingering for over a month, had died the night before. Steve Ryan followed her only a few hours later.
“He didn’t blow his brains out,” Barent said. “At this point, we’re not even sure how he died.”
“He left a note,” Kurtz said. “The note seems pretty clear.”
“Anybody can write a note.”
Kurtz looked at him and frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
Barent shrugged. “Maybe I’m getting cynical in my old age.”
Moran looked upward toward the ceiling and rolled his eyes.
“Are you seriously suggesting he was murdered?” Kurtz said.
“No,” Barent said. He gave a half-hearted grin. “Not seriously, but I’m not ruling it out either, not until we know the cause of death.”
“How long will that take?”
“The ME has the body. It should be soon.”
“Why you?” Lenore said.
“Are you kidding?” Kurtz said.
She frowned. “Are you the official liaison for medically related crime? When did this happen?”
Kurtz barely smiled. “I guess it happened when Sharon Lee was strangled, or maybe when Rod Mahoney was torn to pieces.”
Lenore winced. “So much for being a hard-working surgeon.”
“Yeah, well...I work hard at a lot of things.”
She made a rude noise. “Please pass the potatoes.”
Kurtz was not a small man and he worked out at least three times a week. He kept an eye on his cholesterol but saw no need to watch what he ate. Lenore was a bit more restrained but also enjoyed her dinner. They ate out at least twice a week. Tonight, it was Italian, a little family style place near their apartment: veal marsala, a side dish of penne a la vodka, eggplant parmigiana and roasted potatoes with sea-salt and rosemary.
“Barent has been a cop for a long time. He has a sense for these things. He told me once that a lot of apparent suicides, particularly when the victim is elderly, are actually murders. The family gets tired of waiting for grandma to keel over, so they help her along a little.”
“That’s disgusting,” Lenore said.
“Disgusting, but supposedly true.”
“Also, very sad.”
Kurtz shrugged.
“So why is he suspicious about Steve Ryan?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“And Bill? What does he think?”
“He thinks suicide is perfectly plausible. Steve had a lot of complications and he had just lost a patient who should never have died. Doctors aren’t stupid. They study hard, get good grades and are usually right. They’re not used to fucking things up. Some of us can’t take it.”
Lenore shrugged. “You’ll know soon.”
“I’m hoping it’s suicide,” Kurtz said. “I’m really not in the mood for another idiotic murder.” Kurtz was angry and frustrated. The world, once again, had been knocked off its kilter. Should he have seen it, somehow? If he had said something different to the poor depressed schmuck, would Steve Ryan still be alive? He shook his head. What was even worse, if Kurtz was being honest with himself, and Kurtz tried to always be honest with himself, was the sense of closure that Steve Ryan’s suicide had brought, not quite relief, but almost. Sadness, sure, also frustration, but somewhere mixed in with these, just a tiny bit of relief. Steve Ryan had been a good husband, a good father and a good guy, but he was a lousy surgeon, and the world was better off with one less lousy surgeon.
“Yeah,” Lenore said. “Let’s hope.” She shook her head. “Poor Donna.”
“Diazepam,” the ME said.
“Oh,” Barent said. “Okay.” He frowned.
The ME was a small, skinny guy who never seemed to get depressed by the morbid nature of his work. Barent appreciated the fact that he was good at his job but found his attitude sometimes disturbing.
“What’s the matter?” the ME said. “You’re not happy with Diazepam?”
“Diazepam is Valium,” Barent said. “He had a prescription for Valium.”
The ME shrugged.
“Anything else?” Barent asked.
“High levels of alcohol. Diazepam plus alcohol is a pretty good way to go, if you’re going to go.”
“So,” Barent said, “suicide…?”
“If it wasn’t, I can’t tell the difference.” The ME raised his hands, let them fall to his side.
“Nothing else on the body?”
The ME shrugged again. “A couple of bruises on the upper left arm. Nothing to indicate foul play.” The ME loved the term ‘foul play.’ He used it a lot, almost always with a creepy little smile.
“Okay,” Barent said. “Suicide. Why not? It makes my job easier. I should be happy.” For some reason that he couldn’t figure out, he wasn’t, but Barent’s lack of happiness was a matter of concern to no one except himself, and maybe his wife. He sighed. “Good enough. Another case closed.”
Chapter 6
In addition to overseeing the care of officers wounded in the line of duty, Kurtz’ responsibilities as a police surgeon required him to spend a few days each month at the precinct, where a rotating roster of police surgeons occupied a somewhat dilapidated but basically functional series of exam rooms and small offices. Here, it was his responsibility to examine and certify all officers who had medical problems of all sorts.
Officers of the NYPD had as a benefit of their job an unlimited number of sick days, but those out-of-work for longer than forty-eight hours were required to report in and be certified by a police surgeon as unfit for duty. Most such officers were eager to get back to work. A very few tended to malinger.
Kurtz’ first appointment of the day was Stephanie Myers, a small, very fit young woman who had sprained an ankle in hot pursuit of a pickpocket. “See,” she said with a bright smile, “it’s all better.” She held the foot up and rotated it around.
The range of motion was good but the ankle still looked swollen. “Stand up on it,” Kurtz said.
Stephanie Myers gave him an aggrieved look but seemed to have no trouble standing on her swollen ankle.
“Let me see you walk across the room.”
She frowned. She walked to the wall and then back. Her limp was slight but noticeable.
Kurtz shook his head. “I admire your dedication, but you need a couple more days. I don’t think you can chase suspects with this ankle.”
“Oh, shit,” she muttered. “I’m going nuts just sitting around.”
Kurtz repressed a smile. “Two more days,” he said. “Watch TV. Try reading a book.”
She sighed. “I’ve been reading b
ooks until my head is ready to explode. “She sighed again. “Oh, well. It could have been worse,” she said.
The next patient was named Brad Jenkins, fat, fiftyish and looking forward to retirement. Jenkins had been out for nearly a week with a wrist injury, the result of a physical altercation with a meth dealer in Fort Tryon Park. “What do you think, Doc?” he said.
“It’s looking good. I think you’re ready to return to work,” Kurtz said.
“Yeah?” Jenkins rotated the wrist. “It still hurts.”
“You’ve got full range of motion and you can lift with it. Take some Motrin. It’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, Jenkins nodded. “Okay.”
Kurtz had thirty minutes for lunch, which he ate at his desk. The first patient after lunch was Bert Armstrong, a little guy with pale skin, red hair and freckles. Armstrong had been out for over a month with an assortment of poorly defined complaints. He had shoulder pain. He had abdominal pain. He had headaches. Armstrong had fallen on some ice at the tail end of winter, hit his head on a fallen tree branch, been briefly rendered unconscious and been taken to St. Vincent’s, where a diagnosis of a concussion had been made. A CAT scan two weeks later revealed no residual damage but the patient’s symptoms had not improved.
The previous surgeon who had examined Armstrong had gone the easy, diplomatic route. He had taken the guy at his word and signed off on Armstrong’s request for continued leave. Looking a patient in the eye, Kurtz reflected, and telling him he was full of shit, was never easy and few physicians wanted a confrontation with a hostile cop, but Bert Armstrong was clearly malingering.
“I think you’re ready to go back to work,” Kurtz said.
Armstrong glared. “That’s bullshit.”
“I don’t think so,” Kurtz said.
“Listen, you stupid fuck. Don’t push me. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here.”
Kurtz blinked. A slow smile spread across his face. “What I’m dealing with, here, is a malingering patient. Your symptoms are as phony as a three-dollar bill. I’m certifying you as fit for duty. You don’t like it? Take it up with the Union.”
Armstrong’s nostrils flared. He took a slow, deep breath and drew himself up to his full, not impressive height. “You son-of-a bitch, I’ll remember you,” he said.
“Sure,” Kurtz said. “And I’ll remember you, too. So, what?”
Armstrong turned on his heel and walked out without another word. Kurtz released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, sighed and made a notation on Armstrong’s chart.
Arnaldo Figueroa had been weaned off the barbiturates and once it became apparent that he could breathe without assistance, the endotracheal tube was removed. He was transferred from the ICU to a room on the Neurosurgical Floor. He seemed unaware of this, however and over the next three days, he did little but sleep.
A day later, Arnaldo Figueroa opened his eyes and grinned at his wife, Cynthia, and the kids, before his eyelids fluttered and then closed. It was a start. The day after, his eyes followed the nurses and technicians around the room. He smiled. He frowned. He clenched his right hand into a fist and wriggled the toes on his right foot. His left hand twitched. The toes on his left foot barely trembled. This was expected. He had been shot in the right side of the head. The left side of his body, therefore, was affected more than the right. Allen Wong was encouraged. “Any activity at all this soon after a major head injury is a good sign. I expect he’ll get better.” How much better, he could not, at this point, say.
Mrs. Figueroa listened intently, compressed her lips in a thin line, nodded and prayed.
A day later, Barent and Moran dropped by. They nodded to the two guards still posted outside of Figueroa’s room, and walked gingerly up to the bed. Figueroa was propped up against three pillows, spooning applesauce into his mouth with his right hand. His eyes flicked back and forth between Barent and Moran. He grinned.
“Arnie,” Barent said. “How are you feeling?”
Arnaldo Figueroa’s smile grew wider. “Considering the alternative? It could have been worse.”
Moran nodded. “What happened?” he asked.
“I’ve been told I was shot in the head.”
“Yeah, a residential neighborhood in Williamsburg.”
Arnaldo Figueroa frowned. “Williamsburg…”
Barent glanced at Moran. “So, what happened?”
“I don’t remember a lot of it. I was following some white guys. That’s all I remember.”
“What did they look like?”
Arnaldo Figueroa shrugged. “Big, tough. They wore suits and ties and they walked like they owned the sidewalk.” He grinned. “Or they thought they did.”
“Tough guys, huh?” Moran said. “A lot of wise guys start out tough.”
“Yeah. The process winnows them down.”
“So, who were they?” Barent asked.
“I don’t really know. I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t really see them that well. I was keeping my distance, trying to be inconspicuous.”
“You should have tried harder,” Moran said.
Arnaldo Figueroa shrugged. “I think they were Russian.”
Barent sat back, pondering. “Makes sense. A lot of Russians in Williamsburg.”
“So, where were they going?”
“That’s what I don’t remember,” Arnaldo Figueroa said.
Barent sighed and glanced at Moran. “Well, keep trying. Maybe it’ll come to you.”
Chapter 7
The honeymoon was definitely not over.
Kurtz and Lenore Brinkman (Lenore Kurtz, he reminded himself with satisfaction) had been married for a little over two months. The wedding, despite Esther Brinkman’s intermittent attempts to dictate the guest list, the venue, the menu, the rabbi and the exact wording of the ceremony, had gone just as Lenore had planned it. It was a small wedding, as such things went, a little over fifty people, most of them from Lenore’s side.
Kurtz’ father, not quite as silent and dour as he used to be, sat on Kurtz’ side of the aisle, along with a woman named Lisa who Kurtz had never met before. Lisa was middle-aged but well preserved…very well preserved, black-haired, tall, with smooth skin, full lips, wide shoulders, a curving figure and warm blue eyes. Kurtz liked the way his father looked at her, as if wondering how he could have gotten so lucky. Kurtz wondered the same thing, both for his father and himself.
The rabbi, a small guy with a short black beard that hugged his face, had kept the ceremony mercifully short. After pledging their love and fealty to each other, Kurtz and Lenore had shared a few sips of sweet kosher wine. The rabbi had smiled and said, “When you marry a nice Jewish girl, you drink a nice Jewish wine.”
The wine glass had been placed on the floor, covered with a white napkin and Kurtz had stamped on it, shattering it to pieces. The shattering of the glass had numerous interpretations. Supposedly, according to one story, it was a reminder of the destruction of the Temple, symbolizing the pain and suffering of the Jewish people even in the midst of a joyous occasion. Another interpretation stated that it was a reminder of the fragility of human relationships, a warning therefore, not to take the marriage vows for granted. A third held that the loud noise of a breaking glass would frighten away evil spirits who might otherwise be inclined to torment the happy couple.
Whatever, Kurtz got a kick out of stomping it, after which the crowd yelled, “Mazel tov!” and the celebration began.
A lot of food. A lot of dancing. Despite his years in New York, Kurtz had never been to a Jewish wedding before, though he had been told what to expect. It wasn’t much like the weddings he had attended, growing up in West Virginia, which had been shorter and far more restrained, with a lot less food.
“Food is the way families show their love,” Lenore had stated. “It’s that way for the Jews, the Chinese, the Italians and pretty much every culture on Earth except for you cold Northern European types.”
“Traditionally, the Northern European
s,” Kurtz had said, “didn’t have much food to spare; because it was cold.”
There was plenty of food to spare at Kurtz’ and Lenore’s wedding, though the raw clam bar and the shrimp cocktails seemed both ostentatious and just a little out of place. Lenore had fixed him with a gimlet eye. “We’re not kosher. We can have a raw clam bar.”
Kurtz, despite his pretensions toward being a gourmet, had a serious aversion toward raw seafood. As a physician, he knew too much about vibrio, hepatitis, tapeworms and fecal coliform bacteria. As a prospective bridegroom, however, he knew which battles were worth fighting. “Whatever you say, dear.”
Lenore had smiled her wide, brilliant smile. “Just keep sucking up to me. We’re going to have a great future.”
“Yes, dear,” Kurtz said.
They had gone back to Cancun, to the same resort where they had met, to spend an idyllic honeymoon and now here they were, two months later, enjoying a picnic lunch in Central Park on a Saturday afternoon. Spring was giving way to Summer. The breeze was mild. A few high clouds scudded by overhead. The sun was warm. They had spread a blanket on the lawn near Belvedere Castle.
Three young men threw a Frisbee on the lawn. A golden retriever ran in circles, chased by a small bulldog. Two kids on rollerblades glided along the path. Lenore wriggled out of her jeans and took off her shirt. She had on a white bikini underneath. One of the kids with the Frisbee blinked and stared. The Frisbee hit him in the head, which he barely noticed. Kurtz felt his palms begin to tingle. Lenore smirked at him. “I need to catch some sun,” she said. Lenore liked having a tan. “Wake me when it’s time to go.” She lay down on her stomach.
“Sure,” Kurtz said. “Enjoy.”
Within a few minutes, Lenore’s breathing grew even. Kurtz pulled out a book and began to read.
Officially, alcohol was not allowed in Central Park. Unofficially, putting some beer or wine in a thermos, where it might as well be tea or soda was every New Yorker’s routine solution. Today’s beverage of choice was Chardonnay. Kurtz occasionally took a swig from his bottle and soon felt pleasantly buzzed. Forty minutes later, he glanced at his watch and tugged one of Lenore’s toes. She stirred and turned on her side. “Time to go?”
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