“Do you ever leave the hotel room?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
Barent thought that she showed up, they had sex and she left. He was too polite to say it but his face must have expressed his thoughts. Christine Morales gave a low, throaty chuckle. “Joachim has a fondness for the ballet. I prefer the opera. My husband hates the opera.” She shrugged. “When Joachim is in town, we typically attend at least one performance of each.”
“Oh,” Barent said.
“Silly man.” She smiled at him, her face serene. “I, and the women in my employ, perform a very important social function, a function that modern American society does not approve of, but I neither need nor care for that approval, nor do my employees, nor do my clients.”
Barent wondered what her husband thought of the whole thing but inwardly shrugged. He didn’t need to know that and pissing off Christine Morales would not be doing him or his so-called investigation any good. Joachim Whoever would appear to be a dead end but Christine Morales was obviously an intelligent and perceptive woman. Barent didn’t have to approve of her lifestyle nor her choice of a career but he recognized a potential asset when he saw one. Perhaps not now. Perhaps never, but it was entirely possible that in the future, on some other case, he might find it useful to speak with her again.
“I do have a name for you, however,” Christine Morales said, and she smiled.
Reginald Rinear was a dumbass, Barent thought. His family had been New York aristocracy for over three hundred years. One ancestor had fought in the American Revolution. One had given his life at Shiloh and another had been wounded at Gettysburg. Reginald Rinear looked the part. He was tall, pale and thin, with blonde hair, a straight nose and cold, blue eyes.
“We will no longer accept Reginald Rinear’s business,” Christine Morales had said.
“And why not?”
She hesitated. “He is rude and offensive. He thinks that the payment for our time entitles him to things that it does not, such as a license to be physically abusive.” Christine Morales had stared at Barent from under lowered brows. “He was a new client for us. We didn’t know him. He is a phenomenon that all of us in the business prefer to steer clear of. He justifies his predilections as ‘role play’ and ‘make-believe,’ but actual bruises and what amounts to attempted forcible rape are considerably beyond the scope of role play. He is a braggart, a buffoon and a criminal.”
Barent blinked. “Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
Christine Morales gave him a half-hearted grin. “He used drugs in the presence of my employee. He stated that these drugs were ‘new’ and ‘unique.’ He claimed that they were unlike any other and only a select few had the privilege to indulge in them. He tried to talk my employee into sharing these drugs with him. She refused to do so. He didn’t like that. Reginald Rinear does not enjoy being told ‘no.’” Christine Morales ate a few bites of her salad, looking grim. “After he ingested this substance, whatever it was, he grew agitated. My employee stated that he then attempted forcible penetration, which she resisted, but he was, in her words, ‘as limp as a wet noodle.’ He began to curse. He hit her.”
“Forgive my indelicacy,” Barent stated, “but beyond the euphemisms regarding ‘companionship’ and ‘conversation,’ I find myself surprised that your employee would resist.”
“He tried to stick it up her ass,” Christine Morales said. “Some of us go along with that. Some of us don’t. She doesn’t. Shortly after, he grew somnolent. She stuck around long enough to make sure that he was still breathing, then she counted her blessings and left.”
Presumably, she had also counted the money. “Still,” Barent said, “considering the disappointment that the poor guy must have felt, the way in which his expectations for the evening were thwarted, don’t you think his reactions were understandable? Perhaps you should try to see it from his point of view? He is a man, after all, and men have their needs.”
“Well, fuck him,” Christine Morales said, “and fuck you, too.”
Barent chuckled. “I’ll take it under advisement.” He sat back in his seat and thought about what he had been told. “Tell me, would your employee be willing to proffer charges?”
“That would be up to her. An off-hand guess would be ‘no.’ Actually, ‘hell, no’ would be more likely.”
“Right,” Barent said. “Thanks for the information. I’ll see what I can do.”
Reginald Rinear worked as a commodities broker at Edward James, Financial, a medium sized firm with an exclusive list of very rich clients. He was, as Christine Morales had indicated, smug, arrogant, supercilious and uncooperative. He stared at Barent from the other side of his very large desk. Next to Reginald Rinear sat his lawyer, a man named Everett Johns.
“No,” said Everett Johns.
Reginald Rinear sniffed. A small, cold smile crossed his face.
Unfortunately, Barent thought, Everett Johns was more than competent. Barent had encountered him before, on other cases. Everett Johns had come up the hard way, first a scholarship student at Columbia, then Harvard Law, then an associate at Pembroke and Elkington, one of New York’s largest and most prestigious firms, where he had stayed and ultimately made partner.
“No. My client is not going to answer your questions. He has no reason to. You have no evidence of any wrongdoing on his part and he is not going to subject himself to a witch hunt.”
Moran sighed. Everett Johns eyes flicked to Moran’s face. Moran stared back.
Reginald Rinear may have been an idiot but he had been smart enough to refuse to talk without his lawyer being present. So far, the lawyer had done all of the talking.
“You may be correct,” Barent said. “At the moment, we have a witness statement to the effect that your client is a chronic user of dangerous and illicit substances. Such statements do constitute evidence but admittedly, not enough evidence for us to obtain a warrant. Not at this time.
“You should be aware, however, that one Mitchell Price, a stockbroker, has been killed in a particularly gruesome way. His throat had been slit.” Barent smiled at Reginald Rinear, who blinked. “Did you know Mitchell Price?”
“And what do you imagine my client has to do with this Mitchell Price?” Everett Johns said.
Reginald Rinear frowned. His eyes skittered away.
“I’ll take that reaction as a maybe.” Barent smiled. “Mitchell Price had ingested a very dangerous narcotic variant. It probably would have killed him even if his throat had not been slit. Certainly, it rendered him compliant. There were no signs of resistance at all. He bled out on his couch and died in his sleep.
“Recently, a similar, and even more dangerous narcotic has come to our attention. Both of these narcotics are imported from China and are used to cut heroin. You should be aware that both of them are a lot cheaper than heroin and about five thousand times more potent. People who use them tend to stop breathing and drop dead.”
Reginald Rinear continued to frown. Everett Johns glanced at his client, his face expressionless.
“Still nothing to say? No?” Barent shrugged. “Then I want you to understand that the murder of Mitchell Price is not something that the NYPD is going to forget. We are going to pursue all available leads. We do not, at this time, suspect you of being complicit in Mitchell Price’s murder. We do suspect that the information you could possibly provide us might assist in leading us to that murderer. One way or another, sooner or later, we will solve this case. You are not the only lead we are pursuing. If it comes out that you possess information that might have helped this investigation and that you refused to cooperate, we will make certain that your role does not remain a secret. How many of your clients, not to mention your employers, will wish to continue their association with a drug addict who is also an accessory after the fact to murder.” Barent raised his eyebrows. “Any guesses?”
Reginald Rinear continued to frown into the corner of the room. Everett Johns glanced at him, gave a minut
e shake of his head and an equally tiny roll of his eyes. He looked at Barent. “Let me confer with my client. We will be in touch if he changes his mind.”
As good as they were going to get, Barent thought. He rose to his feet, Moran following, and walked out of the room.
“Think he’ll bite?” Moran asked.
“I guess we’ll see.”
Even at 4:00 AM, a hospital is never entirely dormant. Beepers are beeping; phones are ringing. Patients turn restlessly in their uncomfortable beds. Others, unable to sleep, wander the halls, pushing their IV poles along beside them. Nurses chatter, in between waking patients up to take their vital signs. Orderlies and pharmacy techs push carts down the hallways and resident physicians, always swamped with work, sit at the nursing station and write notes that they had no time to write earlier in the day.
Still, at 4:00 AM, even the busiest hospital grows somnolent.
Arnaldo Figueroa had served four years as an Army Ranger prior to joining the NYPD. He had been wounded twice and shot at more times than he cared to remember. Like most soldiers, he had learned to sleep at any time and in any situation. Like most soldiers who have had to survive in enemy territory, he had learned to sleep lightly.
A nurse opening the door carried a distinctive set of impressions and cues. The door opened wide and light would shine into the room from the hallway outside. The nurse would walk up to his bedside, not trying to be silent. Quite the contrary, as more often than not, a series of questions would be forthcoming, and even if the interaction was confined to the taking of heart rate and blood pressure, there was no way that a patient could sleep through it.
The orderlies also had no reason to be quiet. A food tray being delivered and then picked up, a change of linens, mopping down the floors, none of this was stealthy. Nothing was quiet.
The doctors, of course, and the students, they all wanted to talk. How are you today, Mr. Figueroa? Are you in any pain? Hold out your hands and spread your fingers. Squeeze your fist as tightly as you can. Walk from one side of the room to the other. Do you have any questions?
There was no reason that any legitimate personnel would very quietly, very stealthily pull open the door, quietly close the door behind them and then pad inside.
Noise in the middle of the night was annoying. Quiet—too much quiet—was infinitely worse.
Arnaldo Figueroa came awake. His slow, deep breathing did not change. He moved not a muscle. His eyes opened, just the merest slits. The room was dark, of course, but the window allowed light to shine in from outside. Not enough to make out the features but certainly enough to see the tall figure looming over his bed. The figure reached out, grasping Arnaldo Figueroa’s IV line with his left hand, and pulled something from a pocket with his right hand. He fumbled with the injection port of the IV line.
The urinal, half filled, was hanging from the railing of the bed. Arnaldo Figueroa reached out with his right hand, grasped the urinal and threw its contents into the figure’s face. The figure reeled back, cursing. Arnaldo Figueroa grasped the IV line and pulled it out of his arm. Then he screamed. The figure hesitated for a second and ran for the door. The door opened. The door closed. Arnaldo Figueroa collapsed back onto the bed, his heart thudding. “Close one,” he muttered to himself.
“So,” Barent said, “let’s go over it again.”
It is a common failing of humankind to discount events and testimony that are outside of one’s own experience, and Arnaldo Figueroa was a recent victim of a traumatic brain injury. The nurses had at first refused to believe that he had suffered anything other than a bad dream, but after noticing the trail of liquid in the hallway outside that led to the staircase, and after discovering a syringe full of an unknown substance with a needle attached lying under the bed, they reluctantly agreed to notify hospital security. Security listened to Arnaldo Figueroa’s story and then called Lew Barent and Richard Kurtz.
Arnaldo Figueroa sighed. “What more can I tell you? The room was dark. I couldn’t see his face. He was tall, about six-one, maybe six-two. I’m not even certain it was a he.”
Not a lot of women over six feet, Barent thought, and the footprints the guy had left out in the hall, nicely outlined in Arnaldo Figueroa’s pee, were Reeboks, size twelve. The syringe had been confiscated by the crime scene guys. By tomorrow, they should know what was in it.
“God damn hospitals,” Barent muttered. “This place is about as secure as a sieve.”
Kurtz nodded.
It was almost a month since Arnaldo Figueroa had been shot. The police guard had been removed two weeks ago, the brass having concluded that his shooting was most likely a random incident…evidently a mistake.
“You’ve never been up to the Eighteenth Floor, have you?” Kurtz said.
“No,” Barent said. “Why do you ask?”
“The Eighteenth Floor is the VIP Floor. All private rooms. The stairways and the doors to each hallway are locked. There’s security by the elevator. Nobody gets in without showing ID and being cleared.”
“Huh…” Barent said.
“Arnie,” Kurtz said, “you’re about to get an upgrade.”
“That’s good,” Barent said. He grinned wanly. “We’ll bring the guards back too. Let’s not make the same mistake twice.”
This was becoming a habit. Barent and Moran sat next to each other, across from Kurtz. Kurtz was eating chicken salad on rye. Barent and Moran both had burgers on their plates.
“It was potassium chloride,” Moran said.
Kurtz paused for a second, scowled down at his sandwich, then shrugged and took a bite. “A syringe full of potassium chloride would definitely be enough to stop the heart. It’s instantly fatal, and it’s undetectable. Every cell in the body is full of potassium. After death, all of that potassium gets released into the blood.” He shrugged again. “We would never have known why he died.”
“I always wondered about that,” Moran said. “If every cell contains so much potassium, why would a little more be a problem?”
“A good question,” Kurtz said. “The cells contain a lot of potassium but the blood contains mostly sodium. The balance of sodium and potassium is responsible for the conduction of electrochemical impulses. If the balance gets upset, then the impulses that make the heart contract will stop. If the electrochemical impulses stop, then the heart stops.”
Moran nodded and took a bite out of his burger. “Okay,” he said.
Arnaldo Figueroa was enjoying his new room, which was considerably larger than his old room. Security had been briefed. New guards had been posted. Nobody was going to sneak onto the Eighteenth Floor.
“No clue who the guy was?” Kurtz asked.
“If he worked in the hospital,” Barent said, “it wasn’t on that floor. He took off down the staircase. We don’t know where he came out.”
Staunton University Medical Center, Easton’s sister hospital, had been plagued by a stalker, just a few months before. Security cameras had been placed on all non-patient care areas. Easton had cameras only in the parking lot.
“So, why Arnie, and why now?” Kurtz asked.
“He knows something,” Barent said, “or somebody thinks he knows something.”
“Maybe not,” Moran said. “It could be personal. Cops sometimes make enemies.”
“Killing cops is unusual,” Kurtz said. “Criminals tend not to try.”
Moran mirthlessly grinned.
“We’re usually a pretty mild-mannered bunch,” Barent said. “Protect and serve and all that; but when you kill a cop, the gloves come off.”
Moran shrugged. He dipped a French fry into some ketchup and chewed it slowly. “We exist in an uneasy balance with the so-called criminal underworld. We know they’re out there and we pick a few off now and then. We keep up the pressure. Most of the time, they keep their heads down. Both sides know that unless they go too far, they can get away with it: drugs, prostitution, illegal betting parlors, protection money. We can’t eradicate it, not without devo
ting an enormous amount of resources, so most of the time, we don’t even try, not unless they go too far.”
“Like murder,” Kurtz said.
“Yeah,” Barent said, “like murder. Murdering a cop is definitely going too far.”
“So, what would he know?”
“You mean before he got shot in the head?”
“Before, after…” Kurtz shrugged.
“After he got shot in the head, he was in the hospital,” Barent pointed out, “mostly unconscious and barely able to move. I think we can assume that whatever the motivating factor might be is related to his prior activities.”
“He was in Brooklyn the night he got shot,” Kurtz said.
“Yeah, in Williamsburg. He was following three guys. He thinks they were Russian. That’s all he remembers.”
“Why was he following them?”
“Officer Figueroa, as you may have noticed, is Hispanic.”
Kurtz blinked. “Yeah?”
“He was undercover. These guys came into the neighborhood. They stood out.”
“I see. So, what happened, then?”
“That’s what he doesn’t remember.”
“Does he remember what they looked like?”
“They were big. They wore suits and ties.”
“Why does he think they were Russian?”
“He said that they looked Russian.”
Kurtz sat back. “Do Russians look any different from any other white people?”
“Some do,” Moran said. “Some don’t. Russia covers a lot of territory and there are numerous ethnic sub-groups. Also, within any group, there’s a lot of individual variation.”
Kurtz had known plenty of Russians and people of Russian descent. Offhand, he couldn’t think of any physical characteristics that might be distinctly ‘Russian.’ “So, what makes somebody look Russian?”
Moran rolled his eyes. “The Slavs supposedly have mostly round faces, pale skin and light brown to blonde hair, but plenty of other people in Europe have those same characteristics. Then there’s the Mongolian influence. Russia was conquered by Genghis Khan and the Mongols. There was a lot of raping and pillaging. Some Russians, particularly those from the Eastern part of the country, do look at least vaguely Asian.”
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