(1/12) Blindsight

by Cook, Robin

  “No, please!” Jordan said. “It’s been a hell of a day and I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Remember, you took a raincheck last night.”

  “Won’t you be tired? Especially if you have another case.”

  Laurie herself felt exhausted. The idea of going straight to bed sounded wonderful to her.

  “I’ll get a second wind,” Jordan said. “We can make it an early evening.”

  “What time can you meet for dinner?”

  “Nine o’clock,” Jordan said. “I’ll send Thomas around then.”

  Reluctantly, Laurie agreed. After she hung up, she called Calvin Washington at home.

  “What is it, Montgomery?” Calvin demanded once his wife called him to the phone. He sounded grumpy.

  “Sorry to bother you at home,” Laurie said. “But now that I have twelve cases in my series, I’d like to ask that I be assigned any more that might come in tomorrow.”

  “You’re not on autopsy tomorrow. It’s a paper day for you.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m calling. I’m not on call this weekend so I can catch up with my paperwork then.”

  “Montgomery, I think you ought to cool it. You’re getting much too carried away with all this. You’re too emotionally involved; you’re losing your objectivity. I’m sorry, but tomorrow is a paper day for you no matter what comes through the door feetfirst.”

  Laurie hung up the phone. She felt depressed. At the same time she knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Calvin had said. She was emotionally involved in the issue.

  Sitting by the phone, Laurie thought about returning her mother’s call. The last thing she wanted to go through was the third degree about her budding relationship with Jordan Scheffield. Besides, she hadn’t quite decided what she thought of him herself. She decided to wait on calling back her mother.

  As Lou drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway, he wondered why he insisted on continually bashing his head up against a brick wall.

  There was no way a woman like Laurie Montgomery would look at someone like himself other than as a city servant. Why did he keep entertaining delusions of grandeur in which Laurie would suddenly say: “Oh, Lou, I’ve always wanted to meet a police detective who’s gone to a community college”?

  Lou slapped the steering wheel in embarrassed anger. When Laurie had suddenly called and insisted on coming down to his office, he’d believed she’d wanted to see him for personal reasons, not some harebrained idea of using him to publicize a yuppie cocaine epidemic.

  Lou exited the Long Island Expressway and got onto Woodhaven Boulevard, heading to Forest Hills. Feeling the need to do something rather than play with paper clips at his desk, he’d decided to go out and do a little gumshoeing on his own by visiting the surviving spouses. It was also better than going back to his miserable apartment on Prince Street in SoHo and watching TV.

  Pulling up the Vivonettos’ long, curved driveway, Lou couldn’t help but be awed. The house was a mansion with white columns. Right away, lights went off in Lou’s head. This kind of opulence suggested serious money. And Lou had a hard time believing a simple restaurateur could make that kind of dough unless he had organized-crime connections.

  Lou parked the car by the front door. He’d called ahead so Mrs. Vivonetto was expecting him. When he rang the bell, a woman wearing a ton of makeup came to the door. She was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder wool dress. There was not much suggestion of aggrieved mourning.

  “You must be Lieutenant Soldano,” she said. “Do come in. My name is Gloria Vivonetto. Can I offer you a drink?”

  Lou said that just water would be fine for him. “You know, on duty,” he muttered by way of explanation. Gloria poured him a glass at the bar in the living room. She fixed herself a vodka gimlet.

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” Lou said. It was his standard intro for occasions like this.

  “It was just like him,” Gloria said. “I’d told him time and time again he shouldn’t stay up and watch television. And now he goes and gets himself shot. I don’t know anything about running a business. I’m sure people are going to rob me blind.”

  “Was there anyone that you know of who would have wanted your husband dead?” Lou asked. It was the first question in the standard protocol.

  “I’ve been all over this with the other detectives. Do we have to go through it again?”

  “Perhaps not,” Lou said. “Let me be frank with you, Mrs. Vivonetto. The way your husband was killed suggests an organized-crime involvement. Do you know what I’m saying?”

  “You mean Mafia?”

  “Well, there’s more to organized crime than the Mafia,” Lou said. “But that’s the general idea. Is there any reason that you can think of why people like the Mafia would want your husband killed?”

  “Ha!” Gloria laughed. “My husband was never involved with anything as colorful as the Mafia.”

  “What about his business?” Lou persisted. “Did Pasta Pronto have any connection whatsoever with organized crime?”

  “No,” Gloria said.

  “Are you sure?” Lou questioned.

  “Well, no, I guess I’m not sure,” Gloria answered. “I wasn’t involved with the business. But I can’t imagine he ever had anything to do with the Mafia. And anyway, my husband was not a well man. He wasn’t going to be around much longer anyway. If someone wanted him out of the way they could have waited for him to keel over naturally.”

  “How was your husband sick?” Lou asked.

  “In what ways wasn’t he sick?” Gloria shot back. “Everything was falling apart. He had bad heart problems and had had two bypass operations. His kidneys weren’t great. He was supposed to have his gallbladder removed but they kept putting it off, saying his heart wouldn’t take it. He was going to have an eye operation. And his prostate was messed up. I’m not sure what was wrong with that, but his whole lower half didn’t work anymore. Hadn’t for years.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lou said, unsure of what else to say. “I suppose he suffered a lot.”

  Gloria shrugged her shoulders. “He never took care of himself. He was overweight, drank a ton, and he smoked like a chimney. The doctors told me he might not last a year unless he changed his ways, which wasn’t something he was about to do.”

  Lou decided there wasn’t much more he’d learn from the not-so-aggrieved widow. “Well,” he said, standing up, “thank you for your time, Mrs. Vivonetto. If you think of anything else that might seem important, please give me a call.” He handed her one of his business cards.

  Next Lou headed for the Singleton residence. The place was a simple, two-story, brick row house with two pink flamingos stuck in the front lawn. The street reminded him of his old neighborhood only a half dozen blocks away in Rego Park. He felt a stab of nostalgia for the evenings in the alleyway, playing stickball.

  Mr. Chester Singleton opened the door. He was a big man, middle-aged and quite balding. He had a hounddog look thanks to his beefy jowls. His eyes were red and streaked. The instant Lou saw him he knew he was in the presence of true grief.

  “Detective Soldano?”

  Lou nodded and was immediately invited inside.

  Inside, the furniture was plain but solid. A crocheted comforter was folded over the back of a plaid, well-worn couch. Dozens of framed photos lined the walls, most of them black and white.

  “I’m very sorry about your wife,” Lou said.

  Chester nodded, took a deep breath, and bit his lower lip.

  “I know that other people have been by,” Lou continued. He decided to go right to the heart of the matter. “I wanted to ask you flat-out why a professional gunman would come into your home to shoot your wife.”

  “I don’t know,” Chester said. His voice quavered with emotion.

  “Your restaurant-supply business supplied some restaurants with organized-crime connections. Do any of the restaurants you supply have any complaints with your service?”

  “N
ever,” Chester said. “And I don’t know anything about any organized crime. Sure, I heard rumors. But I never met anyone or saw anyone I would call a mobster type.”

  “What about Pasta Pronto?” Lou asked. “I understand you had new business there.”

  “I recently got some of their business, that’s true. But only a piece of it. I think they were just trying me out. I hoped to get more of their business eventually.”

  “Did you know Steven Vivonetto?” Lou asked.

  “Yes, but not well. He was a wealthy man.”

  “You know he got shot last night as well?” Lou said.

  “I know. I read about it in the paper.”

  “Had you received any threats lately?” Lou asked. “Any attempts at extortion? Any kind of protection racket knocking on your door?”

  Chester shook his head.

  “Can you think of any reason your wife and Steven Vivonetto should have been killed during the same night, possibly by the same person?”

  “No,” Chester said. “I can’t think of any reason why anyone would have wanted to kill Janice. Everyone loved Janice. She was the warmest, nicest person in the world. And on top of that, she was ill.”

  “What was wrong with her?” Lou asked.

  “Cancer. Unfortunately it had spread before they found it. She never liked to go to the doctor. If only she’d gone sooner, they might have been able to do more. As it was, she only had chemotherapy. She seemed okay for a while, but then she got this awful rash on her face. Herpes zoster they call it. It even got into one of her eyes and blinded it so that she needed to have an operation.”

  “Did the doctors hold out much hope for her?” Lou asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Chester said. “They told me that they couldn’t say for sure, but they thought that it might be only a year or so, and shorter if the cancer came back quicker.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear all this,” Lou said.

  “Well, maybe what happened was just as well. Maybe it saved her a lot of suffering. But I miss her so. We were married for thirty-one years.”

  After offering additional condolences and his business card, Lou bade farewell to Mr. Singleton. Driving back to Manhattan, he reviewed what little he’d learned. The organized-crime connection to either case was at best tenuous. He’d been surprised to learn that both victims were terminally ill. He wondered if their killers had known.

  By reflex he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a cigarette. He pushed in the lighter. Then he thought about Laurie. Rolling down the window, he tossed the unlit cigarette into the street just as the lighter popped out. He sighed, wondering where that pompous Jordan Scheffield was taking her for dinner.

  Vinnie Dominick came into the locker room at St. Mary’s and sat wearily on the bench. He was perspiring heavily. He was bleeding slightly from a small scratch on his cheek.

  “You’re bleeding, boss,” Freddie Capuso said.

  “Get out of my face,” Vinnie snapped. “I know I’m bleeding. But you know what bugs me? That bum Jeff Young said he never touched me and whined for ten minutes when I called a foul.”

  Vinnie had just finished an hour’s worth of pickup three-on-three basketball. His team had lost and he was in a foul mood. His mood got even worse when his most trusted lieutenant, Franco Ponti, came in with a long face.

  “Don’t tell me it’s true?” Vinnie asked.

  Franco came over to the bench. He put one foot on it and leaned on his knee. His nickname since high school had been “falcon,” mostly because of his face. With a narrow hooked nose, thin lips, and beady eyes he resembled a bird of prey.

  “It’s true,” Franco said. He spoke in a monotone. “Jimmy Lanso got whacked last night in his cousin’s funeral home.”

  Vinnie bolted off the bench and hammered one of the metal lockers. The crashing noise reverberated around the small locker room like a clap of thunder. Everyone winced except Franco.

  “Christ!” Vinnie cried. He began pacing. Freddie Capuso got out of his way.

  “What am I going to tell my wife?” Vinnie cried. “What am I going to tell my wife?” he repeated, raising his voice. “I promised her I’d take care of it.” He pounded one of the lockers again. Perspiration flew off his face.

  “Tell her that you made a mistake trusting Cerino,” Franco suggested.

  Vinnie stopped in his tracks. “It’s true,” he snarled. “I thought Cerino was a civilized man. But now I know otherwise.”

  “And there’s more,” Franco said. “Cerino’s men have been busy whacking all sorts of people besides Jimmy Lanso. Last night they hit two in Kew Gardens and two in Forest Hills.”

  “I saw that on the news.” Vinnie was astounded. “That was Cerino’s people?”

  “Yup,” Franco said.

  “Why?” Vinnie asked. “I didn’t recognize any of the names.”

  “Nobody knows.” Franco shrugged his shoulders.

  “There must be some reason.”

  “For sure,” Franco said. “I just don’t know what it is.”

  “Well, find out!” Vinnie ordered. “It’s one thing putting up with Cerino and his bums as business rivals, but it’s quite another to sit around watching them ruin things for everyone.”

  “There are cops crawling all over Queens,” Franco agreed.

  “That’s just what we don’t need,” Vinnie said. “With the authorities up in arms, we’ll have to suspend a significant part of our operations. You have to find out what Cerino is up to. Franco, I’m depending on you.”

  Franco nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’re not eating much,” Jordan said.

  Laurie looked up from her plate. They were dining at a restaurant called Palio. Although the food was Italian, the décor was a relaxing meld of oriental and modern. Before her was a delicious seafood risotto. Her wineglass was filled with a crisp Pinot Grigio. But Jordan was right; she wasn’t eating much. Although she hadn’t eaten much that day, she just wasn’t hungry.

  “You don’t like the food?” Jordan asked. “I thought you said you liked Italian.” His dress was as casually elegant as ever; he had on a black velvet blazer with a silk shirt open at the neck. He was not wearing a tie.

  The logistics had worked much better this evening. As Jordan had promised, he’d called just before nine when he was leaving surgery, saying that Thomas was on his way to pick her up while he went back to his apartment to change. By the time Thomas and Laurie got back to the Trump Tower, Jordan was waiting curbside. From there it had been a short ride over to West Fifty-first Street.

  “I love the food,” Laurie said. “I guess I’m just not that hungry. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’ve been avoiding talking about the day,” Jordan admitted. “I thought it better to get a bit of wine under our belts. As I mentioned on the phone, my day was atrocious. That’s the only word for it, starting from your phone call about poor Marsha Schulman. Every time I think about her, I get this sick feeling. I even feel guilty about being so angry with her for not showing up to work, and here she was a headless corpse floating in the East River. Oh, God!” Jordan couldn’t continue. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head slowly. Laurie reached across the table and put a hand on Jordan’s arm. She felt for him but was also relieved to see this display of emotion. Up until this moment she’d felt he’d been incapable of such demonstrativeness and rather dispassionate about his secretary’s murder. He suddenly seemed a lot more human.

  Jordan pulled himself together. “And there’s more,” he said sadly. “I lost a patient today. Part of the reason I went into ophthalmology was because I knew I’d have a hard time dealing with death, yet I still wanted to do surgery. Ophthalmology seemed an ideal compromise, until today. I lost a preop by the name of Mary O’Connor.”

  “I’m sorry,” Laurie said. “I understand how you feel. Dealing with dying patients was hard for me too. I suppose it’s one of the reasons I went into pathology, especially forensics. My pati
ents are already dead.”

  Jordan smiled weakly. “Mary was a wonderful woman and such an appreciative patient,” he said. “I’d already operated on one eye and was about to do the other this afternoon. She was a healthy lady with no known heart trouble, yet she was found dead in her bed. She’d died watching television.”

  “What a terrible experience for you,” Laurie sympathized. “But you have to remember that occult medical problems are always found in such cases. I imagine we’ll be seeing Mrs. O’Connor tomorrow, and I’ll be sure to let you know what it was. Sometimes knowing the pathology makes it easier to deal with the death.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Jordan said.

  “I suppose my day wasn’t as bad as yours,” Laurie said. “But I’m beginning to understand how Cassandra felt when Apollo made sure that she was not to be heeded.”

  Laurie told Jordan all about her overdose series and that she was sure there would be more cases if no appropriate warnings were issued. She told him how upsetting it had been that she’d been unable to convince the chief medical examiner to go public with the story. Then she told him she’d gone to the police, and even they refused to help.

  “Sounds frustrating,” Jordan said. “There was one good thing about my day,” he said, changing the subject. “I did a lot of surgery, and that makes me and my accountant very happy. Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been doing double my normal number of cases.”

  “I’m glad,” Laurie said. She couldn’t help but notice Jordan’s propensity for turning the conversation to himself.

  “I just hope it keeps up,” he said. “There are always fluctuations. I can accept that. But I’m getting spoiled at the current rate.”

  Once they had finished their meal and their places were cleared, the waiter rolled a tempting dessert trolley to their table. Jordan selected a chocolate cake. Laurie chose berries. Jordan had an espresso, Laurie a decaf. As she stirred her coffee, she discreetly glanced at her watch.

  “I saw that,” Jordan said. “I know it’s getting late. I also know it’s a “school night.’ I’ll get you home in a half hour if we can make the same deal we made last night. Let’s have dinner again tomorrow night.”