by Cook, Robin
“That must be him,” Angelo said. He started the car. Tony put the list back in the glove compartment.
Kendall Fletcher had come out of his apartment building dressed to run. He crossed Fifth Avenue at Seventy-second Street and began jogging as soon as he reached the park.
Angelo headed for the East Drive. He and Tony kept their eyes glued to Kendall as he made his way down the Seventy-second Street transverse to the drive, where he turned north into the jogging lane.
Angelo motored about a hundred yards past the man, then pulled over to the side of the road. With the blinkers on, he and Tony got out.
Kendall wasn’t the only runner out on the drive. As Angelo and Tony watched him approach, a half dozen other runners passed by.
“I just don’t get these people,” Tony said with wonderment.
Just before Kendall reached them, Angelo and Tony stepped into the jogging lane.
“Kendall Fletcher?” Angelo asked.
Kendall came to a stop. “Yes?” he said.
“Police,” Angelo said. He flashed his Ozone Park police badge. Tony flashed his. “Hate to bother you while you’re running,” Angelo continued, “but we want to talk to you downtown. We’re involved with a Citicorp investigation.”
“This is not a good time,” Kendall said. His voice was firm but his eyes gave him away. He was definitely nervous.
“I don’t think you want to make a scene,” Angelo said. “We won’t take much of your time. We wanted to talk with the vice presidents before we convened a grand jury.”
“I’m in my jogging shorts,” Kendall said.
“No problem,” Angelo said. “We’ll be happy to give you a lift home and let you change. You can be out jogging in another hour if you cooperate.”
Kendall appeared wary but finally agreed. He climbed into Angelo’s car and they drove back to his building on Fifth Avenue.
Leaving a card on the dash, Angelo and Tony got out of the car with Kendall and followed him into the building. Tony was carrying the old black leather doctor’s bag. They walked as a group past the doorman, who ignored them, got on the elevator, and went up to the twenty-fifth floor.
No one spoke as Kendall opened his apartment door, went in, and held the door for Angelo and Tony.
Tony nodded several times as he viewed the apartment. “Nice layout,” he said. He put down his doctor’s bag on the coffee table.
“Can I get you men anything while I change?” Kendall asked. He motioned toward the bar.
“Nah,” Tony said. “You understand, we’re on duty. We don’t drink while we work.”
Angelo checked out the apartment quickly while Tony watched Kendall. Kendall in turn watched Angelo with confused curiosity.
“What are you looking for?” Kendall called after Angelo.
“Make sure there aren’t any other people up here,” Angelo said as he returned from glancing into the kitchen. He then disappeared back toward the master suite.
“Hey!” Kendall called. “You can’t search my apartment!” He turned to Tony. “You have to have a warrant for this.”
“A warrant?” Tony questioned. “Oh, yeah, the warrant. We always forget the warrant.”
Angelo returned.
“I’d like to see your identification again,” Kendall said. “This is an outrage.”
Angelo reached into his Brioni jacket and withdrew his Walther pistol. “Here’s mine,” he said. He motioned for Kendall to sit down. Tony snapped open the latches on his doctor’s bag.
“What is this, a robbery?” Kendall asked, staring at the gun. He sat down. “Help yourself! Take what you want.”
“I’m the candy man,” Tony said. He lifted a long, clear plastic bag and a small cylinder out of the bag.
Angelo moved behind Kendall, gun in hand. Kendall watched nervously as Tony used the cylinder to inflate the plastic bag with a gas that was obviously lighter than air. Once the bag was completely full, he occluded the end and put the cylinder back in the doctor’s bag. With the plastic bag in hand, he approached Kendall.
“What’s going on?” Kendall demanded.
“We’re here to offer you a wild trip,” Tony said with a smile.
“I’m not interested in any trip,” Kendall said. “Take what you want and get out of here.”
Tony opened the base of the plastic bag so that it looked more like a miniature transparent hot air balloon. Then, holding two sides of the base, he crammed it down over the top of Kendall’s head.
The unexpectedness of the move caught Kendall by surprise. He reached up and grabbed Tony’s forearms and halted the bag at his shoulders. As he tried to stand up, Angelo threw the arm with the gun around his neck. Angelo’s other hand grabbed Kendall’s right wrist in an attempt to free its grip on Tony’s forearm.
For a second the three people struggled against one another. Kendall, terrified at this point, opened his mouth and bit Angelo’s forearm through the plastic bag.
“Ahhhh!” Angelo cried, feeling Kendall’s incisors break his skin. Angelo let go of Kendall’s arm and was about to punch Kendall in the face inside the plastic bag when he saw it wasn’t necessary.
After having taken only a few breaths in the plastic bag, Kendall’s eyelids sagged and his whole body, including his jaws, went limp. While Tony followed Kendall to the floor, maintaining the plastic bag in position, Angelo got his arm back.
Quickly Angelo undid his cuff link and pulled up his sleeve. On the inside of his forearm, about three inches from his elbow, was an elliptical ring of puncture wounds corresponding to Kendall’s dentition. A few of them were bleeding.
“The bastard bit me!” Angelo said indignantly. He put his gun into its shoulder holster. “In this line of work you never know what the hell is going to happen.”
Tony stood up and went back to the doctor’s bag. “Every time we use that gas, I’m amazed,” he said. “Old Doc Travino sure knows his stuff.” He got out a syringe and a piece of rubber tubing. Returning to Kendall, he used the rubber tubing as a tourniquet. “Look at these veins, will you!” he said. “God, they look like cigars. No way we can miss these. You want to do it or should I?”
“You do it,” Angelo said. “But you better get that bag off his head. We don’t want another Robert Evanstype screw-up.”
“Right,” Tony said. He worked the plastic bag free, then shook it out. “Ugh,” he said. “I hate that sweet smell.”
“Give him the coke, will you?” Angelo said. “He’ll wake up before you’re finished.”
Tony took the needle and pushed it into one of Kendall’s prominent veins. “There, what did I tell you?” he said, pleased to have scored on his first try. He pulled off the tourniquet, then pushed in the plunger, emptying the syringe into Kendall’s arm.
Tony left the used syringe on the coffee table and put the rest of his paraphernalia back into the doctor’s bag. At the same time he took out a small glassine envelope. Going back to Kendall, he poured a small amount of the white powder into Kendall’s nostrils. Then he dabbed a little onto his thumb and snorted it. “I love leftovers,” he said with glee.
“Stay away from that stuff!” Angelo commanded.
“Couldn’t resist,” Tony said. He put the glassine envelope next to the used syringe. “What do you think, into the fridge with him?”
“Let’s skip it,” Angelo said. “I was talking with Doc about it. He says that as long as the body’s not out longer than twelve hours we’re okay. And the way we’ve been working this, everybody’s been found way before twelve hours.”
Tony looked around. “Did I get everything?”
“Looks good,” Angelo said. “Let’s sit down and see how Kendall likes his trip.”
Tony sat on the couch while Angelo sat in the armchair that Kendall had been occupying.
“Nice apartment,” Tony said. “What do you say we glance around a little to see if there’s anything we might want to pick up?”
“How many times do I have to tell you: we don’t take anythin
g when we do these drug trips.”
“Such a waste,” Tony said wistfully as he surveyed the room.
A few minutes later, Kendall stirred and smacked his lips. Moaning, he rolled over on his stomach.
“Hey, Kendall, baby,” Tony called. “How you feel? Talk to me!”
Kendall pushed himself up to a sitting position. He had a blank expression on his pale face.
“How is it?” Tony asked. “With as much snow as you got coursing through those veins, you must be in heaven.”
Without any warning, Kendall vomited onto the rug.
“Oh, God!” Tony cried as he scrambled out of the way. “This is disgusting.”
Kendall coughed violently, then looked up at Tony and Angelo. His eyes were glazed. He looked confused.
“How do you feel?” Angelo asked.
Kendall’s mouth tried to form words, but the man seemed utterly incapable of them. Suddenly his eyes rolled back so that only the whites were showing and he began to convulse.
“That’s our cue,” Angelo said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Tony picked up the doctor’s bag and followed Angelo to the door. Angelo peered through the peephole. With no one in sight, he opened the door and stuck his head out.
“Hallway’s clear,” he said. “Come on!”
They exited the apartment quickly and ran to the stairwell. Descending a single floor, they relaxed and waited for the elevator.
“Are you hungry?” Tony asked.
“A little,” Angelo said.
To avoid being seen by the doorman, they got off the elevator on the first floor and returned to the stairwell. They exited the building via the service entrance.
Arriving at the car, Angelo stopped. He was astonished. “Look at this!” he said. “I can’t believe it. We got a ticket. Some nerve. I hope the cop who gave us this never tries to bring his car out to Ozone Park.”
“So what’s next?” Tony asked as soon as they were seated in the car. “Another job or dinner?”
“I don’t know what you like more,” said Angelo, shaking his head, “whacking or eating.”
Tony smiled. “Depends on my mood.”
“I think we should do the other hit,” Angelo said. “Then when we stop to eat it will be just about the right time to call back here to tell the doorman about noises coming from 25G.”
“Let’s do it,” Tony said. He sat back. With his snort of cocaine, he felt great. In fact, he felt like he could do anything in the world.
As Angelo pulled away from the curb, Franco Ponti put his own car in gear. He allowed several cars to pass before pulling out into Fifth Avenue traffic. He’d watched while Angelo and Tony picked the jogger up in the park and escorted him back to his apartment. Although he hadn’t been privy to what had transpired in the apartment, he thought he could guess. But the real question wasn’t what had happened, but why?
14
* * *
6:45 a.m., Monday
Manhattan
The alarm went off and Laurie went through her usual routine of rapidly fumbling with it to get it turned off. As she set the clock on her windowsill, she realized that for the first time in many days she’d not awakened with the anxiety of having had her recurrent nightmare. Apparently her conscience had been temporarily appeased by her visit with Bob Talbot.
But as Laurie slipped into her sheepskin slippers and turned on the bedroom TV to the local news, she began to feel progressively nervous about what the day would bring vis-á-vis Dr. Bingham. She was particularly anxious to get a copy of the paper to see Bob Talbot’s piece and how prominently it would be featured. It was quite apparent Bingham would suspect her as the source. What would she say if he asked her directly? She doubted she would be able to lie to the chief.
Pausing in the kitchen on her way to the bathroom, Laurie hazarded a glance out at the tiny wedge of sky she could see from her window. The dark swirling clouds suggested that the weather had not improved since yesterday.
Later, after her shower and with a second cup of coffee balanced on the edge of the sink, Laurie started applying her makeup, all the time going over various scenarios of what she might say to Dr. Bingham. In the background she heard the familiar theme music to Good Morning America as the show came on the air. A little later she heard the equally familiar happy voices of the hosts.
As Laurie was about to apply her lipstick she heard Mike Schneider come on and talk about more weapons of mass destruction that a UN team had found in Iraq. Laurie had her upper lip done and was about to do the lower when she flinched. She’d heard Mike Schneider say a surprising name. It was her name!
Laurie dashed into the bedroom and turned up the volume. Her expression changed from disbelief to horror as Schneider gave an overview of her overdose series starting with Duncan Andrews, son of senatorial hopeful Clayton Andrews. He went on to cite three cases unfamiliar to Laurie: Kendall Fletcher, Stephanie Haberlin, and Yvonne Andre. He mentioned the double overdose at George VanDeusen’s. Most disturbing of all, he repeated Laurie’s name, saying that according to Dr. Laurie Montgomery, there was reason to believe these deaths were deliberate homicides, not accidental overdoses, and that the whole affair potentially represented an extraordinary cover-up on the part of the New York City police and the medical examiner’s office.
As soon as Mike Schneider moved on to other news, Laurie dashed into her living room and literally threw papers aside searching for her address book. Finding Bob Talbot’s number, she punched it into the telephone.
“What did you do to me?” she screamed as soon as he picked up the phone.
“Laurie, I’m sorry,” Bob said. “You must believe me. It wasn’t my fault. To get the story into the morning paper my editor had me write up a memo to him. I wrote that your name was not to be included, but he stole the story from me. It was totally unethical in every regard.”
Laurie hung up the phone in disgust. Her heart was pounding. This was a disaster, a catastrophe. She’d surely be out of a job. There was no question of Bingham’s response now; he’d be furious. And after this, where would she ever find a job in forensics?
Laurie walked over to the window and gazed out at the sad, refuse-strewn warren of neglected backyards. She was so distressed she felt numb. She couldn’t even cry. But as she stood there looking at the depressing vista, her emotions began to change. After all, her actions had come from a need to follow her conscience. And Bingham had admitted, during her call to him yesterday, that he knew her intentions were good.
Laurie’s initial fear of total calamity mellowed. All at once she didn’t think she would be terminated. Reprimanded, yes; suspended, possibly; but fired, no. Turning from the window, she went back into the bathroom to finish her makeup. The more she thought about the situation, the calmer she became. She could see herself explaining that she had been true to her sense of responsibility as a person as well as a medical examiner.
Returning to the bedroom for the last time, Laurie completed her dressing. Then, gathering her things, she left her apartment.
As she was standing at the elevator awaiting its arrival, she noticed a newspaper in front of a neighbor’s door. Stepping over to it, she slipped it from its plastic cover. There on the front page as a second headline was the story of her overdose series. There was even an old picture of her taken in medical school. Laurie wondered where the picture had come from.
Opening the paper to the proper page, Laurie read the first few paragraphs, which were a repeat of Mike Schneider’s summary. But, true to tabloid-style journalism, there was much more lurid detail, including reference to a number of victims having been stuffed into refrigerators. Laurie wondered where that distortion had come from. She certainly hadn’t mentioned anything like that to Bob Talbot. There was also more emphasis on the alleged cover-up, making it sound far more sinister than Mike Schneider had.
Hearing the elevator arrive behind her, Laurie dropped the newspaper in front of the proper door and hurried back before th
e elevator left. When she was halfway into the car, she heard Debra Engler’s hoarse voice.
“You shouldn’t read other people’s papers,” the woman said.
For a moment Laurie stood holding the insistent elevator door from closing. She wanted to turn around and bash her umbrella against Debra’s door to frighten the woman. But she controlled herself, and finally boarded.
As she descended, Laurie’s calmness crumbled and was replaced by apprehension of meeting with Bingham. Laurie dreaded confrontations. She had never been good at them.
Paul Cerino was hunched over his favorite meal of the day: breakfast. He was enjoying a hearty feast of eggs over easy, pork sausage, and biscuits. He was still wearing the same metal patch over his eye, but he was feeling terrific.
Gregory and Steven were momentarily quiet, eating their own choice of sugar-coated breakfast cereal which they had selected from a bewildering choice of single serving boxes. Each had his own empty box in front of him which he was studying intently. Gloria had just sat down after having retrieved the newspaper from the front stoop.
“Read me about yesterday’s Giants and Steelers game,” Paul mumbled with his mouth full.
“Oh my!” Gloria said, staring at the front page.
“What’s the matter?” Paul asked.
“There’s a story about a bunch of drug deaths of wealthy and educated young people,” Gloria said. “Says here they think they were murders.”
Paul choked violently, spraying most of the food that he’d had in his mouth out over the table.
“Daaad!” Gregory whined. A layer of partially chewed egg and sausage had settled on the surface of his Sugar Pops.
“Paul, are you all right?” Gloria questioned with alarm.
Paul held up a hand to indicate he was fine. His face had become as red as the heeling patches of skin on his cheeks. With his other hand he picked up his orange juice and took a drink.
“I can’t eat this,” Gregory said looking at his cereal. “It’s going to make me puke.”
“I can’t either,” Steven said, who tended to do just about everything Gregory did.