"It's nice to meet you," Hoch said in the high-pitched tones of a young tenor. "Do you have any questions before we begin?"
Tony glanced at the stack of paper in front of Hoch. One was Carlson's medical record. He was the patient who died. "I'm surprised to have a senior partner here. I expected one of the newer associates. After all, this isn't a major case."
"We expect it will be a major case. The hospital, and therefore you as the hospital's employee, are the one with the deep pockets in this case. The physicians have the bare minimum of insurance and have placed their personal assets out of reach of any judgment. We expect the plaintiff to come after you, no holds barred."
"That hardly seems fair. After all, the doctors were aware of the man's problems and were treating him for his gastric distress."
"This isn't about fair. It's about the plaintiff's attorney doing her job and getting as much as she can awarded to her clients. Our job is to stop her. We expect she'll focus on the hospital and any minor loophole she finds in the record to give the jury the impression that hospital staff in general, and you in particular, didn't do the appropriate thing. She doesn't have to be right. She only has to convince the jury that had you called the physician, somehow he would have responded differently, and therefore, the man might be alive and exercising his earning power to care for his family."
"What about me and my family while this game is being played?" Tony clenched and relaxed his fists under the table.
"You and your family are not Schmeck's concern."
"My wife is sick. I can't afford the time and effort this is going to take. Besides, I don't have anything for them to take. Mortgage wise, I'm up to my eyeballs in alligators."
"Your personal assets aren't in danger. You were functioning as an agent of the hospital. The hospital policy covers you. My preliminary information," he pointed to a page in front of him, "says you have no personal malpractice insurance. It's also obvious you were performing your job according to the job description of a nurse and nurse manager."
Tony forced himself to relax. He brushed the hair from his forehead and leaned forward in his chair. "I need to worry about my time for my family and my job being lost."
"I'm afraid that's true. But the process has begun, we have to see it through. It won't go away."
"Why don't you call Schmeck and tell her to read the record? Everything was done according to protocol."
"It doesn't work that way." Hoch pushed the patient's chart across the table to Tony. "We need to find your notes in this record and trace your involvement. I want to understand what happened, every detail, no matter how insignificant. Then, since we'll cooperate with the other defendants in the case, I want to review the rest of the record with you."
Tony flipped through a copy of the chart. Someone had numbered the pages so participants could reference them in pretrial proceedings and at the trial, if there was one. Tony located the emergency admission forms and began to read.
Seven
On Thursday morning, Detective Howard Epstein slowed for a right turn onto Griffin Road. He pushed the power window button on the department-issued Ford Taurus and let in the cool, winter air. This was why people moved to Florida. A few minutes later, he passed under Interstate 95 and entered the northbound ramp. He'd left the medical examiner's office a few minutes earlier.
Irene Valentine hadn't protested the exhumation of her husband's body, and the examination had proceeded with uncharacteristic speed. Howard drove on, lost in thought. The ME confirmed Tony's suspicions. Valentine had high levels of cyanide in his body. What's the connection to the judge? he wondered.
Howard slowed enough to switch lanes in the heavy traffic. The roar of a Boeing 747 landing at the Hollywood-Ft. Lauderdale International Airport to his right overpowered the sound of his radio.
A bully barged in front of him, cutting Howard off and causing him to cram his foot onto the brake.
Cursing under his breath, he switched lanes, deciding to head to the Sawgrass Expressway. He laughed to himself. In Boston, he would have been happy to switch lanes at all. Exiting onto the 595 ramp, he drove west through lighter traffic.
Howard called his partner on his cell phone. "Al, the thing is . . . the question, of course . . . Where did Valentine or the judge get the cyanide? It's not an everyday poison anymore. The medical examiner said it's been a long time since he's seen cyanide poisoning in this part of the country."
"Your boy Conte said Valentine had a drink of Amaretto in the courtroom. Where's the bottle now?"
"Maybe it's with his personal belongings. There wasn't a crime scene investigation since we didn't know it was a homicide until today."
Alfonzo agreed to stop by the Valentine home, ask Valentine's wife if she had the Amaretto bottle, and see what he could learn in the process. Meanwhile, Howard planned to visit the courthouse and have a conversation with the judge. He wanted to observe the man's reaction to the news about Valentine's postmortem. The detectives arranged to meet at Sam's Deli for lunch.
"While you're at the courthouse, check with the clerk. It's possible Valentine's belongings are there. It'll save us a trip."
Howard pushed the end button on his cell phone and dialed the ED at SMC.
Tony answered. "Hey, how's it going with the investigation?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Howard brought Tony up to date. "What do you think?"
"I think the judge had a drink of Valentine's soda."
"That would be odd."
"Maybe not. Thorne was here the day after the trial. He was wigged out, angry over the verdict. I remember him complaining the judge created a deliberate moment of suspense by asking Valentine for a drink of his soda just after the jury filed in. Thorne figured Kelsey knew the verdict and was signaling his pal, Valentine."
"Hang on a minute." Howard pulled into a slower line of cars moving onto the ramp to the Sawgrass Expressway. "Interesting. It would explain how they both ingested the poison. I wonder if he usually shared a drink with Valentine. It's obvious Valentine's death was homicide, but was the judge an accidental victim or a target?"
"Beats me," Tony said. "Listen, we're kinda busy here. Stretchers are everywhere. A kid who fell off his skateboard is bleeding all over himself and the floor, and the waiting room is bursting. Is there something else on your mind?"
"It'll wait. Thanks, paesano. I'll catch you later." Howard drove the rest of the way to the courthouse rehearsing his approach to the judge.
He found Judge Kelsey in his chambers. The comfortable third floor suite overlooked the parking lot the courthouse shared with the adjacent fire station. The judge was known to watch the ambulance activity and then make critical comments to the fire chief on how the paramedics spent their waiting time.
Judge Kelsey motioned for Howard to sit in one of the club chairs in the semicircle in front of massive desk. The judge was in the habit of having meetings in his chambers and provided sufficient seating for lawyers and their clients. He shunned the use of the conference rooms, often commenting he preferred the comfort and power of his own office.
"Detective, what you're telling me is Warren Valentine was murdered. You don't think he decided to commit suicide in a dramatic fashion?"
"We haven't seriously considered suicide, though you could have a point. But why would he allow you to take a drink of his soda?"
"How do you know I took a drink of his soda?"
"Thorne, the defendant, mentioned it at the hospital." Howard brought the judge up to date on the discovery of the cyanide, giving Tony credit for making the connection.
"Astute." The judge flushed, narrowing his squinty eyes until the puffy lids seemed to meet his round cheeks. "I certainly was surprised to taste the Amaretto in the 7 UP. All these years, I thought Valentine drank plain soda-pop. I can't imagine what would possess him to bring alcohol into my courtroom."
Ya, right, Howard thought. "Do you recall how much you drank?"
"Only a sip, thank God
. The taste of the booze startled me. My water pitcher was empty, and I had a bit of a cold. I remember my mouth feeling so dry I could hardly speak, then I noticed the soda bottle on the plaintiff's table."
"You were lucky. Had you drunk a few sips more you would have met the same fate as Valentine."
"It doesn't take much cyanide to do the job."
"Let's return to the suicide notion for a moment, if you don't mind. Why would Valentine want to kill himself and knowingly allow you to drink the poison?"
"I'm not sure. Irene can give you more insight into any depressive behavior he may have had. She'd be the one to know." The judge took a sip of water from a half-full glass on his desk, which he refilled before continuing. "We went back a long way. We worked together. But then, you know that, don't you? But we are . . . were good friends. Our wives are close."
"There's a possibility someone wanted to kill both of you. Is there anyone you both prosecuted who could be seeking revenge?"
The round face darkened again and the puffy eyes narrowed. He paused as if collecting himself, then he continued in an even tone of voice. "A possibility. Let me give it some thought. I'll get back to you later today."
Dismissed, Howard handed the Judge a business card and left. On his way out of the courthouse, he stopped at the clerk's office and learned Valentine's partners took his duffel bag and case documents away from the courtroom. Howard made a note to visit the law firm after lunch.
***
Howard arrived first at Sam's Deli and claimed the partners' usual table in the rear. Sadie, the owner's mother, brought a black coffee and poured a second cup, positioning it across the table from Howard. The savory aromas of corned beef, pastrami, and chicken soup hung in the air.
"Where's your partner?" Sadie said. She had waited on the two detectives almost every day since she started working for her son.
"Thanks for the coffee. Alfonzo will be along in a minute. By the time he gets here, it'll be perfect for him." Howard pointed at the steaming beverage across the table from him.
"You two are sure an unlikely pair."
"Why do you say that, Sadie?" He watched as she extracted her order pad from the pocket of her sparkling white apron. Though arthritis and age had thickened the joints of her fingers, she moved with apparent ease.
"You, you're tidy. Him, he rolled in dirt." She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
"It's part of his shtick. He's very clean about himself."
"You'd never know it by looking at him." She tapped the pad in her hand with her ballpoint pen. "Now, what will you have?"
"The usual, sliced turkey on rye."
"I can't interest you in the corned beef? It's nice today. Very lean."
"No, Sadie, just the turkey."
"And for your partner? You want to order for him?"
"Bring him his chili dog and fries." He scrunched his face in mock disgust.
The front door of the deli opened. Sadie said, "Here he comes now. You'd think his wife would dress him better."
"Sadie, you should see her. She's elegant." Howard laughed as his burly partner sauntered across the room.
"I have a hard time believing that." She faced Alfonzo. "Your chili dog will be out in a minute. See if you can keep it off your shirt today."
Alfonzo glared at Sadie and said, "Howard, we need to find someplace else to eat." He slid into the booth, the soap scent from his morning shower still clinging to him. "It's like visiting my mother."
"Actually, Al, it's more like visiting my grandmother. We all need a little Jewish-mothering. Besides, you should know how other people see you." He glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying attention to their conversation. "Judge Kelsey suggested Valentine committed an elaborate public suicide."
Alfonzo stared at Howard, mouth agape.
"Doesn't seem to fit," Howard said.
"I agree. In fact, his widow and I discussed that very thing." Alfonzo poured half a pitcher of cream and several spoons of sugar into his coffee. "She said he has been expanding the law firm. Originally, the firm had five lawyers, all full partners. Over the last couple of years, they added several junior associates."
"Did she mention anything indicating his heart wasn't in it?"
"Just the contrary. The expansion was his idea, and the other partners agreed enthusiastically. They did such a good job of marketing, she said, that they can't keep up with the work they've attracted."
"Did she give any indication something else was wrong with him? We know he wasn't hiding anything fatal. It would have shown up on the autopsy."
"No." Alfonzo flung a beefy arm across the back of the booth. "I found it obvious she wasn't pleased with the turn the practice took. She comes from a family of doctors and didn't feel right about the malpractice suits her husband handled. She said it estranged them from her brothers. They didn't need the money he made. She inherited well."
"Did she happen to have his duffel bag and the 7 UP bottle?" Howard punctuated the question with a swish of a finger in the air.
"No. She said she hadn't gone to his office for his personal stuff. She didn't appear interested in going."
"Strange dynamics."
"I'll say. She seemed almost relieved to have him gone. Her brother was there listening to our conversation. His attitude conveyed she was better off without him. From what I gathered, Warren Valentine tended to be an overbearing bore."
"Maybe she put the cyanide into his 7 UP herself." Howard took a bite of his sandwich and looked at Alfonzo as he chewed.
"That's a possibility. She would have had sufficient opportunity, and based on her attitude, she may have had motive."
"Such as?"
"She acted like she didn't like him anymore, maybe even hated him," Alfonzo said. He wiped a streak of chili off his chin as a bigger blob dropped onto the front of his shirt.
Howard remembered Sadie's comments about Alfonzo's appearance and grinned. "Hate could be a motive."
"What's so funny?" Alfonzo snarled at Howard. "There's nothing funny about this conversation."
"Nothing, nothing at all." Howard continued to grin. "How about the brother? Motive or opportunity?"
"I thought of that. He flew in after his sister called him. He's a cardiac surgeon from somewhere in Texas. Big practice. He seemed preoccupied and is about ready to go home. He claims to have an alibi. What would his motive be?"
"Protecting his sister, maybe."
"She doesn't look like she needs protection."
"Let's check out his alibi anyway."
"Okay." Alfonzo scribbled on a piece of napkin and shoved it into his pants pocket.
"Now the thing is, if either the wife or brother-in-law killed him, then the Judge's poisoning was accidental."
"I agree."
"I wonder if Kelsey made a habit of sipping Valentine's brew." Howard withdrew his notebook and a Cross pen from his jacket pocket. He opened the notebook and made an entry.
"We can check."
Howard flipped a couple of pages. "On our short list of suspects we have Valentine himself—doubtful for suicide. His wife, who had both opportunity and motive." Howard wiggled his hand at the wrist in a maybe-yes-maybe-no motion. "The brother-in-law, who had motive at least."
"Pretty thin."
"Agreed." Howard slid to the end of the bench and stood. "Let's go to the law firm and ask for the bottle. Then, I want to go to the State Attorney's office and see who he prosecuted that might have a motive to do him in."
"Maybe a motive to murder both Valentine and the Judge?"
Eight
Thursday evening was cool so Chamberlain Thorne and Abigail Stern drove north to Coral Springs with the windows open. Several popular chain restaurants had a presence along the same three-mile section of University Drive. Their destination, however, was Dans le Pétrin, an upscale seafood eatery with a soft atmosphere and a superb menu. The dinner rush had ebbed, and the hostess escorted them to a private booth, away from the remaining diners.<
br />
Abigail, who shunned slacks unless working, wore a long black skirt that clung to her hips and thighs. She topped it with a pale yellow sweater set, tying the cardigan arms around her neck. Her glasses held her short blond hair away from her face and served as a temporary headband. Thorne sported a gray and yellow-stripe Polo shirt over charcoal-gray knit slacks. They made a handsome couple. Had Abigail been taller, one might have thought them models showing off the latest in casual fashion.
"Very private," Abigail said, looking at the vacant tables surrounding them. "Is there some reason you wanted to be way over here?"
"Ray was worked up when I called him to confirm the arrangements. I thought it would be better if we didn't disturb the other customers until he calms down. I'm not sure what he has on his mind." Thorne looked around in time to see the approaching waiter. "Do you want a drink while we wait for Ray and Marilyn? They're always late."
"A little wine would be nice. Not too much, I have to be in early tomorrow morning."
Thorne picked up the wine list. "Good, me too. I put Jennifer Conte first on my schedule tomorrow. I owe Mrs. Rich in the O.R. big time for letting me start forty-five minutes early. She'll be on the war path if I'm late."
"So will Tony. He's worried."
"Unfortunately, he has every reason to be concerned." Thorne didn't explain further.
When Abigail repeated several things Tony told her about the Jennifer's condition, Thorne continued. "Mary Corvasce said Tony was especially worried and impatient when she called. She wanted me to squeeze Jennifer in. I would have without her asking. Tony goes out of his way for us whenever necessary. He deserves the same consideration," Thorne said, staring at Abigail. "You're beautiful." He took her hand and traced his fingers over her skin. "You have beautiful hands."
"I've always thought they were too little. My fingers should be longer." She lifted her free hand in front of her and wiggled her slim fingers. Her frosted mauve nail enamel glittered in the candlelight.
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