The Night Caller

by Lutz, John

  The window slid closed, a door opened, and she led Coop down a hall with doors leading to various rooms for various medical procedures. She ushered him into Dr. Ferguson’s office, told him the doctor would be in as soon as possible, then left, closing the door behind her.

  Coop looked around. More artwork. The usual framed certificates. Photos of an attractive blond woman and two small children, he assumed the doctor’s family. Bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound medical tomes, except for a space at the end of one shelf that contained paperback best-sellers. Nothing by Deni Green. The doctor leaned more toward Grisham and King. The single window was bordered by thick beige drapes. Not much noise penetrated the office.

  The door opened and a man in his early forties bustled in, smiling. He had very dark hair and eyes, and was average height and already putting on middle-aged weight at the belt line. He’d shaved so close this morning that he’d nicked his chin several times.

  He introduced himself to Coop, shook hands, and sat down behind his desk. The air he stirred with his motion carried the faint smell of iodine. A green fountain pen lay near the desk pad. He picked it up and toyed with it with both hands.

  No longer smiling, he said, “I was sorry to hear about Bette.”

  Coop thanked him for his concern, then said, “What I was wondering about was the state of her health.”

  Dr. Ferguson cocked his head sideways, then gave a hint of a smile that had nothing to do with humor.

  “Unfortunately she’s gone, Doctor, and the subject of a homicide investigation. Not to mention that I’m her father. Doctor-patient confidentiality hardly applies here.”

  “I suppose she hadn’t decided to tell you yet.”

  “Tell me?”

  “You, the rest of her family, whomever she confided in. Bette was going to be operated on, Mr. Cooper. She had cancerous cysts on one of her kidneys.”

  Coop felt his breath rush out of him.

  “Sorry to surprise you.”

  He decided not to tell Ferguson about his own cancer. “Was it life threatening?”

  “Not yet. Tests determined that it hadn’t metastasized. The problem was that the cancerous growths were close to her spleen. That’s why she agreed to the operation.”

  “What kind of operation?”

  “Something very new. There was a way to remove part of the kidney without damaging the spleen, but it would require a cellular transplant.”

  Coop thought about this. “Are you talking biogenetics here? A way for her to regrow the missing part of her kidney?”

  “Not exactly her kidney. The purpose of the operation was to replace missing kidney tissue with other live tissue. Recent experimentation indicated that tissue from the kidneys of a donor animal, in this case a pig, would be accepted by the host organ. If you care to refer to a recent article in the New England Journal of—”

  “You’re saying part of a pig’s kidney was to be implanted in my daughter?”

  “Simply put, yes. She volunteered for it, on my approval. To do otherwise would have meant an unacceptable risk of permanent damage to the spleen and perhaps an accelerated rate of cancerous growth, or a long but sure wait for the cancer to claim her. The surgeon who was to perform the operation had done so successfully three out of three times during the past six months.”

  “Was this operation going to be performed here in Haverton?”

  “Oh, no! We don’t have the facilities here. New York City, at Mercy Hospital. That’s where Bette had the diagnostic tests. She’d gone into New York for preparatory procedures, some of them quite invasive, then…the operation itself. She’d kept her illness secret from everyone here in Haverton, fearing word would get back to her family in New York. She was going to tell you after the operation was successfully performed.”

  “But why?…”

  “I asked her but she wouldn’t say. I suppose she simply didn’t want you or her mother to worry.”

  That’s why she wanted to stay at the cottage, Coop thought. A quiet, private place where she could prepare for invasive medical tests, then a major operation. And he knew why she’d kept the operation a secret. It was apprehension, caused by knowing what her mother would think about living tissue from another species becoming part of her own daughter. Apprehension on top of what she was already feeling. Why didn’t you come to me, Bette? Why didn’t you ask your father for help?

  He told himself that she would have eventually. Possibly just before the operation.

  He would continue to tell himself.

  “The autopsy report didn’t mention cancerous growth in one of her kidneys,” Coop said.

  “I’m no medical examiner, Mr. Cooper, but the cause of Bette’s death was fairly obvious. And it took a long time for a battery of top diagnosticians to detect the cancerous cysts. Without biopsies being performed, they might be mistaken for simple and harmless anomalies. The condition might easily have been overlooked during an autopsy after a homicide.”

  Coop stared out the window for a moment at nothing but blank sky. “What would have been her chances?” he asked.

  “If the operation had been performed? I wouldn’t want to quote odds, but good, I’d say.”

  “She would have lived?”

  “I think so.”

  Coop stood up, feeling dizzy.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Fine. Okay. Thanks for taking the time to see me, Dr. Ferguson.”

  The doctor stood up behind his desk. “I sincerely hope I haven’t caused you any further grief….”

  “No,” Coop said, “I’d already reached my limit.”

  As he turned and left the office, the doctor was staring at him with more compassion than doctors usually revealed.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Coop drove through deepening snow all the way back to New York. By the time he left his car at the curb, where it would almost certainly be buried by the snow’s natural fall or by a snowplow, some of the largest snowflakes he’d ever seen were dropping almost straight down. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic had almost entirely ceased by now. An unbroken white plane was developing fast on the streets and sidewalks. Feeling snow work its cold way between his socks and black Florsheim dress shoes, he made his way to the entrance to his apartment building.

  Dave the super had shoveled the steps and the walk directly in front of the stoop. Coop stomped his feet in the inch or so of snow that had fallen since then and told himself to remember to add ten dollars to the cost of Dave’s Christmas gift this year.

  The apartment was warm and had never seemed so comfortable. But even before he’d removed his coat, the phone began to ring.

  It was Alicia. Coop explained that he’d just come in from outside and asked if he could call her back in a little while. She said that would be fine, then surprised him by giving him her home number.

  Fifteen minutes later, wearing clean, dry socks and with a mug of microwaved instant hot chocolate in his hand, he sat at his desk and played the messages on his machine. Two hang-ups, a pitch for a donation to the Police Benevolent Fund, Earl Gitter asking for the third time if Coop would please call him regarding the newspaper article he’d written on the search for Bette’s killer—and two messages from Alicia simply asking him to return her calls.

  When he’d done so, she said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you off and on most of the day.”

  Coop decided not to tell her where he’d been. “Good news or bad?”

  “I’d say good. Have you called Deni yet?”

  He said he hadn’t.

  “I think you better. She’s got some new information.”

  “What is it?”

  “She insisted I promise not to tell you.”

  Coop felt irritation along with the hot chocolate warm him. “Are you serious?”

  “I know it’s infantile, but she’ll get totally pissed off and unmanageable if I say anything. In fact, you better not even mention that I called you.”

  �
�What the hell’s the game here?” Coop asked.

  “She wants to tell you herself. She wants—no, she needs—the satisfaction.”

  “This kind of bullshit,” Coop said, “is exactly why I don’t like working with her.” Or with you, he might have added.

  “Can’t blame you for that. But I made a promise to her.”

  “Are you the sort that keeps promises?”

  “Only certain kinds. This kind, because it’s in my best interest. It helps maintain a necessary bond with a writer. But I didn’t promise not to call you, and I thought I should do that so you’d know what was going on and not wait too long to contact her.”

  Coop felt even less like getting in touch with Deni. He knew that what seemed important to her, and to Alicia, might be of no practical value in solving the case. “Is this about Bette?” he asked.

  “No. I will tell you that much.”

  He had no choice but to go along with the game. “Okay, Alicia, I’ll get in touch with Deni.”

  “Soon?”

  “Soon is relative.” Whatever this new information was, it would probably keep. Possibly Deni had found out about one of her novels being discovered at the Theresa Dravic crime scene. Or it might well be something made up by Deni in order to get his attention. No need to rush to phone her. And things would continue to slow or downright stop because of the deep snowfall. The city that never slept would at least nap.

  “You’re angry. I don’t blame you. Will you try to understand my position?”

  “Sure.”

  “Be the good guy I know you are, Coop.”

  “Okay, Alicia. I’ll get in touch with Deni soon.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Feeling? Oh.” He didn’t want to discuss his illness. “I’m going to have some supper, then sleep for about ten hours.”

  “You been doing something exhausting?”

  “Driving through the mess outside for most of the afternoon.”

  “I’m not going to pry, Coop.”

  “Thanks, Alicia.”

  He took the opportunity to hang up the phone.

  Wondering again, what kind of people was he involved with here?

  He would call Deni, as he’d told Alicia. But whatever she had to say would wait. There was someone else he had to talk to first.

  Cara met him for breakfast again at Darby’s. She wasn’t able to get a booth by the window this time. Instead they were seated next to an array of framed celebrity photos on the wall. Each photo was signed, usually with a complimentary remark about Darby’s Deli. Coop thought the handwriting on all of the photos except the one of Barry Manilow looked remarkably similar.

  The morning outside was crisp and cold, with a bright sun already starting to melt surface snow despite the low ambient temperature. The direst snowfall predictions had fallen short, but not so short that a snowplow hadn’t banked icy slush against Coop’s car and left it curb bound. It never snowed in the subway, and Coop, like many New Yorkers that morning, took advantage of the fact to get where he was going. It surprised him, as it always did, how soon after a heavy snowfall the sidewalks were cleared to at least create narrow paths, and the streets were clogged with traffic that was nonetheless moving. New Yorkers were tough. They took no bullshit off of anyone or anything, including snowstorms.

  Cara looked beautiful. Coop leaned down and kissed her cheek before sitting opposite her. “You’re still here,” he said.

  “In the deli?”

  “In the world. For me. Care to go into work late again today?”

  “There’s nothing I’d like more, lover.” She looked across the table, into his eyes, drawing him into her eyes. “But I’m afraid tomorrow I wouldn’t have a job to go to.”

  “Do you need a job to go to?”

  “Of course.”

  “Am I ahead of myself?”

  She touched the back of his hand. “Not too far ahead.”

  What he wanted to hear. What he wanted.

  She took a bite of her bagel with cream cheese and finished chewing and swallowing before saying anything more. How could a woman look so sexy eating a bagel with cream cheese? “I didn’t think you’d mind if I went to church while you were gone,” she said.

  Coop put down his coffee mug and smiled. “Church? Do you attend regularly?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “You trying to be cryptic?”

  She didn’t return his smile. “No. I did as you asked and suspended my walking in Ann’s footsteps while you were out of town. Except that I went to the church where she used to go sometimes.”

  “Why?” He was irritated and it was in his voice.

  “Because I wanted to go to church.” A bit defensively.

  “Ann’s church?”

  “That was part of it,” she admitted. “Do serial killers usually hang around churches?”

  “More often than you might think. My former wife even suspects they hang around police stations.” Then he wondered why Cara was telling him this. If she’d simply kept silent, he wouldn’t have known she’d attended Ann’s church. Why was this an issue? “Did something happen in church?”

  “Yes, but I doubt if there’s a connection with Ann’s murder. My purse was stolen.”

  “You mean snatched?”

  “No. More like pilfered when I wasn’t looking.”

  “Did you see the thief?”

  “No. I was kneeling and praying. Crying. And when I looked up and reached for my purse to get out a Kleenex, the purse was gone from where I’d set it down on the pew.”

  “What was in it?”

  She shrugged. “My credit cards, expired driver’s license, key to the apartment, about fifty dollars in my wallet. And of course my identification and address, in case I ever misplaced my purse.”

  Coop sat back, angry and alarmed. “He might have been sitting right behind you.”

  Cara tried to take a sip of coffee but her hand was trembling and she gave it up and put down the cup. “Don’t you think I realize that? Whoever took my purse had to have reached over the back of the pew where I was kneeling.” She tried again, and with exaggerated movements sipped coffee and set the cup back exactly where it had been before she’d picked it up—like a drunk trying to pass for sober. Cara was trying to pass for unafraid. “The thief might not even be the killer,” she said, trying to convince herself as well as Coop.

  He wanted to take her hand, comfort her, but his anger was still in the way. “That’s a pretty big might. Whoever stole your purse knows your name, where you live.”

  “Callahan’s a fairly common name.”

  “Are you serious? You think the killer won’t make the connection? You and Ann look almost enough alike to be twins, thanks to your new hairdo and wardrobe.”

  “Then maybe he will make the connection. I’ve notified the credit card companies that my cards were stolen, and I’m going to have the apartment lock rekeyed.”

  “Thank God!”

  She reached across the table and clutched his sleeve with a kind of desperation. “I find I don’t like it when you’re upset with me. I’m sorry. Can’t we go on from here?”

  “I guess I am upset,” he said. “I’m also afraid for you.”

  “And I’m afraid. This isn’t the way I planned it. I wanted to spot him watching me, then lead him into a trap.”

  “What church was it?” Coop asked.

  “St. Alexius on East Fifty-seventh Street.”

  “Not that far from the bank.”

  Cara looked uneasy. “Meaning he might have followed me there from work?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “It’s also a possibility the thief never killed anyone. That he carried the purse outside where he wouldn’t be noticed, took the money from my wallet, then tossed everything else down a storm sewer or into a trash can. You can probably tell me approximately how many purses are stolen every day in New York. Mine might simply have been one of those.”

  She was right, C
oop knew. But he also knew she didn’t understand what cops thought about coincidence. “We have to assume the killer took your purse,” he said flatly. “He noticed your resemblance to Ann, too strong a resemblance perhaps, and he was curious.”

  She sighed, giving up arguing with him. “If the thief is the killer and knows I’m Ann’s sister, won’t he sense a trap and back off?”

  “He might. Or he might consider you a challenge he can’t walk away from. He may be smart, but compulsion trumps intelligence. And if that’s what happens, he’s locked on to you like a radar-guided missile.”

  She bowed her head, unable to hide a twinge of fear.

  Wasn’t this what you wanted? he almost asked. But while he wanted to impress upon her the danger of her circumstances, he cared about her and didn’t want to frighten her even more.

  Coop looked across the deli and out the window. Even on snow-narrowed sidewalks, hundreds of people streamed past the deli every hour. It was the same way outside the bank where Cara worked. What were the odds that one of them had murdered her sister, noticed their similarity, then followed her to St. Alexius and taken her purse? They were long. But long shots won horse races often enough to keep people betting. “Your phone number is unlisted,” he said. “Was it in your purse with the rest of your identification?”

  “Yes. I’m going to call from work and see if I can get it changed.”

  “Don’t,” he said.

  She looked surprised. “Why not?”

  “It could answer our question. If whoever stole the purse calls you, we might learn if he’s Ann’s killer.”

  She swallowed hard. “My God, that’s a call I’d rather not take.”

  “It will help us to know where we stand. Leave your answering machine hooked up; maybe he’ll leave a message.”

  She managed a wan smile. “I’d prefer that.”

  “Something else you should know,” Coop said, “is that he might be calling to make sure you’re home.”

  She looked down at her quaking hands and folded them together to keep them still.

  “Do you want me to stay with you? I mean, overnight?”

  She stared at him while he hoped she’d say yes.