Prodigy

by Charles Atkins

  “Anton, Morris Kravitz never checked his lithium level. Were you aware of that?”

  “I wasn’t. But that just speaks to Kravitz’s sloppiness, you can’t hold that against Martin. It’s not his fault his shrink wasn’t doing his job. I hate to say it, Barrett, but this case has you scared. Jimmy Martin spent eighteen years in Croton and has only been out a few months—and he’s been squeaky clean. The stuff you’re rattling off seems more about you and less about him.”

  Barrett held the phone to her ear, dumbfounded by Anton’s stance. Was she overreacting?

  “Have you considered that maybe you should get some clinical supervision?” he continued. “Lord knows Martin’s paying enough for you to get a few hours with somebody to get your head straight around this.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Barrett commented, feeling betrayed and a little foolish. Why was he talking to her like this? Like she didn’t know what she was doing.

  “Well, I appreciate your call. But I’d caution you against contacting the board. You have to be careful that it doesn’t appear like you’re deliberately trying to come up with something to get Martin violated back to Croton.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “I didn’t say that. But if you were to bring what you just told me to the rest of the board, it wouldn’t look good.”

  She thought of more she could bring up, but as she ticked through the pieces that didn’t fit she imagined Anton batting each of them away as products of her over-active imagination.

  “Was there anything else?” he asked.

  “No … it’s just your response surprises me.”

  “How’s that?”

  Barrett thought back to the inconsistency in Anton telling her that Jimmy’s case was a gift as opposed to Jimmy having specifically asked for her. “Never mind,” she said.

  “You know, if you want to unload this case … I could arrange that.”

  “It’s okay,” she forced a brightness into her voice, “I’ll be fine. This has been helpful.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, but sounding wary, and then hung up.

  Was he right? From the way he spoke, it was almost as though she were paranoid. He’d probably freak if he knew she’d just called Kravitz’s widow, or if she’d gone into the coincidence around the accident that prevented Jimmy’s one-and-only set of bloodwork from making it to the lab. Weird.

  She pulled out her PDA and looked up Hobbs’ cell number. When he picked up on the second ring, she felt a rush of relief at the sound of his voice. “You busy?” she asked.

  “Always. So what’s up?”

  “I need a favor.” And she felt like adding, and a friend.

  “Shoot. If I can do it, I will.”

  “It’s very strange, and if you say no, I’ll understand … Any chance I could get you to tag along on a field trip to see the widow Kravitz.”

  Ed hesitated, “Kravitz … Martin’s shrink, the one who died. The one whose death certificate I was supposed to pull for you. Forgive me, but I totally blanked on that one.”

  “No problem, I already got it. So, are you up for it?”

  “Sure. I’ve got night duty, so as long as we’re done by eight, just tell me where and when.”

  FOURTEEN

  Jimmy drew the bow hard and fast across the cello. Throaty arpeggios leapt forth, his fingers landing with precision. He fought against the growing haze of the pills; he’d take them a bit longer. Still jazzed from last night’s outing, he felt the pieces slip into place. Barrett’s love, like a beacon, was calling him home.

  The music soared, filling the space with Bach’s godly perfection. His breath deepened as he pictured the tall man with the trombone case, crossing the street, not looking—careless.

  He pressed harder, pushing the tempo faster, nudging the adagio into an allegro, and then a scherzo, the notes blurring, his fingers flying spider-like over the strings. He pictured the auditorium where they’d play, the beautiful and intimate setting where he’d often given recitals with Ellen. It was the smallest of the three rooms at Carnegie Hall—the Weill. Arthur had done as instructed, the hall was rented, and the date was set.

  He reached the end of the movement, and without stopping, soared into the opening of the Brahms E minor. He could hear her playing in the background. She’d be dressed in black, pearls at her throat. And after, when the music stopped, he’d put down his cello and take her hand. Applause would engulf them as she’d gracefully rise from the bench. He’d turn to her, and she to him. In his mind’s eye he saw her beautiful lips form the word, “yes,” and then—

  “Ain’t going to happen, Jimbo.” Father’s voice cackled.

  Jimmy’s head whipped around, his bow faltered and screeched as his fingers missed notes.

  “She doesn’t love you, Jimbo.”

  He tried to ignore the heckling. Father was scared. She would save him, and he would love her always, they’d have children, and Ellen would be their aunt, and they’d spend endless nights playing music by the fire and Father would be forever banished.

  “Fat chance. The only way you’ll ever get her, Jimbo, is if you tie her up and drug her.”

  “No!” Jimmy stopped playing, hearing the last sour note fade. Father was wrong, but sometimes there was truth in what he said. He cocked his head to the side, wondering if the voice would say more.

  “She doesn’t love you.”

  That wasn’t true. It was just he had to complete the tests, like a knight or Prince Charming from Maylene’s stories. Father was trying to distract him. To make him fail.

  Jimmy caught a whiff of stale whisky and tobacco. Adrenalin surged and his pulse quickened. He put down the cello, and looked around the empty library.

  “You’re not here,” Jimmy said. “You’re dead.”

  “You can’t kill me.”

  “You’re dead. You’re pathetic.”

  “She’ll never love you,” Father persisted, his voice high-pitched and whiny.

  “You can’t touch me.”

  “It’s the pills.”

  “No,” Jimmy said, not about to give in, savoring this newfound strength, “if it were the pills you would have disappeared at Croton, but you didn’t. You made my life hell.”

  “Just trying to be of service,” Father replied. “At least you were popular.”

  “She loves me,” Jimmy said. “We’re going to be married.”

  “Fat chance, Jimbo. Fat chance.” He was laughing, “She just wants to lock you up. Hey fellas, Jimbo’s back in town.”

  “Shut up!” Father was wrong, but had he missed something? He ran out to the carriage house, and checked the taps on her phone lines. He listened and what he heard was frightening. What the hell was prolactin? Is that why he’d grown breasts at Croton? He’d thought that just came with all the weight. What was she doing? Why was she doing this to him? Checking labs, asking questions?

  “Give us a little kiss, Jimbo,” Father’s cackle seemed to fill the room.

  “Go away.” Then her call to the medical examiner followed by the one with Sheila Kravitz. But what could she tell Barrett, what could she know?

  “She’ll find something,” Father chuckled. “And won’t that be special?” he started to sing, “Jimbo’s back in town. Jimbo’s back in town.”

  Jimmy focused on the recordings; the one with the detective stopped him cold. He was flirting with her. He played their conversation back several times, listening to the lightness in her tone.

  Father changed tunes, “Her boyfriend’s back and you’re going to be in trouble …”

  Something was wrong, several somethings. First off, Jimmy had requested plainclothes police. He didn’t want the neighbors to see patrolmen coming in and out. But plainclothes didn’t mean detective. So why a pair of detectives? And it was obvious that Dr. Conyors had a previous connection with this Hobbs. But what would she be doing flirting with a cop? She talked to him like an equal, like a friend.

  Father interje
cted, “Like a lover. Like a hot and tasty cop lover with a big fat night stick that...”

  “Shut up!” Jimmy screamed, struggling against a paralyzing fear.

  He clicked on the Internet, and began to search. Starting with the police department’s web site he retrieved Edward Hobbs’ badge number, date of hire, and rank. “Interesting,” he muttered finding a glitch in the database where there were two entries for Hobbs’ name and badge number. He clicked on the second, “shit!” he muttered. That couldn’t be right. How was it possible for someone to go from being a Deputy Chief of Detectives down to a Detective Third Grade? Was it all part of an elaborate scheme to get him sent back to Croton? Anxiety flared, but the date of Hobbs’ demotion was over a year ago. Even he could tell that the timing was off. Still, the thought of having the once Deputy Chief wandering around his home and romancing Dr. Conyors made him furious. He switched databases and hacked past the firewall security and into internal investigations. He double-clicked on the icon for Disciplinary Actions and Outcomes. In the search field he entered Hobbs’ badge number. The screen flashed once as it pulled up a 200-page disciplinary file on Detective First Grade Edward Hobbs.

  “My, my, my,” Jimmy commented, as he opened the file and started to read. And just like the husband, he now realized that Hobbs would be a test that he could pass easily.

  FIFTEEN

  Barrett and Hobbs walked down the carpeted hallway, checking door numbers as they went. Between apartments were groupings of fussy French gilt tables and chairs and crystal-dripping mirrors with lighted brass wall sconces.

  “Shrinks make good money,” Ed commented, as they neared their destination.

  “They can.”

  “How much do you think apartments go for in a building like this?”

  “To buy or rent?” she asked, as they engaged in a favorite New York pastime—How Much Does That Apartment Go For?

  “Your choice.”

  “I’d say, to rent, a closet-sized studio is over two grand.”

  “And to buy?”

  “Same apartment … half a mil, maybe three quarters.”

  Before they could work their way up through one, two, and three bedrooms they arrived at the door to Morris and Sheila Kravitz’s apartment.

  Barrett was raising her hand to knock as the door opened.

  Sheila Kravitz, a woman seemingly in her early thirties with over-processed ash-blond hair greeted them. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes were red-rimmed, even in the dim light. “The doorman called me,” she said, as she led them down a long hall. “You have to forgive the mess, but the movers are coming tomorrow and I’m trying to get things as organized as possible.”

  “You’re leaving town,” Ed commented.

  “And you are?” she asked.

  “Detective Hobbs.”

  “Figures.” Sheila turned and looked at Barrett, “You didn’t say anything about bringing a cop.”

  “He’s a friend,” Barrett said.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter. I don’t really understand why you’re here. But in a way I’ve been expecting someone. You know I told Morris a long time ago that the money didn’t matter.” She then stacked three half-packed boxes on the edge of the couch, clearing a space for Barrett and Hobbs. “I guess you’d say he wasn’t a very secure man.”

  “You miss him,” Barrett commented, trying to draw a bead on Sheila’s elliptical statements.

  “You have no idea.”

  “What did you mean by the money didn’t matter much?” Barrett asked.

  Sheila straightened up and pushed a wisp of straw-dry hair back from her face. “This,” she raised her hands and turned around. “All of this,” pointing toward a killer view of the Hudson to the west and a spacious deck, where small evergreens and trailing ivy had been neatly planted, facing east. “If you asked Morris he’d probably make some weird joke about needing it for me, or doing it for me—it didn’t matter to me. It’s bad enough when everyone around you thinks that you’re a gold digger, but when you get it from the man you love …”

  “The money had something to do with Jimmy Martin?” Barrett asked.

  “That’s the Croton man, isn’t it?”

  Barrett nodded.

  “So that was his name. Morris was very good at not talking about his patients. It’s one of the first things that drew me to him.”

  “Where did you meet?” Barrett asked.

  “It’s a complete cliché. I was a psychiatric nurse at Silver Glenn. He was rounding on patients, and his wife had died, and … the rest was a rather short but sweet time.” She looked down at an over-stuffed Queen Anne wing chair she’d excavated from a pile of clothing. Her shoulders sagged, she looked at Barrett. “I thought it was cute at first, the way he liked to bring me gifts. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he liked doing it. It got to the point where I had to be careful when we walked down the street, because if there was something in a shop window that I admired, the next thing you know his credit card would be out, and nothing I could say would stop him.”

  “This has something to do with Jimmy Martin?” Barrett asked, wondering how she could gently reel in Sheila’s reminiscence.

  “Everything to do with it. Morris had a very good practice. His patients loved him. It’s not like we needed more money, at least I didn’t.”

  “What changed?”

  “This,” she said. “I guess I wasn’t clear. What a surprise, I hardly make sense to myself anymore, I can’t imagine what it must be like for someone else. This apartment. Do you have any idea what eight rooms in this building go for?”

  “No clue,” Barrett cut Ed a look.

  “I didn’t know until he … died … just how much. It’s obscene. That’s why he was so excited when he got the job through the clinic.”

  “Do you know who contacted him?” Barrett asked.

  “I do, come to think of it. It was an Anton somebody.”

  “Anton Fielding,” Barrett said.

  “That’s right, Morris had been his supervisor years ago when Anton was a resident. I guess that he thought that Morris would be a good match. It is a little odd though.”

  “What is?”

  “As far as I know that’s the only forensic client that Morris had. I wonder why … I guess now it doesn’t matter.” Sheila finally sat—she looked across at Barrett and Hobbs, her expression troubled. “There’s something I don’t know, isn’t there?”

  “Some things don’t add up,” Barrett admitted. “I’m seeing Jimmy Martin now, and there were some irregularities I’m trying to resolve.”

  “That involved Morris?”

  “Maybe. I mean you were … are … a psychiatric nurse. What would you think of someone who was on lithium and didn’t have their level checked?”

  “Either ignorance or incompetence.”

  “Right. Did your husband have many patients on medication?”

  “Who doesn’t? And when I worked with him at Silver Glenn you know all of those patients were on a truckload of pills.”

  “Was he thorough? Would he check levels and do all of that?”

  “Of course. Why? What are you getting at?”

  “Jimmy Martin was on lithium and your husband never checked his level.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Sheila said. “Are you sure?”

  “The only time he checked it—or attempted to check it—was right before his death.”

  “What do you mean attempted?”

  “The bloodwork never made it to the lab.”

  Hobbs leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Mrs. Kravitz,” he began softly, “I was wondering if you could tell us what happened the night your husband died?”

  Sheila looked up from her lap and into Hobbs’ hazel eyes. “They said it was natural causes.”

  “What happened that night?” Ed urged.

  “That’s the part that makes no sense. We were having such a good time. We’d been out with friends. H
e’d been laughing and joking, and he always took care of himself. You know that he was a diabetic, don’t you?”

  Hobbs nodded.

  “I never thought about it much. We’d been together for almost seven years and I’d never seen him have any trouble with his sugars. Whenever we’d go out he’d just give himself a little short-acting insulin to cover a bigger dinner and a couple drinks. He wasn’t one to overdo it. But I should have known something was different—he wasn’t acting right.”

  “How so?” Ed urged.

  “On the cab ride home he kept saying how tired he was. Considering he’d been up since six in the morning and had a full day ahead of him, I didn’t think much about it.”

  “And then?”

  Sheila closed her eyes tightly and gripped the edges of her chair. She tried to speak, but was overwhelmed with tears.

  “It’s okay,” Barrett fished a tissue out of her pocketbook. “Take your time.”

  “And then the alarm rang, and I didn’t hear him getting up. He was always the first one up. He brought me coffee in bed every single day, and then he’d kiss me. But he didn’t get up and I rolled over because I knew he liked to get up early and … he was dead. He was cold. I called 911 and they told me to give him CPR … but he was cold. I did it anyway. I couldn’t really think, and now that’s all I think about is the feeling of his cold lips and the sound of bones cracking in his chest as I tried to give him CPR.” She shook her head, and reached for a pack of cigarettes lying on top of a half-packed box. “They did an autopsy,” she said, lighting up and taking a deep first drag. “They said that he’d had a massive coronary brought on by low blood sugar. There wasn’t anything they thought suspicious. Hell, death by insulin and the first person they’d be pointing fingers at would be the wife, especially if she’s twenty years younger … that’s not why you’re …”

  “No,” Hobbs interjected. “And I have to say how sorry we are for the loss you’ve suffered.”