Prodigy

by Charles Atkins

  Sheila looked at the burning cigarette. She sniffled and tears squeezed from her eyes. “I wasn’t going to do this today,” she said. “I wanted just one day or even a few hours where I wouldn’t feel like a total wreck.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Barrett advised, “you know that.”

  “The funny thing is, I do. It’s just different when you know something and when you’re in the middle of it.”

  “True … Sheila, you said that in all the years you knew Morris he never had a problem with his blood sugars.”

  “That’s right, he was very careful.”

  “But that night something happened. When you went out, did he not eat or drink as much as usual?”

  “Hardly, if anything I would have thought his sugars would have been high.”

  “Any chance he could have taken the wrong amount of insulin, or even the wrong type?”

  “Morris had a whole assembly line for doing his syringes. I’ve still got all his bottles in the refrigerator. You’d think that’s something I would have thrown out, but I don’t know if it’s the wastefulness of that, or on some weird level I’m still waiting for him to come through the door.”

  “Could we see them?” Hobbs asked.

  “If you’d like,” Sheila stubbed out her cigarette and led them down the hall into a black-and-white, eat-in kitchen. She opened the brushed-chrome Sub Zero and reached inside.

  “Wait a minute,” Hobbs stopped her.

  “What is it?” Sheila asked, holding onto the door.

  “Has anyone handled the bottles since your husband’s death?”

  “Probably … I think the EMTs might have. No, on second thought they asked for the bottles and I guess with everything else they just forgot about them.”

  Hobbs pulled two pairs of sealed latex gloves from the inner pocket of his leather coat. He handed one to Barrett. “You never know,” he shrugged.

  Sheila stood back as Barrett looked in the refrigerator. It was mostly empty, but carefully arranged inside the cheese container was a half-used metal-and-rubber capped glass bottle of insulin, and several more still in their boxes. Next to these were seven thin syringes already drawn up with medication.

  “How far ahead would he prepare his injections?” Barrett asked.

  “He did it weekly, every Sunday during 60 Minutes.”

  “So he would have taken his evening dose before going out on Thursday, is that correct?” she asked.

  “Right.”

  “He took it twice a day?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Well, if he drew it up on Sunday there should only be six syringes left for the week, and there are seven here.”

  “No,” Sheila said, “that’s right. It’s like I said, he knew we were going out so he drew up a larger dose.”

  “He wouldn’t have just added to what was already there?”

  “I guess not,” Sheila said. “But now I’m not certain, like I said, he took care of it himself.”

  “That’s strange,” Barrett said, reaching a gloved hand into the cheese container.

  “What?” Hobbs asked, standing next to her.

  “Look at that,” Barrett held up a small insulin bottle. “Look at the cap.”

  “That’s not how it’s supposed to be?” Hobbs asked.

  “No, the metal is all bent, almost like somebody took it off and then put it back on.” She took out an unopened box, pulled out a fresh bottle and compared them. “I think this has been tampered with.” She turned them upside down, and watched how the clear liquid moved inside the tiny bottles. She read the labels, “These are both supposed to be the same type of insulin, but their viscosity is visibly different.”

  Hobbs produced an evidence bag from his jacket.

  Barrett looked at him, “What else do you keep in there?”

  “Guys don’t get pocketbooks, so I get my dry cleaner to sew extra pockets into all my coats.”

  “You must have been a Boy Scout.”

  “All the way to Eagle.” He unzipped the plastic bag and held it open as Barrett dropped in the tampered bottle and its mate.

  “Do you have some way to keep those cold?” she asked, looking first at Hobbs and then at Sheila. “Insulin denatures if it’s not chilled.”

  “There’s ice in the freezer,” Sheila offered. “and there’s an old thermos around here someplace. I don’t think I packed it. But what’s this all about? The coroner said natural causes. The two of you are acting like it’s … like someone killed him.”

  Hobbs spoke, “Ms. Kravitz, in all likelihood it’s exactly as you say, but we have some suspicions that we’d like to put to rest. I will need you to sign for anything we take away as potential evidence.”

  Barrett watched as Hobbs retrieved a small stack of preprinted forms from his coat of many pockets and had Sheila Kravitz sign.

  ___

  “So what do you think?” Barrett asked, as they rode down in the elevator.

  “I think you think somebody did in the good doctor,” Hobbs jiggled the ice-filled blue-and-white thermos.

  “And you?” Barrett faced him as the car came to an air-cushioned stop and the wood-paneled doors slid open.

  “Something isn’t right,” he admitted. “You feel like walking this over to the precinct with me?” he asked. “I’ll get the guys in the lab to take a look at them.”

  “Sure, I could use the exercise … and of course the company.”

  “Of course,” he laughed. “And I’ve got a little present for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup, so you can’t say I never got you anything.”

  “Like Sheila … You know,” Barrett commented, “she’s not what I had expected.”

  “In what way?”

  “Fairly traumatized by her husband’s death. I can’t imagine waking up and finding someone you love dead.”

  “You think that’s why she’s moving? I wish we’d asked,” Hobbs remarked.

  “Why?”

  “Well, getting back to things that don’t fit, why is she moving? She kept saying how she didn’t need all the things he got for her, and I’m thinking the apartment was high on the list. But is she leaving because it’s too big, or she can’t deal with the memories, or maybe Dr. Kravitz was living a bit beyond his means.”

  “I’d take number three,” Barrett offered.

  “Agreed. So the next question is … what was going on with Morris Kravitz and James Cyrus Martin?”

  “Good question. I keep coming back to that damn bloodwork. Even a first-year resident knows that it’s got to be checked. It’s the first thing you do with a new patient on lithium. Every so often you come upon a real old-timer who doesn’t think it’s necessary. There used to be this school of thought that the way you could tell a patient’s level was by how much they shook.”

  “Charming.”

  “Yes, psychiatry has a long and distinguished past. It makes you wonder about some of the stuff we do now and what future generations will say about our ignorance and barbarism … but I digress.”

  “You do,” he steered them across an intersection in the direction of his precinct. “So let’s think on reasons why a psychiatrist would neglect to check bloodwork.”

  “Basically, Sheila pegged it. Number one would be ignorance. I’d follow that up with sloppiness, there are some hacks who see so many patients that they just forget or don’t care.”

  “What else? Neither of those fit.”

  Barrett stopped beside a Korean grocer’s flower display. “I know another reason. He wouldn’t check … if he knew that the patient wasn’t taking the medication.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Hobbs picked up a bunch of purple iris and another of half-opened yellow crocus.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he handed the flowers to the grocer and paid him. “So if he knew that Jimmy wasn’t taking the pills, why didn’t he report it?”

  “Because that would be the end
of a very tidy piece of change.”

  “Exactly,” Hobbs handed the freshly wrapped bouquet to Barrett.

  “Thank you,” she said, admiring the contrasting yellow and purple blooms, and a bit confused as to how she was supposed to respond. Feeling flushed, opting to say little, she tried to focus on Dr. Kravitz. “But then why would he suddenly order bloodwork if he knew that Jimmy wasn’t taking his pills?”

  “Something changed,” Hobbs remarked. “Hold onto that thought, and I’ll be right back.”

  Barrett watched as Hobbs took the stairs to the brick-fronted precinct station two at a time. She sat on a bench beneath a Ginkgo tree, holding her paper-wrapped blooms and mulling over what he’d said. It was the only answer that made sense. Morris Kravitz must have had some deal with Jimmy and then two weeks before his death something changed. He knew that Jimmy wasn’t taking his pills, and they’d been colluding, so then why suddenly order bloodwork? It didn’t fit. Lost in thought, she startled at Hobbs’ voice.

  “Blackmail,” the detective commented.

  “What?”

  “Maybe Kravitz wanted more money, so he started putting the screws to Jimmy. You said that even slight violations could get him sent back to Croton. Not taking medication would fit that, yes?”

  “Yes, but …” She tried to focus, to not think about the sun twinkling in Hobbs’ hazel eyes, or the bouquet of spice-sweet blooms. “Once the results came back it would be out of Kravitz’s hands and he’d lose his golden goose. It’s got to be something else.”

  “Okay, try this on for size … maybe Jimmy had told Kravitz that he wanted another shrink … like you. What would Kravitz have done then?”

  “I don’t know. If he needed the money that badly I imagine he’d try to talk him out of it,” she said, as they headed off in the direction of her co-op.

  “And if that didn’t work?”

  “Then I guess he’s screwed, and in more ways than one. Because not only is he losing his best-paying customer, but his shoddy work is about to get exposed. So maybe … maybe he figured that he’d either scare Jimmy into staying with him, or at least try to cover up for what he should have been doing all along.”

  “Still a little rough,” Hobbs commented, “but I think it’s as close as we’re going to get without more data. But if it’s right, then it gets very hairy.”

  “I know,” she said, “we’re looking at a hit-and-run where the blood is lost and …”

  “And a dead psychiatrist with a young wife and a Park Avenue apartment that he couldn’t really afford.”

  “Do you always finish people’s sentences?” she asked.

  “Not usually,” he admitted. “It’s a bit of déjà vu, isn’t it?”

  “Yes … you know there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

  “Shoot.”

  “This is a pretty big coincidence—your showing up at Jimmy’s house the way you did. Is it a coincidence?”

  “No, I saw your name and pulled a few strings to get the assignment.”

  “I’m glad you did,” she looked up at her building. “Well, this is me,” she said, not wanting their walk to end.

  “Before I forget,” he reached into an outer pocket. “I got a wire for you. I could give it to you here, if you like. Have you ever worn one?”

  “No, and just the idea of it makes me pretty nervous. You want to come up and show me what I’m supposed to do with it?”

  “Sure,” he said, following her inside.

  Neither one spoke as they rode up six floors and walked down the hall to her apartment.

  Ed watched as she unlocked the door. “You know you should get better cylinders for those locks,” he commented.

  “I was planning to get them changed … .”

  “Good idea. The ones you’ve got now are easy to pick.”

  As she opened the door, she asked, “What about the ones at the Kravitz apartment—easy or hard?”

  “Easy, but at least they have a doorman and you don’t.”

  “Great … can I get you something to eat? Or drink?”

  “I’m good,” he stood in the doorway taking in Barrett’s surroundings. “Interesting.”

  She took her flowers into the galley kitchen and poured water into a crystal vase, “What’s interesting?” She glanced at the answering machine and saw the red light flashing with new messages.

  “Your apartment.”

  “Interesting how?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s very nice, it’s just …”

  “Not me?”

  “Right. It’s not what I expected.”

  “My husband … Ralph did the decorating. Everything has to be very clean, very modern. I like things with color. I guess you pick your battles in a marriage.”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Look, you,” Barrett placed the flowers on a coffee table and walked up to Hobbs, “if you keep using the word interesting instead of the more appropriate fucked up or this woman is out of her gourd I will hit you.”

  “I forgot that.”

  “What?”

  “Your temper,” he laughed.

  Barrett found herself staring deeply into Ed’s eyes, noticing flecks of green and rich amber. In the close space she smelled the hint of his aftershave and wondered if he’d put it on for her benefit.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he whispered.

  She barely heard the words, but rather felt them as they fell from his lips. She wondered what his moustache would feel like. “I can’t do this,” she said.

  “Okay, I understand, I just came up here to show you the wire.”

  “Right,” she tried to pull back, but at the same time didn’t want to let the moment pass.

  “It’s easy,” he said, “and I’ll be able to hear every word.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “It’ll be like having you inside my head.”

  “What are we doing?” she asked, noticing the dryness in her mouth.

  “I don’t know. But I very much want to kiss you.”

  Barrett could hear all the reasons why she shouldn’t clamor at her brain. She looked into his eyes and nodded slightly. She felt his hand gently touch her cheek, she felt the heat of his body as it pulsed through the opening in his leather coat, and then came the brush of his moustache, so much softer than she’d expected. And as she closed her eyes and his lips met hers, all of the reasons why she shouldn’t be doing this left her and she surrendered into the sweetness of a perfect first kiss.

  ___

  Closing the door behind Hobbs, Barrett felt lightheaded and confused. She’d just kissed a man who wasn’t her husband. Of course, Ralph had done far worse, and then the anger returned. He’d never shown up, just left her sitting without even a message. She saw the blinking on the answering machine. At least one of them was probably Ralph, what would the excuse be, and how much more of this could she take?

  She pressed the play messages button. A mechanical voice gave the time “ten forty-five AM.” Then, a woman’s voice—Ralph’s mom, Celia. “Hi Barrett, I’m just calling because I know Ralph was planning to see you last night … I was wondering if he was still there … I guess not. If you see him, I got a call that he’s supposed to be at a morning rehearsal … oh, well. Bye.”

  Barrett’s first thought was that Ralph had probably met up with someone else, or maybe Carol, and had forgotten about the early rehearsal. The second message quickly dampened that thought, “Hello, this is Veronica Durst at Mount Sinai Hospital. I need to speak with a family member of Ralph Best. Please call,” and she left a number.

  “Shit!” Barrett quickly dialed. She’d not even considered that Ralph had gotten sick, and that’s why he hadn’t shown. “Shit.”

  The phone picked up, “Morgue.”

  Barrett’s stomach lurched, she couldn’t comprehend. Had she misdialed? “This is Barrett Conyors, I was left a message about my husband,
Ralph Best.”

  She heard the slow intake of breath, “Mrs. Conyors, I’m afraid I have some very bad news, we’re going to need you to come down.”

  SIXTEEN

  Thursday came, and Barrett—against everyone’s advice—had gone to work. She’d needed to escape from the phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, as news of Ralph’s death circulated. All the members of the orchestra wanted “to touch base,” “to express their grief,” “to tell her what a sweet man Ralph was.” In the end, she’d handed the phone to Justine and her mom, and when they’d finally left, she’d unhooked the ringer.

  It was too hard to believe, going to the morgue late Tuesday, the white oilcloth cover being pulled back. “Is this your husband?” They’d cleaned up his face, but even so she saw the abrasions of where he’d been dragged on the asphalt. “Yes, it’s him,” unable to move, the moment frozen forever. He’d been on his way to meet her, to tell her that he was sorry and that he loved her. They might have worked it out and put together a plan to get their marriage back on track, and to talk about children. She was ready; was he? “This could never happen again,” she’d say. He would have agreed, and while she’d find it hard ever to trust him fully, she would have taken him back.

  After identifying him, and signing her name to several documents, her first call had been to her mother. After that she lost track—the last thirty-six hours fused into a series of terrible tasks. The call to Ralph’s mother. “Celia, Ralph is dead.” The police coming to their condo, needing a statement. “No, we haven’t found the driver. It was hit and run, a taxi ran a red light. Many witnesses, but none of them said more than it was a yellow cab, its windows dark. No one got the plate or medallion numbers.”

  And now, to finish off her day, she was in Jimmy Martin’s museum of a house dressed in gray and wearing a gift from Hobbs—a gold floral lapel pin with a synthetic sapphire in the center. When he’d given it to her—after their kiss—she’d been impressed at what nice equipment the police department provided. His response was that the detective bureau had crappy surveillance stuff and that he’d bought it from a security supply store. She’d thought about their kiss as she’d put it on, it seemed so long ago, but it was just a couple days. Your husband’s killed, you kissed Hobbs—nothing seemed real.