Wendell Black, MD

by Gerald Imber, M. D.

  I was tired and hungry. For a bit, I stood between the two Art Deco green light sconces indicating the precinct house, thinking. I wanted to call Alice, and I needed someplace close for a beer and a burger. Hunger won the day, and I hopped into the car and drove eight blocks south to Joe Allen’s, an old standard on West Forty-sixth Street. I beat the after-theater crowd by an hour and snagged a seat at the bar. I’m not quite a regular, but the bartender knew his job and had a cardboard coaster in front of me before I was done wiggling into a comfortable position on the shaky stool. I dialed Alice, got her voice mail, and left a perfunctory “Call me.” Two sips into my second Heineken, I was busy reading my e-mail and sending one off to Alice when a juicy, rare hamburger arrived. I can honestly say it was the best part of my day.

  Forty minutes later, Tonto and I were propped up on pillows on my queen-size bed, surfing the local stations for the story. Alice still hadn’t gotten back to me. I assumed she was in surgery. If she had spoken to the cops, she would have been on the horn in seconds, so I didn’t bother calling again and went back to working the remote. Farzan made the tease on channel 4 with something like Mutilated doctor found in posh midtown hotel room, details at eleven. I sat through ads for cars, toilet cleaners, adult diapers, and erectile aids, which was a pretty good insight into the demographics of the news audience. It was the lead story, delivered on location by a good-looking blonde standing on East Fifty-fifth Street, in front of the ornate, turn-of-the-century entrance to the St. Regis. She pointed over her shoulder several times to be certain we knew where she was. Every time she turned, the buttons on her blouse looked like they were about to pop. Her delivery was breathless, falsely urgent, and said little more than the tease had. Farzan was not identified, and Lieutenant Peter Secondi indicated it was an ongoing investigation and refused further comment. Nothing there. I worked the remote and caught the end of the same on two other stations before I switched it off and tried Alice again.

  13

  An uninterrupted night’s sleep is a great thing. Seven hours and I felt pure of mind and body, but it did nothing to clarify the previous day’s events. No word from Alice. I checked my e-mail and phone. Nothing. Early morning was the busiest time of day for surgeons, and I would have to wait until later to connect with her. By seven thirty she was in another zone. I had a good workout and a leisurely walk with Tonto. I fed and watered him, roughhoused with him for a few minutes, then showered, dressed, and headed off to work.

  Mrs. Black was in a talkative mood, and we chatted about the odd recent events over a cup of tea. My schedule for the day was front and center on the desk blotter, as usual, and it didn’t look like a lot of laughs. I had only begun to scowl at it when the intercom interrupted.

  “Your friend Rodriguez.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake.” I waited a few seconds to reset my attitude and picked up the receiver. “Good morning, detective. Now what?”

  “Good morning, doc. I think we need to talk some more.”

  “I think I’ve pretty much said everything I have to say. What is unclear? I mean other than the whole picture.”

  “I keep wondering where your mule was heading before her bubble burst.”

  It was a funny remark, but I wouldn’t give Rodriguez the satisfaction of laughing. He irritated me. Instead, I countered with “His bubble.”

  “Right, his. Was it possible he was headed for your friend, Alice?”

  “Not likely. Farzan Byarshan’s partner is the first place to look, don’t you think? I mean he said so himself.”

  “Right. But we can’t find him and we can’t seem to locate your girlfriend. Could be they’re in it together.” He was baiting me, and I wasn’t biting.

  “Not likely.”

  “Byarshan was held from behind when his throat was cut. Slashed from ear to ear. It looks like a ritual Middle Eastern sacrifice, like the hostage videos on YouTube. How long would it take for someone to bleed out after that kind of slash, doctor?”

  “Minute, minute and a half.”

  “So he was held up while he bled out. No thrashing around. They just stood there and watched him die. Nasty stuff.” I said nothing and waited for Rodriguez to fill the silence. “Considering how Byarshan was killed, there was no struggle. The killer got through the door like the victim knew him. Or her.”

  “Her? You think a woman killed Byarshan?”

  “No, not exactly. Maybe your friend Alice went up to his room. He looked through the peephole, saw her, opened the door, and was taken from behind by a man who slipped in with her, held him and slit his throat while Alice watched him bleed out.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Got a better explanation? He knew her, would let her in. She could be the receiving surgeon here. Maybe with the other Iranian. They could be in it together. She held and he cut. Nice friends, and they all know you. Could be you were accompanying the mule back from London. That way it all fits.”

  “Fuck you, Rodriguez.”

  “We’ll see who gets fucked. Now is the time to talk. If you aren’t one of them, give us Alice, and we can find the other guy.”

  I hung up the phone. Actually, I slammed it into the cradle. Mrs. Black opened the door and stuck her head in. “City property, Dr. Black. Easy. Anything you want to talk about?

  14

  The workday was distracting enough to occupy my mind once I got over being pissed at Rodriguez. I finished sick call, made a hospital visit, and headed for home. Deuce had called, asking a few more questions about Alice and her relationship to Farzan. I answered honestly, but I really didn’t know any more than I had already told him. Unfortunately, the idea that Farzan knew the killer and allowed him into the room made sense. That it was Alice didn’t. When I told Deuce about the call from Rodriguez, his only response was, “The guy has a hard-on for you. Sounds like he wants out of Narcotics and into Homicide. Can’t blame him. Hang around with dirtbags too long and you get dirty. They all do.”

  Somehow it got to be six thirty, and I was starved. I called Alice twice from the car but couldn’t raise her. I called the hospital page operator and waited for a return call that didn’t come. At traffic lights I punched in every message I could think of: e-mail, text, BBM voice mail. The only clue to Alice’s whereabouts was that she had received the BBM, or at least her BlackBerry had. There was no response, and that didn’t help at all.

  At least I knew that Tonto still loved me. But he’d had a hard day in the doggie gym and was too pooped to do anything but eat. Obviously, I was going to have to amuse myself. I hung my jacket on the doorknob, pulled off my tie, poured out two fingers of Jameson’s, and sat with the mail. Two fingers in a shot glass isn’t much . . . almost an ounce. Two fingers in one of my father’s crystal tumblers can do real damage. I was well into it when I realized I couldn’t fight my way through another bout of greasy Chinese takeout, and I was too hungry for popcorn. I tossed the Jameson’s, washed and dried the glass, and polished it twinkling clean for next time, as I always do. It makes the drink more of an occasion. Then I thumbed through Zagat’s restaurant guide. Why? I don’t know why. I always end up in one of a few places where the food is good and the people make me feel at home.

  I am one of those almost naturally thin people. I’m always hungry, and I don’t get fat. That’s not my nature to go wild. I know too much and I’m not stupid. But when I’m nervous or feeling reckless, booze and beef are on my mind. The cure for this kind of hunger was a steak, but I waffled between red meat and sushi. Sushi was healthier by far and only twice the price. So I salivated my way over to East Forty-third Street and opted for the beef, ignoring my pledge to hold down red-meat consumption to once a week. I’m good at conning myself, and I managed to feel virtuous by even considering opting out. Anyway, I eat so much sushi that my mercury level must be higher than a thermometer. You can’t win.

  Pietro’s may be the most unattractive restaurant in New York, and the clientele doesn’t help: groups of big men eating huge slabs of be
ef. Not the place for a delicate lady. It is an institution that dates back to Prohibition, with the Palm, Christ Cella, and a few other red-sauce steak places begun by hardworking Italian immigrant families. It was a plain-looking joint from the get-go, with simple square tables and a big communal chow-down where you couldn’t help meeting interesting folks. In the old days it existed quietly on the second and third floors of a tenement building on East Forty-fifth Street. My dad loved going there with his friends, and it was a big treat to tag along. It didn’t seem like a step up when they moved, thirty years ago, but you get used to anything.

  I said my hellos and made my way to the back. A frosty vodka martini was in front of me before I could get comfortable and set the BlackBerry and my book on the table. My overriding Jewish guilt kicked right in and I couldn’t bear to disappoint the thoughtful Bruno, so I accepted the drink, not planning to finish it. The chopped salad doesn’t quite qualify as healthy filler. It’s huge and delicious, glazed with olive oil, studded with Roquefort cheese, and anything but low-calorie, and by the time the very rare strip steak and potatoes arrived I was ready to call it quits. I made a slight dent in the steak, drank half the martini and a Diet Coke, and asked Bruno to bag up fifty dollars of prime beef for Tonto . . . or maybe me, and headed home.

  Still no word from Alice.

  By this time I couldn’t sort out whether I was worried or annoyed, but it was definitely unsettling. Finally, I called the hospital and roused a plastic surgery resident. I identified myself as Alice’s friend, Dr. Black—no police stuff—and asked if he had seen her today. At first the guy was hesitant to speak, but apparently he weighed the options and figured he would not be giving any secrets away. During that first quiet moment the thought that she had put me on a no-information list bounced around the paranoid spot in my brain. Finally, he said that Alice hadn’t appeared at work that morning.

  “It was kind of a mess. We had to postpone cases until we could get coverage, and she never called.”

  “Anybody hear from her later?”

  “No, we paged her here, and I called her and texted her. Weird. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Me too.” Now I was worried, though I wasn’t sure what I was worried about. Alice wasn’t avoiding me . . . or wasn’t avoiding only me. If there had been an emergency, she would have let someone know. I reversed course and headed for Alice’s apartment in Tribeca, but I really didn’t expect to find her there. She was tangentially connected to two people who had been murdered, and that was scary. I’m not often ruled by anxiety, but I soon found myself running yellow traffic signals and sounding the horn at taxi drivers scouting fares. It took no more than fifteen minutes to reach the ugly glass tower where she lived. The place boasted a double-height, black stone lobby and a mini porte cochere, but was otherwise indistinguishable from dozens of other buildings catering to up-and-coming young New Yorkers. I pulled into the curved drive, flipped my NYPD identification onto the dash, and hit the remote lock as I entered the lobby.

  Then I went into full-bore police mode. Badge, ID, the works, and approached an unfamiliar doorman. He claimed to know nothing and referred me to the concierge. Across the lobby, the other man had been watching us, and he rose before I reached the huge, granite roadblock of a desk. With that kind of efficiency, it was a good bet that he knew everybody’s business. The blue-and-gold uniform was worn with military precision. The cheap-looking metal display stand identifying the concierge as Albert was large enough to read from outside the building.

  “Albert, I’m a friend of Dr. Sheppard, in 15A. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, sir, I do, black BMW with police ID. How can I help you?” I was surprised to have things begin so smoothly. I had expected Albert to ask for a writ from the Supreme Court before answering questions about his charges.

  “Can you please call up to Dr. Sheppard and tell her Dr. Black is downstairs?”

  “Yes, sir, but I don’t think she’s in.” Albert looked like he knew something and was waiting for the right question before he spilled the beans. As he waited for an answer with the intercom phone to his ear, I went on.

  “Did you see her leave for work this morning?”

  “No, sir. The doctor leaves very early. I work four to twelve.” Made sense, it was ten p.m.

  “Well, did you see her leave this evening?” It was an uninspired line of questioning. I would make a lousy cop, but I couldn’t think of a more productive approach.

  “No, sir.” He returned the receiver to its cradle and said, “No answer.”

  I decided to stop playing games. He wasn’t on the stand, and this was just a conversation.

  “Okay, Albert, how did you know she wasn’t home?”

  “Well, sir, the doctor left last night with two large suitcases and a carry-on and I helped her into the taxi.”

  “Did she say she was going away?”

  “No. But I heard her tell the driver, ‘Kennedy Airport.’ ”

  Then Albert and I went around a bit about letting me into the apartment. I lost.

  So, Alice’s friend is murdered, and she leaves town in a hurry. That didn’t smell right. I quickly reconstructed the time line: she was probably working when Farzan bought it, and then she was gone. Why?

  Why? That was the question that Rodriguez and Deuce would ask when they found out. And they would find out. This time I used my brain and struck first. I called Deuce, got his voice mail, and asked him to get back to me ASAP, which he did. That turned out to be a good move because Alice was on his short list for interviews in the morning. I told him the whole deal, short of lingerie and midnight murmuring.

  “She’s involved in this, doc. No question.”

  “You know my name, don’t start that doc shit.”

  “Wendell, your girlfriend is involved in this.”

  “How? What is it that she’s involved in?”

  “Unclear, but two people are dead . . . and Alice took a powder. Why does the friend of a nice doctor get murdered? Was she afraid she was next? Any way you approach whatever this is, it’s going to be bigger than we know. I’m getting a bad feeling that we’re only seeing the tip of this particular iceberg. Tomorrow we find out all about the lovely Alice.”

  15

  I was back at work on Thursday morning, but my head was elsewhere. Instead of trying to work out the puzzle or worrying about Alice’s safety, I just couldn’t get past the idea of heading off to the ER that evening and not seeing her. Some of the sadness was of my own doing; I had been there before. That’s who I am. But Alice really pushed the right buttons, and I guess I cared more than I let on. We both mouthed the usual sophisticated platitudes; casual and fun shouldn’t spell commitment. Apparently the rules had changed while I was looking the other way.

  Just before noon Deuce called, and we agreed to meet at Alice’s apartment at four. I tried to keep him on the phone and asked a lot of questions, all of which he deftly sidestepped, and then he left for our meeting. The remainder of the afternoon was interminable. I must have looked at my watch every five minutes. At three thirty I headed for my car.

  Tribeca lacks the low-rise charm or lovely homes of the West Village, and it has none of the limestone elegance of the Upper East Side. The cobbled streets were old and uneven, most of the buildings are the same eyesore as turn-of-the-century factories everywhere, and the absence of trees was depressing. Canal Street traffic, the endless snake of cars in and out of the Holland Tunnel, and byzantine traffic patterns lead to “you can’t get there from here” addresses. And on top of it all, it’s expensive. Very expensive. The hippest neighborhood in town. A lot of the big loft apartments were spectacular, but Alice’s wasn’t one of them.

  I don’t remember having been in Alice’s apartment without her or at least without being welcomed by her, and entering the building with Deuce put a whole new spin on things. The romance of early visits, and the promise of things to come, was absent. It seemed like business. It was business—maybe that was what I didn’t
like. Deuce presented the warrant to the building manager by slapping it dramatically onto the black stone surface of the concierge desk. The man studied it as though he had an idea of what the legal jargon meant, and then led us to the door.

  At the apartment door, Deuce knocked, and said loudly, “Dr. Sheppard, NYPD, open the door.” When there was no answer, he said it again. Louder this time. Then he nodded to the building manager and at the door. Deuce had his fists clenched at his side, but when the building manager began to open the standard building mortise lock, he already had his pistol out and held against his hip. That shook me. The manager turned the knob at the same time as he inserted his key into the dead bolt. The bolt had not been shot, and the door sprang open. Deuce announced himself again and waved us back. I entered a few steps behind him. The manager followed behind me, until Deuce stared down at him and said, “Thank you. We can take it from here,” and turned his back on the man, dismissing him. We held our conversation until the door slammed behind the building manager and we had entered the bedroom. I was edgy about what we might find as we did a quick tour of the place. Deuce had me trail behind him until we were certain the apartment was unoccupied. Then he holstered his weapon and turned to me. I relaxed my tense shoulders, unclenched my fists, and felt the discomfort of cold sweat dripping down my sides.

  “What’s different? Quick. Look around and say whatever you think.”

  “You’re an intimidating prick, Secondi.”

  “My job. What has changed?”

  I looked around the bedroom and the bathroom and saw nothing but a few very pleasant memories. In the living room I dropped onto the sofa and saw nothing unusual except a big cop instead of Alice. Same for the open area that served as kitchen/dining room/library. The closets meant nothing to me, I had never opened them before, and they looked like a lot of girl stuff. They smelled like Alice. Coats, umbrellas, and never unpacked boxes filled the guest closet. Dresses, blouses, pants, and lots of things still in the crummy plastic bags from the dry cleaner hung closely packed. Shoeboxes were stacked one on the other, with still more shoes in a hanging contraption behind the bedroom closet door. Every inch of space was spoken for. Alice had only been in the place for a year, but no woman ever had unused closet space. I let out a deep, audible sigh, and pawed through the bureau drawers. Some of the silk and satin things were familiar, and nice, but I really had no idea what the hell I was looking for.