“Nice work, Watson. Did Rachel leave behind any personal effects?”
“Lorraine said the girls boxed up her stuff but that Soto insisted on taking responsibility for it.”
“I don’t think there’s any question that Soto is involved in this up to his greasy little neck. I’ll request a warrant to tap his phones. When was the last time Lorraine saw her?”
“The last day she reported to work. They didn’t socialize. She said that when she left the office for the day, Rachel was the last staff member still there.
“And Soto?”
“Yeah. He was there too. He was entertaining that group of less-than-desirable business types I mentioned earlier.”
“And she has no idea who they were?”
“Sorry, Mather, no dice. But I do estimate that she wears a size 32 D-cup brassiere. Of course, it’s hard to tell with all the Wonder Bra nonsense going on these days. Padding, cutlets, and whatnot—they can make Kate Middleton look like Kate Upton. What do you think? Is it all her, or is she doing some false advertising?” Silence. “I guess you’re not answering.”
“Clearly you’re going to have to work on your boundary issues. These uncomfortable pauses are killing me.” I blew out an exasperated sigh and plopped down onto Rachel’s sofa. “Can you bring Lorraine into the office and have her take a look at the mug shots? Maybe she’ll I.D. someone in our rogues’ gallery. There’s a message on Rachel’s machine from a doctor’s office. I’ll pay the good doctor a visit to see if it leads anywhere. I already heard that we won’t get anywhere near Elias today. The event aboard the Israeli jet has officially been classified an aerotoxic event. The earliest he’ll be available is tomorrow.”
“So the pilots were poisoned?”
“Yup, but they’re still trying to narrow down the substance, so everyone is in quarantine until the doctors are sure that the poisonous agent isn’t infectious.”
“How are the two pilots?”
“Both critical and not looking very good. Talking about doctors, how’s your kidney stone?”
Silence.
Chapter 23
Dr. Julia Levine’s office was located in a professional building on Northern Boulevard in Great Neck, New York. Her name was listed on the wood veneer door along with the names of several other physicians. There were at least a dozen patients in the waiting room. Most of them frowned when I was immediately shown in.
“Two hours I’m waiting,” an elderly man complained, “and the young tomato walks right in.”
Dr. Levine specialized in oncology. I was very impressed by the vast number of degrees and certificates on display in her office. A very impressive certificate proclaimed Dr. Levine a graduate of Cornell Medical School. A much smaller diploma indicated that Levine had graduated summa cum laude from City University of New York. Pictures of the doctor posing with migrant children told me more about her than all the diplomas combined. I was still examining the doctor’s credentials when she walked in.
“Special Agent Mather … Julia Levine.” As she extended her hand, I noticed that her smile was strictly professional, an amenity she performed time and time again. She was a petite woman, no more than five foot two, and appeared to be fragile in build. Curly brown hair crowded her face and obscured some of her features. She sat down behind her desk and picked up a wrapped sandwich. “I hope you don’t mind if I eat lunch while we talk. This is the only chance I’ll get.”
“It’s pretty late in the afternoon. You should take better care of yourself.”
Levine smiled. It was a real-deal smile this time. “How about you, Agent Mather? Did you have lunch today?”
“I had one mother of a big breakfast. Literally. My mother just moved in with us. She made bangers and mash. I’m usually good to go on a big cup of coffee and a Luna Bar.”
“She’s British?”
“Like Yorkshire pudding.”
Levine smirked. “That’s funny.”
“I mean she was born there, and those limey traditions … let me tell you, they die hard.”
“I take it you’re not a big fan of the Crown.”
“Pomp and circumstance? Not me. I was born and bred right here in New York. My mother would kill me if she heard me say this, but to me the Royals are just a big sideshow attraction. I’ll take a good bloody cheeseburger over fish and chips any day of the week.”
She snickered. “But that’s nice, your mother moving in with you. The two of you must be very close.”
Uggh. You have no idea. “Like peas in a pod.”
“I come from a big family,” Levine said. “I wouldn’t have traded my childhood for all the money in the world. So do I have to call you Agent Mather, or can we dispense with the formalities?” she asked as she unwrapped her sandwich.
“Chloe is good by me.”
She handed me half of her sandwich. “Don’t argue with me, Chloe. Look at me.” Julia Levine opened her lab coat, exposing her bony frame. “Honestly, I don’t know who my housekeeper thinks she’s feeding. She’s a wonderful plump Jamaican lady.” She laughed. “I think she’s trying to make me over in her image.”
I took a huge chomp out of the sandwich. “I love chicken salad. Thanks.”
“So, Chloe, how can I help you?”
I put down the sandwich. I couldn’t help it, but I felt the muscles in my face tighten and my face become solemn as I prepared to share Rachel Rabin’s fate with her. “It’s about one of your patients, Doctor … Rachel Rabin.”
Dr. Levine stopped chewing and looked at me as if she was anticipating bad news.
I braced myself for her reaction before uttering the first word. “I’m investigating her murder.”
Dr. Levine dropped her sandwich, retracting her fingers from the bread as if it had scalded her. She began to shake. “Oh, no, no.” She turned white, and tears sprang from her eyes. “No. I saved her. How? How did this happen?” she demanded.
It took a moment for me to choose my words. Before I could speak, her hand flew to her mouth as she ran from her office.
It took Dr. Levine a good ten minutes to compose herself. When she returned, I could see that she had washed her face and reapplied her makeup. Even through her thick eyeglasses, I could see that her eyes were red and swollen. She placed a box of Kleenex in front of herself as I began to relate the grim tragedy. By the time I had finished, Levine looked so pale that I feared she too would expire. She reached for her telephone and told the front desk to cancel some of her patients who hadn’t yet arrived. “Block out an hour,” she instructed. “Say that I had an emergency.” She hung up the phone and looked into my eyes beseechingly. “Please tell me that you have a suspect.”
I shrugged, my face expressing disappointment. “I have some questions. Perhaps you can tell me something that will help me bring someone to justice.”
Levine gathered herself up. She looked at me weakly. “Begin.”
God bless her, she’s a strong woman. “Was Rachel Rabin substance dependent?”
She looked at me incredulously. “Drugs?”
“The autopsy turned up significant levels of heroin in her body tissue. Did you ever suspect that Rachel had a substance problem?”
“No. Never! I know that you can never truly know anyone completely, but I’m sure that Rachel wasn’t that type.” She grimaced. “Did you say heroin?”
“My hunch is that she wasn’t into drugs, but the medical examiner felt that her death was the result of an overdose. Based on the unusual circumstances surrounding her death, I don’t think it would be wrong to speculate that Rachel had the heroin forced on her against her will.”
She closed her eyes for a moment as if to shutter herself from the pain. “Bastards!”
“In your opinion was Rachel the kind of woman who had several sexual partners?”
Levine’s eyes grew wide. “If you’re asking if Rachel was a tart, the answer is no, positively not. Think about it, Chloe. You’re a young woman. Put yourself in her place,” Levine said a
dmonishingly. “This is a girl who had her breasts removed in order to save her life from a particularly aggressive form of cancer. I happen to know that her reconstruction took four separate procedures. Even the best cosmetic surgeon would be challenged to make her look natural. Sure, fully dressed she may have appeared to be a complete woman, but the mental scars and physical insecurity from such an ordeal remain forever. Many women never get over it. Does that sound like the kind of girl who parts with her clothing on a whim?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I had to ask.”
“She had a BRCA mutation, but didn’t know that she was at genetic risk because her mother died so young.” Levine shook her head slowly, unhappily. “Do you know about her parents?”
“No.”
“They were gunned down by a terrorist in Israel. Her mother was still in her forties when she died.”
Very few Americans have ever seen the devastation caused by terrorist attacks other than on the television. I had been stationed in Bahrain and Afghanistan as part of the Marine Corps Female Engagement Team and had seen some atrocities your average person on the street could never relate to—horrific, gut-wrenching stuff. Still, though, I had never lost a family member, let alone my mother and father. “Jesus, that’s lousy.”
“What about you? Are you examining yourself regularly?”
“I’m only—” I stopped myself. Rachel Rabin was younger than I was. My mind bounced back to the meeting I’d had with the medical examiner first thing Monday morning.
I saw my hand on the fluted glass door to the medical examiner’s office as I pushed it open. Before me the mint green room was large and airy. The ceiling was high, and the exterior wall made of glass. The odor of formaldehyde was unmistakable despite the fact that heavy duty, ceiling-mounted air scrubbers sucked air from above. Sun pouring through the glass bleached the tile floor and reflected off the metal autopsy tables.
Dr. Perry Hodgkin, the medical examiner, looked up from where he was working at the far end of the room. He covered the face of a cadaver, pulled off his latex gloves, and switched off the overhead microphone before walking over to greet me.
Hodgkin wore the requisite white surgical coat that came down to the tops of his shoes. The man’s complexion was pale and unflatteringly close in shade to that of the cadavers that surrounded him. Nonetheless, he greeted me with a robust smile. “SA Mather. Welcome to my morgue.”
Hodgkin had the type of personality that made me feel welcome immediately. “Thanks so much for seeing me this early, Doctor.”
“Well, I’m glad to have you, and …” He smirked. “My patients are always here waiting for me.” He pointed toward the refrigerator. “This way.”
I followed him over to the stainless steel, multi-compartment cadaver refrigerator.
“This one’s a terrible mess,” he warned.
He pulled the drawer out as far as it would go and without warning drew back the sheet to expose the butchered torso. A vile, dank stench rose from the mutilated carcass. The odor seemed to bypass the nose and permeate the gut directly. I recoiled in spite of myself and backed away from the specimen.
Hodgkin offered me Vicks menthol rub to swipe under my nostrils and mask the horrible odor.
The water-soaked flesh was wrinkled and puckered with a faint green tinge to the skin. From where I stood, a perfect cross section of the spinal cord was visible, as if the head had been sheared clean off with one swift chop. There were tears at the edges of the shoulders and thighs, where I imagined crabs and other bottom dwellers had tasted the victim’s flesh. Large metal retractors held the divided chest cavity open. The heart had been removed and placed in a stainless steel dish which rested alongside the torso. Both breasts had been dissected. The two halves of each breast were held apart by metal clamps.
Holy shit! I’m a tough girl, but this … this is more than I can take. “I’ve seen enough. Can we sit down and discuss your findings somewhere else?”
“Of course. I understand,” Hodgkin said. “My office is three doors down the hallway on the right side. Wait for me in there. I’ll join you in ten minutes or so.”
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I walked out of the building to get fresh air before heading to his office. It’s a terrible thing to say, but being near Rachel Rabin’s remains made me feel toxic. I knew there was nothing contagious about the specimen, and I had seen some pretty severe injuries and casualties during my years of military service, but for some reason, this one … It was more than I could deal with. I feasted on the fresh air for the full ten minutes Hodgkin said he would need before going to his office.
Hodgkin pushed open the door and walked in carrying a binder and a manila envelope. “I’ve ascertained the cause of the woman’s death and her identity as well.”
I knew I liked him. “That’s remarkable, but—”
“How?” Hodgkin grinned as if to say, “And you thought I was clever before?” Like Lady Gaga, Hodgkin most certainly lived for the applause. “An examination of the intact internal organs indicated that the victim was approximately twenty-five years of age. The heart, which was removed and examined, has a large tear in the right atrium. Based on the physical evidence, it would be consistent to say that the victim died of a fatal myocardial infarction.”
I wrinkled my brow. “Wouldn’t you say that’s a bit unusual? I mean, a woman in her mid twenties dying from a heart attack. Could it have been a congenital defect?”
“Unlikely,” he replied. “However, the autopsy of the liver revealed a significant level of heroin in the tissue. You see, the liver continued to function for some time after the heart seized. From the high amount of heroin I found and the nature of the heart attack, I would say with little reservation that death was induced by a drug overdose.”
Okay, you’ve got my attention. I’m listening. “What I’d like to know is how you determined the victim’s identity.”
“The victim’s name was Rachel Rabin,” he said without reservation.
It was clear that Hodgkin knew his stuff. Still, he spoke with such overwhelming confidence. “You’re sure about this?”
“Quite,” he replied.
Hodgkin cherished his time in the limelight, and I knew he was eager to expound on his findings. “Mind explaining how?”
“Of course,” he said, beaming with pride. “While examining the torso, I noticed scarring under both breasts. I dissected them and found saline implants. Further examination revealed extensive scarring of the breast tissue itself.”
“You’ll have to fill in the blanks, Doc. I still don’t see how you got from first to third.”
“Patience, SA Mather. Every prosthetic appliance manufactured in modern times bears a serial number. The serial identification number on this surgical implant belonged to Dow Corning. A simple call to the manufacturer was all that was required.”
Really? “So the serial numbers on the implants led you to the manufacturer, which gave you the name of the patient, the hospital, and the surgeon, yes?”
Hodgkin nodded. “You’re a quick study, Mather.”
“If you’re up to it, there are several questions I need to ask you.”
Hodgkin grinned. “I’d be delighted. You see, my patients are all terrible conversationalists.”
Levine’s voice brought me back. “There’s less chance of getting breast cancer at your age, but there are no guarantees. Make sure that you get examined regularly. Self-examination is the best weapon we have against this.” Levine took a pamphlet from a display stand on her desk and handed it to me. “Diet and exercise are important too. Do you watch your fats and caffeine?”
Silence.
“I’m not surprised. Young people think they’re invincible.” She was getting all ramped up and out of control, spouting her very important mantra. She paused and looked at the ceiling for a moment. When she refocused, she was back on subject. “Do you suspect rape?”
I nodded sadly. “Yes. The coroner noticed bruising around the va
gina. Unfortunately the body had been submersed in water for a very long time. The salt water thoroughly cleansed the vaginal canal, and there wasn’t any semen present.”
Levine’s eyes opened measurably as if struck wide by revelation. “Did the medical examiner inspect the fallopian tubes?” she asked. “I doubt very much that Rachel was practicing any form of birth control. The fallopian tubes are very narrow, and they likely collapsed after she died. There’s a possibility that some of the assailant’s semen might’ve been sealed within them.”
Hodgkin struck me as being absolutely thorough, and I couldn’t imagine that he missed something … anything. Still, Levine had given me a glimmer of hope. I left her office thinking that we might miraculously find some of the perp’s DNA.
Chapter 24
Lorraine Franco sat restlessly and cracked her gum in the reception area. She had traded her jeans and sweater for a brightly colored dress and pumps. Her hair had that freshly blown-out look, and she wore a pair of antique filigree earrings that her grandmother had given her. She was dressed to impress.
“You clean up nicely,” Cabrera said in his patented devil-may-care manner.
Lorraine blushed as she rose out of her chair. “Thanks, Agent Cabrera.”
“You’re very welcome, Ms. Franco.”
I don’t know what it was about him, but you could see that Cabrera had a hold on her. I saw the look in her eyes; it was as if she was under the spell of a vampire. If opportunity allowed, I’d inspect her neck for puncture marks. I guess he had fully assessed Lorraine and knew how far he could push the envelope because he looked her up and down with intent, something an FBI agent never should’ve done while conducting official business.
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