Blood Count ac-9

by Reggie Nadelson

“You know who that is?”

  “Yes.”

  It was the second time that day somebody had quizzed me on my knowledge of famous black Americans-first Robeson, now Davis. Angela Davis had visited the USSR. She had been a member of the American Communist Party and was much admired. She was also stunning and articulate. People in Moscow were charmed by her. “She speaks such nice French and is so kind,” my mother, an obsessive Francophile, had said after she met Davis at a party. There were plenty of places where the Soviet Union and black America had once intersected.

  I didn’t want to risk crossing Dr. Bernard when I needed information from her about Marianna Simonova, so I just nodded again and said, “Yes. I know.”

  “Please sit down,” said Dr. Bernard when we got to a small study. There was a red and blue kilim on the floor, the walls were lined with books. On a shelf some antique surgical tools were displayed. The windows, old-fashioned wooden shutters folded back, looked out onto a courtyard, where there was already half a foot of snow.

  Bernard sat down at her antique rolltop desk.

  “Right,” she said. “What can I do for you? I only came back to my house to get some paperwork I need. I haven’t much time, and to tell the truth I only let you in so you’ll stop bullying my people at the hospital. Don’t do that again. Now, what is it you need me for?”

  “I just wanted to see when you’re coming to Marianna Simonova’s place. I could give you a ride,” I said, keeping my temper.

  “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”

  “Didn’t Lily Hanes call you?”

  “Who?”

  “Lily Hanes. She called you this morning about your patient Mrs. Simonova.”

  “No, she didn’t,” said Bernard.

  “Can you check your messages?”

  Bernard picked up her cell phone, then listened to her voice mail on the landline. She called the hospital. She turned to me.

  “You’re satisfied? Now what’s the problem with Mrs. Simonova?” she said.

  Bernard leaned back slightly in her chair. On the credenza behind her was a large Mac. On the screen was a picture of a tall, pretty girl of about fourteen with Dr. Bernard beside her. Bernard was wearing a yellow sleeveless summer dress and high-heeled sandals.

  “Simonova is your patient, though?”

  Bernard glanced at me. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ve been treating Mrs. Simonova for COPD for a while now. That’s emphysema to you.”

  “Was it your opinion she was terminal?”

  “Why?” Her head snapped up. Clearly, Lily had not called the doctor. She had lied to me.

  “I’m simply asking.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Can you give me some background?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on,” she said. “I’m busy, and unless you tell me why you’re here and why you’ve been calling me, there’s no way that I’m going to share privileged information.” She reached for the phone as if to indicate she was finished with me.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “Let’s start again. Marianna Simonova died earlier, probably sometime this morning.”

  “What?”

  “You’re surprised?”

  “Yes. She was in only Wednesday, I think. I thought she was a bit better. Her saturation level was better. We’d been worried,” said Bernard. “It’s not impossible, of course; she was pretty sick. This cold weather is terrible for anyone with lung problems, though she was tough. Still, she hadn’t followed my instructions. I know she continued to smoke.”

  “Did anyone come with her, bring her to your office?”

  Bernard looked up. “Yes, a woman came with her the last few months. A white woman.”

  “Lily Hanes,” I said.

  “I think that’s right. Tall woman? She was a bit of a stickler, taking notes, wanting to know everything about Marianna’s condition, what medication she needed, everything. Well, she was meticulous, I’ll say that for her. Thank you for letting me know about Marianna,” said Bernard. “But what’s your interest?”

  “I know some of her friends.”

  “You mean this Hanes woman?”

  “Yes. She suggested her neighbor-Dr. Hutchison-could sign the death certificate, because it would speed things up. Apparently Mrs. Simonova wanted a Jewish burial. It requires a pretty quick turnaround, so to speak.”

  “I know that. I have Jewish patients,” said Bernard. “Was Marianna Jewish?” She gathered up her purse and some folders from her desk. “I’d prefer to sign the death certificate myself. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “You know Dr. Hutchison?”

  “Yes. He’s a good doctor. He’s certainly got all his marbles in spite of his age. He is past eighty, you know. But Lionel’s problems are with his ideas. I am fond of him, though.”

  “But you’d still rather sign the death certificate yourself?”

  “We disagree on certain things.”

  I thought about the euthanasia book. “Ethical things?” She nodded. “But you trust Lionel Hutchison? In spite of the ethical issues?”

  “Yes, of course.” She hesitated. “I’d just like to see Marianna. You’re a cop. Is there something about this that bothers you? Is that why you’re really here?”

  “Could I have a glass of water?” I was stalling for time.

  She couldn’t refuse the water, especially since I faked a hacking cough. And while she was in the kitchen getting it, I managed to glance at her desk. I had seen her scribble a name while we were talking.

  “You were stalling for time?” Bernard had a portable phone in one hand. In the other was the glass of water, which she gave me, and I drank it while she sat down on a chair opposite mine and crossed her legs.

  In the long black boots, her legs were spectacular, and I had to force myself not to stare. Sometimes I think I must be sick, looking at a woman’s legs at the same time I was inquiring about dead people. Maybe all guys are like me. I don’t know.

  I put the glass on the desk. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve just spoken to Lionel Hutchison,” said Bernard. “We went through everything together. He assures me that it was Marianna’s lungs, that it was the disease that killed her. He said she had been in pain the past few days. But I told him not to do anything until I got there.”

  “Like what? What can you do now that Simonova is dead?”

  “I want to see her. That’s all. I’ll make my way over this afternoon, as soon as I can.”

  While I was putting on my jacket, it hit me: Lionel Hutchison really had known Marianna Simonova was dead all along. He had entered the apartment through the terrace, or he had a set of keys Lily didn’t know about. Or Lily had told him.

  “I have to go.”

  “I must get back to the hospital,” said Bernard.

  “You were close, you and Dr. Hutchison?”

  “Once. Yes. He was my teacher, but I’m a Roman Catholic. Lionel has views, as I’ve told you-he has his reasons, but I can’t condone them,” she said. “I’ll see you out. I have patients this afternoon, then I’ll make my way over.” She took a card from the desk. “All my numbers are here.”

  She got up, went to the front of the house, put her camel-colored coat on, fastened the belt.

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Amahl Washington. You were his doctor, too?”

  “I was his doctor, but how is that your business?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Be that as it may, I can’t talk to you about Mr. Washington,” said Bernard. “And by the way, detective, you didn’t have to read my memo pad; you could simply ask. You saw something that interested you?”

  “Carver Lennox.”

  “He’s my husband,” she said. “But anyone could have told you that.”

  “You don’t live together?”

  “We’re separated. I don’t believe in divorce.” She opened the front door. We went outside.

 
“He lives at the Armstrong.”

  “Yes,” Bernard took her keys out of her bag. “Last I heard he was trying to transform the building. Buying up the apartments, making the place grand again. That bloody building. Carver was obsessed. How he loves money and all it can buy. Eventually all he talked about was money. Maybe it makes him feel that white men will let him into their playground,” she said softly, locked her door, went to the curb, got in her dark blue Audi, and drove away.

  Lily had lied to me about calling Dr. Bernard. How was she involved in Simonova’s death? I killed her, Lily had said. Had she really screwed up the meds? If Simonova’s death became a case, would it count as involuntary manslaughter? Could they indict Lily if she had been negligent? Is that what Radcliff thought and wouldn’t tell me?

  Leaning against Lucille Bernard’s front door, I got out my phone. “Where are you?” I said when Lily answered.

  “Doing some errands,” she said. “I told you.”

  “What kind? You’ve been out a long time just doing errands.”

  “I’m just at the drugstore, for chrissake, Artie. Please.”

  “Which drugstore? I’ll come meet you.”

  “Don’t do that, Artie. I’m just getting lady stuff, you know, makeup, things,” she said. “I’m going back to the apartment as soon as I’m done,” she added. “Please, Artie, just do whatever you’re doing and meet me up at my place, right? OK? I love that you worry about me, but I’m fine now.”

  “Which drugstore?”

  “Stop being a pain in the ass. I’m getting you a little Christmas present, OK? So stop bothering me right now.” Her words ran on, her voice was stilted. I didn’t believe her.

  “I love you,” I said without meaning to.

  “I’ll see you in an hour or so?”

  “Sooner.”

  “Fine. I’ll be back soon. It’s just Christmas shopping,” she said lightly. “And her pills.”

  “What?”

  “Marianna’s pills. I wanted to make sure her prescription was filled, you know?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, but the line cut out, or Lily hung up. What was she talking about? My car was parked by the curb. I got in. I was shivering.

  This was what terror felt like. I’d worked cases where they’d killed and frozen babies in food lockers, cases where a man was poisoned with radioactive shit he had been carrying around in his own suitcase. I’d seen things done to women that gave me an ulcer. I’d been beaten up. This was worse.

  Watching Lily, listening to her, feeling she might be cracking up, losing her mind. I was terrified. Literally. I didn’t know if I could help her. If she had lost her mind, I’d stay. I told myself I’d always stay. But what was she doing getting meds for a dead woman?

  CHAPTER 15

  Diaz, cigarette hanging from his lips, was out back of the Armstrong, talking to a man in a black winter jacket, hood over his head. As soon as Diaz saw me pull up in my car, he said something to the man, who nodded, then jogged away. I realized it could have been the guy from the station house, the Russian Jimmy Wagner said was named Ivan Ivanov.

  What was he doing here? Had he been following me? Was it even him, after all? Lot of guys wear black North Face jackets with hoods. I got out of my car, and crossed the bleak backyard to where Diaz stood.

  “Who was that?” I said.

  “Some guy.” Diaz sucked on his cigarette.

  “You looked pretty cozy.”

  “Whatever.”

  “He was asking about me?”

  “I didn’t understand him that well. He had some kind of accent.”

  “Russian?”

  “I have to get back to work,” Diaz said.

  The underground smells in the Armstrong basement, the noises from the floor above, the footsteps, the sound of a mouse, or a rat, made me edgy. In the basement you heard pipes clang; the ancient boiler roared. It was very cold. Before the signal went out on my phone, I tried Lily, left a message saying I was in the basement and I’d stop by Simonova’s storage room to get the Christmas ornaments she had asked me to find.

  “I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes,” I said on Lily’s voice mail.

  When I tried Lucille Bernard, she answered. Said she’d be over in an hour, two, tops. Just wait, she said. I’d wait. Anyway, I’d been itching to get into Simonova’s storage room since early that morning when Lily had given me the key.

  From the laundry room came the sound of machines going around and around. Somebody in there was singing. I made a detour.

  “Did I startle you?” said a voice.

  I squinted into the room lit only by a couple of dim overhead bulbs. The voice belonged to a woman who looked about sixty-five, dark skin, carefully curled silvery hair, bright blue apron over her sweater and slacks. She was short, a little stout, and she was sitting on a plastic chair, arms resting on the washing machine. She removed the ear buds from her MP3 player. She got up slowly.

  “Can I help?”

  “I was looking for the storage rooms.”

  “Turn to your left, then left again, you’ll find them fine,” she said. “Any room in particular?”

  “Mrs. Simonova’s. You know her?”

  “We live on the same floor,” she said. “You couldn’t say we were friends or nothing, I don’t think she liked my playing my music.”

  “What were you listening to?”

  “Ella Fitzgerald,” she said.

  “Which song?”

  “Are you a fan?”

  “Big-time.”

  “It’s a nice one for sure. Called ‘Skylark,’ Hoagy Carmichael and Johnny Mercer. I met Mr. Mercer several times,” she said with a smile that revealed a gap between her front teeth, then offered me one of the ear buds so I could listen with her.

  The music flowed into my head. We stood in the dank laundry room, the washing machine vibrating, and listened. I remembered something my father told me.

  He had been in America as a very young KGB agent, his assignment to learn his way around American culture, and he fell for the music. For jazz, most of all, and of all the jazz he loved, Ella Fitzgerald was his favorite, his saint, if he’d had a religion. He once said to me, very quietly, “In New York, I felt that my good Communist soul was being sucked out, Artyom. Not by material goods, or by the American way of life, but by the music, especially by Ella Fitzgerald.”

  “Do you know this?” said the woman and fiddled with her MP3 player. “This is a nice old Decca one, just Ella and Ellis Larkins on the piano. I always did love it.”

  “You knew her?”

  She removed her earpiece.

  “Oh, yes, sir. I grew up in Yonkers where Miss Ella, she was an orphan living with some relatives, my ma lived next door, I was just a girl. She grew up, then she began to sing, nobody ever did hear a voice like that, a pure instrument, you see, like God singing right into that girl’s head and out of her mouth. Never could find a man, though, after Ray Brown broke her heart.”

  “Please, go on.”

  “I met her in the nineteen fifties. There wasn’t no work around, so I offered to help her out. She liked to iron her own clothes, and I’d say to her, ‘That’s not right; you’re a star,’ and I went to help her out at her house in Queens, Murdock Avenue, Addisleigh Park, they were all there, all the musicians were there, and Count Basie, he was a fine, lovely man and we all liked him. Then Ella went to California. I did go out there for a little when she was so sick. We stayed in touch all of her life. After she died I wasn’t any good to anybody for a long time, I missed her so bad. But she made sure I had a nice place to live. My name is Regina McGee.”

  I told her I was visiting Lily. “Good girl, that Lily. She is kind to everybody,” she said, as the washing machine finished its cycle and beeped. She opened the door and extracted a pile of wet towels. “Thank God I still got that little apartment.”

  “You know the people here well?”

  “Yes, sure do, I been here most of the time since nin
eteen fifty-seven. Come by my place if you want, and I’ll show my pictures of Ella. I have pictures from times we shared in New York when we were just lonely girls together around town.”

  “I’d like that,” I said. “You must have been very young when you knew her.”

  “Oh, not so young. I’m eighty years old today.”

  I wished her happy birthday.

  “Can I come see you a little later?” I asked.

  “Not going anywhere,” she said. “Not even if that Mr. Lennox makes me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, he wants my place, wants to break through the wall and connect it to some other apartment, make a big old space out of it, he says.”

  “He pressures you?”

  “Honey, I have been pressured by the best. I was born in North Carolina. Grew up by the tracks in Yonkers. I done slept on the New York City streets. Ain’t selling to nobody, ’specially not to Mr. Carver Lennox. You know, he puts me in mind of Stumpy Brown. You know who that was?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not the height, but the way he has. Stump was a little guy, big-time numbers runner up here, lived right next door at 409. Tiny little man, small like Chick Webb-you know, the band leader that gave Miss Ella her big break-and Stump, he lived in this building a while. He worked for Madame St. Clair at the end of her days. She ran that gang they called Forty Thieves. Extorted from everyone. Stump wore flashy clothes, and he would flash a wad of cash. He was arrogant and he was slick, and he always got what he wanted. Like these fellows, what you call them? Hedge fund? De-riv-i-tives. Yeah. Like Carver Lennox, only he ain’t so short. Just short in his soul.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re interested?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were up in Miss Marianna’s place?”

  “You know that?”

  “Honey! We all know everything. She was quite a person, that Russian lady. Her and Carver, always talking together. I was surprised to hear she passed.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t know, I saw her day before yesterday; she look all right to me,” said Regina McGee, pausing. I knew she was making up her mind about something. “You’re a detective, that right?”