by Robin Cook
“Fine,” Lou said. Laurie could tell he regretted having put the question to her. He stood up abruptly. Laurie got up, too, but Lou motioned for her to stay where she was. “Finish your coffee. I can testify that you need a break, believe me. I’ll just run downstairs, change, and be on my way. Let me hear from you.” With a wave, Lou left. At the door, he turned and waved again.
Laurie waved back as Lou’s figure disappeared from view. He really was a bit like Colombo: intelligent yet lumbering and mildly disorganized. At the same time, he had a basic blue-collar charm and a refreshing, down-to-earth lack of pretense that appealed to her. He also seemed lonely.
Finishing her coffee, Laurie got up and stretched. As she walked out of the lunchroom, she realized that Lou also reminded her a bit of her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Sean Mackenzie. No doubt her mother would find Lou equally as inappropriate. Laurie wondered if part of the reason she found herself attracted to such a type was because she knew her parents would disapprove. If that was true, she wondered when she’d get this rebelliousness out of her system for good.
Pressing the down button on the elevator, it dawned on Laurie that after Lou had surprised her with his question, she’d failed to ask him if he were married. She decided that if he called, she’d ask. She checked her watch. She was doing fine: only one more autopsy to go and it was still before noon.
Laurie checked the address she’d jotted on a piece of paper, then looked up at the impressive Fifth Avenue apartment building. It was in the mid-Seventies, bordering on Central Park. The entrance had a blue canvas, scalloped awning that extended to the curb. A liveried doorman stood expectantly just behind the glazed, wrought-iron door.
As Laurie approached the door, the doorman pushed it open for her then politely asked if he could help her.
“I’d like to speak to the superintendent,” Laurie said. She unbuttoned her coat. While the doorman struggled with an old-fashioned intercom system, Laurie sat on a leather couch and glanced around the foyer. It was tastefully decorated in restrained, muted tones. An arrangement of fresh fall flowers stood on a credenza.
It was not difficult for Laurie to imagine Duncan Andrews striding confidently into the foyer of his apartment building, picking up his mail, and waiting for the elevator. Laurie glanced over at the bank of mailboxes discreetly shielded by a Chinese wooden screen. She wondered which one was Duncan’s and if letters awaited his arrival.
“Can I help you?”
Laurie stood and looked eye-to-eye at a mustachioed Hispanic. Stitched into his shirt above his breast pocket was the name “Juan.”
“I’m Dr. Montgomery,” Laurie said. “I’m from the medical examiner’s office.” Laurie flipped open the leather cover of her wallet to reveal her shiny medical examiner’s badge. It looked like a police badge.
“How can I help you?” Juan asked.
“I would like to visit Duncan Andrews’ apartment,” Laurie said. “I’m involved with his postmortem examination and I’d like to view the scene.”
Laurie purposefully kept her language official. In truth, she felt uncomfortable about what she was doing. Although some jurisdictions required medical examiners to visit death scenes, the New York office didn’t. Policy had evolved to delegate such duties to the forensic medical investigators. But when Laurie was training in Miami, she had had a lot of experience visiting scenes. In New York, she missed the added information such visits afforded. Yet she wasn’t visiting Duncan’s apartment for such a reason. She didn’t expect to find anything that would add to the case. She felt compelled more for personal reasons. The idea of a privileged, accomplished young man ending his life for a few moments of drug-induced pleasure made her think of her brother. This death had stirred up feelings of guilt she’d suppressed for seventeen years.
“Mr. Andrews’ girlfriend is up there,” Juan said. “At least I saw her go up half an hour ago.” Directing his attention to the doorman, he asked if Ms. Wetherbee had left. The doorman said she hadn’t.
Turning back to Laurie, Juan added, “It’s apartment 7C. I’ll take you up there.”
Laurie hesitated. She’d not expected anyone to be in the apartment. She really didn’t want to talk with any of the family members, much less Andrews’ girlfriend. But Juan was already in the elevator pressing the floor button and holding the door for her. Having presented herself in her official capacity, she felt she couldn’t leave.
Juan pounded on the door to 7C. When it didn’t open immediately, he pulled out a ring of keys the size of a baseball and began flipping through them. The door opened just as he was about to insert a key.
Standing in the doorway was a woman about Laurie’s height with blond, curly hair. She was wearing a sweatshirt over acid-washed jeans. Fresh tears stained her cheeks.
Juan introduced Laurie as being from the hospital, then excused himself.
“I don’t remember seeing you at the hospital,” Sara said.
“I’m not from the hospital,” Laurie said. “I’m from the medical examiner’s office.”
“Are you going to do an autopsy on Duncan’s body?” Sara asked.
“I already have,” Laurie said. “I just wanted to see the scene where he died.”
“Of course,” Sara said. She stepped back from the door. “Come in.”
Laurie stepped into the apartment. She felt extremely uncomfortable knowing she was intruding on this poor woman’s grief. She waited while Sara locked the door. The apartment was spacious. Even from the foyer Laurie could see out over the leafless expanse of Central Park. Unconsciously she shook her head at the senselessness of Duncan Andrews’ taking drugs. At least on the surface his life seemed perfect.
“Duncan actually collapsed right here in the doorway,” Sara said. She pointed at the floor by the door. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “Just before I knocked he pulled it open. It was as if he’d gone crazy. He was heading outside practically naked.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Laurie said. “Drugs can do that to people. Cocaine can make them feel like they’re burning up.”
“I didn’t even know he took drugs,” Sara sobbed. “Maybe if I’d gotten over here faster after he called, it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I’d stayed Sunday evening . . .”
“Drugs are such a curse,” Laurie said. “No one is going to know the reason Duncan took them. But it was his choice. You can’t blame yourself.” Laurie paused. “I know how you feel,” she said at last. “I found my big brother after he’d overdosed.”
“Really?” Sara said through her tears.
Laurie nodded. For the second time that day Laurie had admitted a secret that she’d not shared with anyone for seventeen years. This job was getting to her, all right, but in a way she had never expected. The case of Duncan Andrews had touched her in a fashion no other case had ever done.
4
* * *
6:51 p.m., Tuesday
Manhattan
“Christ!” Tony exclaimed. “Here we are waiting again. Every night we wait. I thought last night when we finally caught that prick DePasquale, things would move along. But oh no, we’re back here waiting like nothing happened.”
Angelo leaned forward and tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray, then leaned back. He didn’t say anything. He’d promised himself earlier that afternoon to ignore Tony. Angelo regarded the busy street scene. People were heading home after work, walking their dogs, or coming back from the grocery store. He and Tony were parked in a loading zone on Park Avenue between Eighty-first and Eighty-second, headed north. Both sides of the street were filled with high-rise apartment buildings whose first floors were filled with professional office suites.
“I’m going to get out and do some push-ups,” Tony said.
“Shut the hell up!” Angelo snapped, despite his vow to disregard his partner. “We went over this last night. You don’t get out and do push-ups when we’re waiting for action. What’s the matter with you? You want a neon sign or something to
let the cops know we’re sitting here? We’re not supposed to call attention to ourselves. Can’t you understand that?”
“All right,” Tony said. “Don’t get pissed. I won’t get out!”
In utter frustration, Angelo blew through pursed lips and beat a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel with the first two fingers of his right hand. Tony was wearing even for Angelo’s practiced calm.
“If we want to hit the doctor’s office, why don’t we just go in there and do it?” Tony said after a pause. “It don’t make sense wasting all this time.”
“We’re waiting for the secretary,” Angelo said. “We want to be sure the place is empty. Plus, she can let us in. We don’t want to break down any doors.”
“If she lets us in, then she’s there and it’s not empty anymore,” Tony said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Trust me,” Angelo said. “This is the best way to do what we have to do.”
“Nobody ever tells me anything,” Tony brooded. “This whole operation is weird. Breaking into a doctor’s office is crazy. It’s even crazier than when we broke into the Manhattan Organ Repository. At least there we got a few hundred in cash. What the hell are we going to find in a doctor’s office?”
“If it doesn’t take too long we can see if there’s any cash in here, too,” Angelo said. “Maybe we can also look for Percodan and stuff like that if it will make you happy.”
“Hard way to get a few pills,” Tony muttered.
Angelo laughed in spite of his aggravation.
“What do you think about old Doc Travino?” Tony asked. “Do you think he knows what the hell he’s talking about?”
“Personally, I have my doubts,” Angelo said. “But Cerino trusts him and that’s what’s important.”
“Come on, Angelo,” Tony whined. “Tell me why we’re going in there. Isn’t Cerino happy with this doc?”
“Cerino loves the guy,” Angelo said. “He thinks he’s the best in the world. In fact, that’s why we’re going in.”
“But why?” Tony asked. “Tell me that and I’ll shut up.”
“For some of the guy’s records,” Angelo said.
“I knew it was crazy,” Tony said, “but not that crazy. What are we going to do with the guy’s records?”
“You told me you would shut up if I told you what we were after. So shut up! Besides, you’re not supposed to ask so many questions.”
“There, that’s just what I was complaining about,” Tony said. “Nobody tells me what’s going on. If I knew more about what was happening, I could do more; I could be more help.”
Angelo laughed sarcastically.
“I can tell you don’t believe me,” Tony complained. “But it’s true. Try me! I’m sure I’d have some suggestions, even for this job.”
“Everything is going fine,” Angelo assured him. “Planning is not your strong suit. Whacking people is.”
“That’s true,” Tony agreed. “That’s what I like best. Bam! It’s over. None of this complicated stuff.”
“There’ll be enough whacking over the next couple of weeks to satisfy even you,” Angelo promised.
“I can’t wait,” Tony said. “Maybe it will make up for all this waiting around.”
“There she is,” Angelo said. He pointed ahead to a heavyset woman emerging from one of the apartment buildings. She was busy buttoning a red coat with one hand and holding a hat to her head with the other.
“Okay, let’s go,” Angelo said. “But keep your piece out of sight and let me do all the talking.”
Angelo and Tony got out of the car. They walked over to the woman just as she joined a cab line.
“Mrs. Schulman!” Angelo called.
The woman turned toward Angelo. Her distrustful hauteur evaporated as soon as she recognized the man. “Hello, Mr. . . .” she said, trying to remember Angelo’s name.
“Facciolo,” Angelo offered.
“Of course,” she said. “And how is Mr. Cerino getting along?”
“Just great, Mrs. Schulman,” Angelo said. “He’s getting pretty good with his cane. But he asked me to come over here to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Schulman said. “What is it you’d like to talk about?”
“It’s confidential,” Angelo said. “I’d prefer if you came over to the car for a moment.” Angelo gestured toward the black Town Car.
Obviously discomfited by this request, Mrs. Schulman muttered something about having to be somewhere shortly.
Angelo slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and lifted his Walther automatic pistol just enough so Mrs. Schulman could see its butt.
“I’m afraid I have to insist,” Angelo said. “We won’t take much of your time and afterwards we’ll be sure to drop you off someplace convenient.”
Mrs. Schulman glanced at Tony, who smiled back. “All right,” she said nervously. “As long as it doesn’t take too long.”
“That will be up to you,” Angelo said, motioning toward the car again.
Tony led the way. Mrs. Schulman slid into the front seat when Tony opened the door for her with a courteous bow. Tony got in the back while Angelo climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Does this have something to do with my husband, Danny Schulman?” Mrs. Schulman asked.
“Danny Schulman from Bayside?” Angelo said. “Is he your old man?”
“Yes, he is,” Mrs. Schulman said.
“Who’s Danny Schulman?” Tony asked from the backseat.
“He owns a joint in Bayside called Crystal Palace,” Angelo said. “A lot of the Lucia people go there.”
“He’s very well connected,” Mrs. Schulman said. “Maybe you men would like to talk with him.”
“No, this has nothing to do with Danny,” Angelo said. “All we want to know is if the good doctor’s office is empty.”
“Yes, everyone has gone for the day,” Mrs. Schulman said. “I locked up as I usually do.”
“That’s good,” Angelo said, “because we want you to go back inside. We’re interested in some of the doctor’s records.”
“What records?” Mrs. Schulman asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get inside,” Angelo said. “But before we go I want you to know that if you decide to do anything foolish, it’d be the last foolish thing you do. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite clear,” Mrs. Schulman said, regaining some of her composure.
“This isn’t a big deal,” Angelo added. “I mean, we’re civilized people.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Schulman said.
“Okay! Let’s go,” Angelo said, and he opened his door.
“Hello, Miss Montgomery,” George said. George was one of the doormen at Laurie’s parents’ apartment house. He’d been there for decades. He looked sixty but he was actually seventy-two. He liked to tell Laurie that he’d been the one to open the cab door the day her mother had brought Laurie home from the hospital just days after her birth.
After a brief chat with George, Laurie went on up to her parents’. So many memories! Even the smell of the place was familiar. But more than anything, the apartment reminded her of that awful day she’d found her brother. She’d almost wished her parents had moved after the tragedy, just so she wouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of her brother’s overdose.
“Hello, dear!” her mother crooned as she let Laurie into the foyer. Dorothy Montgomery bent forward and offered her daughter a cheek. She smelled of expensive perfume. Her silver-gray hair was cut short in a style that was making the covers of women’s fashion magazines lately. Dorothy was a petite, vibrant woman in her mid-sixties who looked younger than her years, thanks to a second face-lift.
As Dorothy took Laurie’s coat, she cast a critical eye over her daughter’s attire. “I see you didn’t wear the wool suit I bought for you.”
“No, Mother, I did not,” Laurie said. She closed her eyes, hoping her mother wouldn’t start in on her this early.
“At least you could have wo
rn a dress.”
Laurie refrained from responding. She’d chosen a jacquard blouse embellished with mock jewels and a pair of wool pants that she’d gotten from a mail order catalogue. An hour earlier she’d thought it was one of her best outfits. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“No matter,” Dorothy said after hanging up Laurie’s coat. “Come on, I want you to meet everyone, especially Dr. Scheffield, our guest of honor.”
Dorothy led Laurie into the formal living room, a room reserved exclusively for entertaining. There were eight people in the room, each balancing a drink in one hand and a canapé in the other. Laurie recognized most of these guests, four married couples who’d been friends of her parents for years. Three of the men were physicians, the other a banker. Like her own mother, the wives weren’t career women. They devoted their time to charities just as her mother did.
After some small talk, Dorothy dragged Laurie down the hall to the library where Sheldon Montgomery was showing Jordan Scheffield some rare medical textbooks.
“Sheldon, introduce your daughter to Dr. Scheffield,” Dorothy commanded, interrupting her husband in midsentence.
Both men looked up from a book in Sheldon’s hands. Laurie’s gaze went from her father’s dour aristocratic face to Jordan Scheffield’s, and she was pleasantly surprised. She had expected Jordan to look more like her image of an ophthalmologist; that he’d be older, heavier, stodgy, and far less attractive. But the man who stood before her was dramatically handsome with sandy blond hair, tanned skin, bright blue eyes, and rugged, angular features. Not only didn’t he look like an ophthalmologist, he didn’t even look like a doctor. He looked more like a professional athlete. He was even taller than her father, who was six-two. And instead of a glenn plaid suit like her father was wearing, he had on tan slacks, a blue blazer, and a white shirt open at the collar. He wasn’t even wearing a tie.
Laurie shook hands with Jordan as Sheldon made the introductions. His grip was forceful and sure. He looked directly into her eyes and smiled pleasantly.