by Julie Vail
“Sir, David Crane was found murdered a couple of weeks ago.”
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “What can I do to help?”
“Well, sir, you can start by telling us what you were treating him for.”
Dr. Stanley J. Ondrak, MD.—as the brass plate on his desk informed—shifted his eyes from me to Alex.
“Under doctor-patient confidentiality . . .” he began, believing he was a lawyer now, as well as a doctor.
“Doctor,” I said patiently, “This is information we can easily get with a warrant. I can also have his grieving parents call and insist . . .”
“Alright . . . alright.” He pressed a button on the phone on his desk. “Ellen, bring me David Crane’s file, would you?” He let go of the button and looked at us. “What happened to him? How . . . was he killed?”
“He was hit in the head and then shot.”
He blew out a breath and shook his head. The door opened and a woman walked in with a folder.
“Here we are. Thank you, Ellen.” He opened the file. It was skinny.
“I was treating David Crane for shoulder pain,” Dr. Ondrak said, handing a copy of his medical file over. “He complained that the pain began several years ago, beginning in high school, maybe, and it was becoming intolerable. I set him up for x-rays, and MRI . . .”
“And a diagnosis?”
“Preliminarily, I diagnosed him with avascular necrosis.”
I glanced at Alex. “Did you begin a course of treatment?”
“I wanted to perform a biopsy, to be sure of my findings. But David stopped coming to see me.”
“Why?”
“Frankly, I don’t know.”
I knew he was lying, but I let it go—for now. “What causes this . . . avascular necrosis?”
“Sometimes it can be an old injury . . . fracture of the bone, where the blood supply is hindered or cut off completely. This can produce weakness in the bone, which causes pain and swelling.”
“How about in David Crane’s case?”
“David suffered from lupus most of his life. The cause of David’s condition, at the time that I was seeing him—and was subject to change upon further examination—was overuse of oral corticosteroids. This is a common treatment for joint pain from a variety of causes. There are side effects. Now, I have only seen this a few times, so it’s not all that common. These drugs affect everyone differently.”
“I see. So, you were giving David steroids?”
“No, not the kind you’re thinking. These corticosteroids reduce inflammation.”
“So, the overuse of these steroids could have caused the avascular necrosis?”
“It can, and in David’s case, I believe it did.”
“Did David know of your diagnosis?”
“I mentioned that it might be AN, but that I wanted to take a biopsy first. He never came back.”
I shrugged. “Maybe he was scared.”
“Yes, maybe. Is that all, detectives? I have patients.”
“Yes. For now. We’ll be in touch.”
FIFTEEN
The boy arrived at the dry cleaners at three o’clock sharp, as his mother asked him to do. Just to check in with me, Johnny, she told him. He did this every day. He would check in, she would give him fifty cents and he would go next door to Luca’s Deli and get some candy, then walk the three blocks home and start his homework. When he walked in his mother was not at the front counter like she usually was. In fact, no one was there. He stood there for a moment then wandered into the back when he heard his Aunt Judy, Uncle Frank’s wife, talking to Linda the seamstress.
She has to work. Angie has to work. They didn’t get any of Vinnie’s pension. None. Can you believe it, that bastard!
Linda gasped. Why? Wasn’t Vincent on the force for, like, YEARS?
Aunt Judy looked around to make sure no one heard then said, He was a crooked cop, Lin. He was on the take for years. No pension! NONE! He heard enough.
LIAR! he screamed. And then he saw his mother standing there. She had heard everything, too. She stared at Judy with fire in her eyes. She calmly picked up her purse, walked over to her son, and took his hand.
Your aunt Judy is a vicious woman, John, and I don’t want you to pay any attention to her, okay? she said as they walk toward home.
He nodded as the tears streamed down his face. He had spent the better part of his childhood paying attention. Too much attention.
It was Saturday, and I slept late for the first time in a long while. The sun was beating through my bedroom window, and the ducks were quacking outside. I went in the kitchen and started the coffee, then grabbed the phone and took it out onto the deck. I dialed the phone and she picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, mom.”
“Johnny! How are you, honey?”
“I’m good.” And those were the last words I spoke for the next ten minutes. She thanked me for the birthday card and the flowers I sent, then she told me about my uncle Frank, who has emphysema and now has to be on oxygen 24/7. She told me about Barbara and her husband, George, and how their son—my nephew, is doing his first semester in college. Marie, my other sister, was finally dating again after losing her husband to cancer two years ago. He was a nice man, my mother said. The kids liked him, it seemed. Her kids had been crazy about their father, and had a very hard time when he passed. I could relate to that. The fact that they are accepting Marie’s new man was a good sign. They were twelve and fifteen, so it could have gone the other way very easily.
“I’ll call them later, ma.”
“That would be good. Now, what about you? How’s work going, and how is Alex?”
I told her that work was good and I told her a couple of stories, which she always loved, and I assured her that Alex, Lisa and the kids were all fine. My mother loves to see the Ortiz’s when she comes out.
“Are you seeing anyone, John?”
I paused. I didn’t know, actually. I sure thought about someone a lot, but I couldn’t really say whether I was “seeing” anyone. I decided to tell her that I was, yes.
“Tell me about her.”
And I did.
“What is her name?”
I closed my eyes. What the hell was I doing? “Karen. Her name’s Karen, mom.”
My mother paused for a long time, then she said, “Open your heart, Johnny. True love comes along once, maybe twice in your life. You’ll recognize it when it comes, and you’ll want to seize the moment.”
At seventy-five, she still had her shit together, my mom. We talked another minute or so and then said our ‘I love yous’ and our goodbyes.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and went back out to the deck. I dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.
“Hey, there.”
“Hello, detective. So, you survived last night?”
I laughed. Last night she dragged me to a play in an obscure theatre in Culver City. I went kicking and screaming, but she wanted me to see it because a good friend of hers had written and produced it. It wasn’t bad, if you like that sort of thing.
“What choice did I have?” I sipped my coffee. “You make me think, Gennaro. You do make me think.”
“So you liked it?”
“Yeah. The play wasn’t bad, either.”
“You need culture in your life. Stop fighting it.”
“Okay. What are you doing today?”
“Laundry. You?”
“I should probably do the same. Let’s have dinner.”
She paused. “Do you cook, Detective Redhead?”
“No. I’m completely incapable.”
“Bullshit. Men think that’s a turn-on to women, pretending to be incapable in the kitchen, when in reality, those of us over nineteen hate that attitude and know it’s a lie.”
“Listen to you. And you know this how?”
“Because I am a woman, and I am over nineteen.”
“Oh, well, for the record I do not date nineteen-year-olds, so
stop it. They have to be at least twenty-one so I can get them drunk—legally.”
She paused. “Lovely. I’m impressed.”
“Lady blue, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
“I’ve seen enough, believe me.” She paused. “Even when you think I’m not looking.”
“Mmmm. You’re outta my league, baby.”
“I think that maybe you’re out of mine.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t dance with me last night?” We had gone to a little café, with some great jazz playing sweet and low through the ceiling. I don’t dance, usually. But last night I wanted to dance. With her.
“I wouldn’t dance with you because no one else was dancing. In fact, if memory serves, there wasn’t even a dance floor.”
“I’ll tell you why you wouldn’t dance with me, Gennaro. You were afraid that I might put my hand on your ass, and that maybe you’d like it. I think you need to loosen up a little, doctor.”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I loosened up, detective. And I do believe you’ve had your hand on my ass before.”
“And you loved it.”
“I didn’t mind it at all, actually. And by the look . . . and feel . . . of things, either did you.”
I laughed. “You’re very brave when you’re sassing me over the phone, aren’t you, Gennaro? You know what you need?” I took another sip of my coffee.
“Oh, there are a lot of things I need,” she answered.
“Get your little gagootz over here, lady, and I’ll give you exactly what you need. And you’ll thank me later.”
“Oh, will I?”
“Definitely.”
“Huh.” She paused for a moment to clear her throat, perhaps think things over a bit, then said, “You know how to barbecue, don’t you?”
“Getting us back on topic, are you?”
“Someone needs to. PG or higher, remember?”
“Vaguely.”
“So, do you? Barbecue?
“Of course I barbecue, woman. All real men barbecue.”
“And I bet you’re good at it, aren’t you?”
“Yup.”
“And your mother cooked for you growing up?”
“You getting to the point soon, sweetheart?”
“Answer me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, she cooked for me growing up.”
“And she’s a good cook? Italian, I’m assuming.”
“The best.”
“Good. You are on the pasta tonight.”
“So . . . we’re having dinner?”
“Yes.”
“And barbecuing is not in the cards?”
“No. I will make stuffed artichokes and a capunatina that will blow your doors off. I will pick you up at two, and our first stop will be the Farmer’s Market. Then we will move on to the Italian deli. Got it?”
I sat there with my mouth hanging open. And it wasn’t about having dinner. “You make a capunatina, Gennaro?” I was hoping I hadn’t misunderstood. My mother was the only person I knew, besides the restaurant on Avenue U in Brooklyn, who made capunatina. A good capunatina.
“That will blow your doors off. Two o’clock.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I gulped.
I did two loads of laundry then showered and got dressed. She called when she was close and I came out so she didn’t have to park.
“Wow. I don’t know what’s more exciting—having dinner with you or riding in your hot car.” She had Jill Scott on the CD player.
“And isn’t it lucky for you that you get to do both?”
“Uh huh.”
“First stop, Farmer’s Market,” she said, and sped off. The G-force knocked me back into my seat. Good thing there wasn’t a cop around.
“Buckle up, detective.”
I did. Now it was time for some fun. “You sure about this, Karen? I mean, I’ve never really made any . . .”
“Uh uh. Don’t start.”
I looked out the window and smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you ever even bought an artichoke, John?”
“No.” Yes.
“Tsk. Some Italian you are.”
“Uh huh.” I chuckled and stared out the window.
We parked on a side street and I fed quarters into the meter while Karen pulled a small cart out of the trunk.
“Here. You can take charge of this. You do know how to take charge, don’t you, Red?”
“You’re gonna find out before the sun goes down, woman,” I said, taking the cart. So, now I’m a cook and a pack mule? I shot a look at her. Her capunatina better blow my doors off. I took her hand as we started walking.
“So what did you decide to make tonight, detective?” She bought a bag of organic basil, some celery, a large eggplant and eight fresh Italian plum tomatoes.
I paused for effect. “Ummm, Pasta chi Sardi, I think.”
She turned to me and her jaw dropped. Her eyes got wide, then she grinned. “Really?” she whispered.
I smiled smugly.
“You know how to make pasta chi sardi?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered. “It isn’t hard.”
“I was more surprised that you’d even heard of it.”
“Sicilian, Gennaro. Remember?”
“I do now.”
We strolled hand in hand and stopped briefly to pick up a couple of heads of garlic, then she went to the fruit next and found some late-season peaches. She smelled them and stuck three in a bag, then did the same with the plums. She bagged five. Then she bought two tubs of raspberries. She turned to me and said, “I’ll make the dessert . . . not that you’ll be getting any. Pasta chi Sardi. . . . Can’t cook. . . . Incapable. . . .”
I put my mouth close to her ear and whispered, “I’ll be getting dessert tonight, baby, one way or the other.”
“That confidence thing again.”
“Get used to it.” I kissed her ear, then picked up a bulb of fennel and a brown onion for the pasta. We walked over to the artichokes. They sat piled high on a table that curved around in a ‘U’ shape. I figured she’d go for the smaller ones, but she passed those right on by and went for the softball sized ones. She picked up a green one first, then moved on to the purple. She took her time, feeling the heft of each one, inspecting to make sure the leaves were closed tight. She asked the vendor a couple of questions, then chose a beauty. She paid and we moved on. She picked up a handful of lemons, and some limes. Finally, we were through.
Bogged down with bags, we made our way back to the car, where she deposited all our goodies into the trunk and we headed next for the Italian market on Lincoln. Chaka Kahn asked if we love what we feel, and I had to admit that I did—very much.
We arrived at the Italian deli, and before we got out of the car, she handed me a list and said, “Do you want to pick the wine or do the list?”
“Men don’t do lists, Gennaro. I’ll pick the wine, but not here.”
She smirked. “Not here. Hmmm. Where?”
“Somewhere other than here. Tell me what you like.”
“You might not be able to afford what I like.”
“I’ve been saving my pennies since I met you, principessa, because I know what a spoiled brat you are, so tell me what you like.”
“Something red. Heavy, bold . . . with balls.”
“Balls it is.”
We went inside and trolled the aisles together, my hand in hers. I wanted to touch her and I’d do it any way I could. She grabbed a small bottle of brandy. “Do you have olive oil?”
“Not only am I Italian, babe, but I’m a proud one. Of course I have olive oil.”
She picked up a box of sultanas and a bag of slivered almonds. “Hard to believe when you don’t cook,” she teased.
“My secret is out, ragazza piccola, but only to you, understand? I won’t have you wrecking a good thing for me with the others.”
She smirked. “Your little secret is safe with me.” She turned away and continued down the aisle. I wonder
ed at the wisdom of bringing up other women while in the presence of the one you were trying to bed, and decided it was the least wise thing I could have done. I reached out and hooked two fingers over her shoulder, stopping her. I turned her around to face me. I ran my finger along her jaw line.
“You know that I’m teasing, right?”
“Sure. In time, you’ll grow out of the young ones and see what little they have to offer. I’m not concerned.”
“I think I’ve outgrown them already, bella donna.”
She blushed. “You learn quick.”
“Yes. I have a good teacher.” I ran my thumb across her cheek gently. Someone wanting to pass us in the narrow aisle broke the spell.
We went down the next aisle and she picked up a box of unsweetened cocoa powder, and I asked her what it was for.
“It’s a secret,” she teased.
“Not nice to keep secrets, baby,” I whispered in her ear. Jazz came softly from the speakers in the ceiling and I stood behind her in the bread aisle with my arms wrapped around her waist.
I grabbed a bag of pine nuts and a box of currants. Then I found the saffron and a box of perciatelli pasta, a thick spaghetti. No other pasta would do for Pasta chi Sardi. Then I went down the next aisle and found a can of good quality sardines. I found her at the deli counter getting a pound of green Sicilian olives with the pits.
“For the capunatina?” I asked.
“Um hum,” she replied. She ran the back of her hand softly over my cheek.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
We grabbed a loaf of Italian bread, hot out of the oven, before we went up to the cashier and paid. Then we took everything out to the car. I took the keys out of her hand and deposited her in the passenger’s seat.
“Buckle up, dolcezza. We are going for the wine.”
I drove to an industrial section in the Marina, and pulled in behind a warehouse. I turned to her.
“Stay here, lady blue. And don’t talk to any strangers.” I jumped out of the car and ran in. I was out a moment later with three bottles of wine in a bag. She reached for it to look inside and I slapped her hand lightly.
“No.”
She pulled away and gave me a pout.
“I know you’re not used to that word, Gennaro, but I do not want you looking until I’m ready for you to look. Understand?”