Apprentice in Death (7 page)

Marta sat behind her desk, folded her hands. “Do you have any suspects?”

“The investigation is ongoing. Did Dr. Michaelson have any problems with anyone on staff, any patients, anyone you know of?”

“Brent was well liked. He was a good doctor, a caring one, and his patients loved him. We have some who've moved to Brooklyn, New Jersey, Long Island. They still come here because he forged relationships. The patient mattered, Lieutenant. The wall in our break room is covered with photos of the babies he helped bring into the world. Photos of them as they've grown up. I worked for him for twenty years. He was a good doctor and a kind man.”

She took a breath. “I assumed, from the media reports, this was a random killing. Some lunatic.”

“We're investigating all possibilities.”

“I can think of no one, absolutely no one, who would have wished Brent dead. I'd tell you if I did. He was a friend, a good friend, as well as my employer.”

“What will happen to his practice now?”

She sighed. “It will go to Andy—Dr. Spicker—if he wants it. Brent discussed this with me while Andy was still a resident. Andy's parents are—were—Brent's oldest friends. He's Andy's godfather, and has been his mentor. They're all very close. Brent felt he himself could begin to cut back if and when Andy wanted to join the practice, and he felt he'd leave the practice in good hands with Andy. And with Faith—our midwife—when he decided to retire, or to simply travel more.”

“Any doctor, however good, who's practiced for a couple decades has losses.”

“Of course.”

“Losses can cause loved ones to behave irrationally.”

“Of course,” she said again. “Several years ago Brent had a patient
who lost her child, miscarried in her seventh month after her partner beat her severely. He left her unconscious on the floor, and by the time she came to, was able to contact nine-one-one, it was too late. The man who caused this threatened Brent when he was tried, when Brent testified. But that man was himself killed in prison two years ago. I assume that's the sort of thing you mean.”

“I do. What about the woman who had the miscarriage?”

“She came back to Brent two years later when she'd conceived again with a very nice young man she married shortly after. They have a lovely daughter. Her photo's on the wall, and the mother remains a patient. There are a few others, and like any medical practice we've dealt with malpractice suits. But as far as an actual threat, that's the only one I know of.”

“Any recent firings, issues with employees?”

“None. It can be a challenging practice to manage, as Brent tended to spend more time with patients than the industry norm. I learned years ago to factor in more time between appointments. Adding a PA—eight years ago now—has helped cut back on the wait time. And plans to bring Andy on would have helped even more. But that's a moot point, isn't it?”

She looked away for a moment. “I have to hold the line here. We can't fall apart. I've never experienced this kind of thing before. Loss, yes, everyone's lost someone, but not like this. I can't wrap my head around it. I know you need answers, but I don't have them. I just can't think of anyone, anyone at all, who'd want to do this to Brent.”

Despite the officer manager's sensibilities, Eve took the time to speak with everyone on staff. When she felt she'd wrung that area dry, she walked out into sleet.

“Maybe I'm off,” she said to Peabody. “I'm off, and Michaelson was as random as the other two. Wrong place, wrong time.”

“I get why you're tugging that line.”

“But?” Eve prompted as they climbed up to the car.

“Well, the third vic almost had to be random. But if I wanted to zero in on one of the others, I'd go with the first.”

“Why?”

“Jealousy factor. Young, really pretty, really talented. And, in her way, flashy. Some asshole she didn't pay enough attention to, or shut down. And she was first. If I were going to take that kind of shot, I'd want to be sure my primary target went down.”

“Reasonable points. Take her.”

“Take her?”

“Turn her inside out,” Eve said. “Work, family, school, friends. Find her pattern. Where she ate, shopped, what route she usually took. Subway? Bus? Walking? Talk to her family again, talk to her friends—work friends, college friends, neighborhood friends. You take her, I'll take Michaelson. And we both take the buildings. I'll drop you at the college, you can start there while I take a pass at Michaelson's residence. Then you take the York and First Avenue locations. I'll take Second and Third. Reineke and Jenkinson started working east from Madison, so they should cover Madison, Park, and Lex. You start as far east as you can go without walking into the river.”

“I can do that.”

“If we're in the same vicinity, I'll pick you up. Otherwise, when you've covered the ground, head back to Central. We'll conference with Jenkinson and Reineke. If any of us catches a break, we move on that.”

“Okay.” With a little sigh, Peabody looked up at the ugly sky. “I'll take the subway from here. It's quicker than you driving me.”

“Good.”

As Peabody walked back to street level, Eve got in the car, lifted out as she'd dropped in, and headed to Sixty-First.

—

D
r. Brent Michaelson had lived well, Eve thought when she used her master to access his dignified white brick building. Solid security, discreetly done, including the spotlessly clean stairwell as she took that to the third floor rather than the elevator.

She'd already ordered the electronics taken in and reviewed by EDD, but wanted a sense of his living space.

A quiet hallway—only one neighbor sharing the floor. Again, good security on his apartment, which she bypassed with her master.

He had a spacious living area open to a small, neat kitchen, a dining area with a couple of never-lighted candles in a couple of chunky stands on the table.

The furnishings struck her as masculine and simple, comfortable, without fuss. One long table held a forest of photos. His daughter—various ages—his daughter's family. Photos of Andy Spicker and, Eve surmised, Spicker's parents. Others of his staff, a lot with babies.

Friendly, happy photos.

In the kitchen she checked his AutoChef, refrigerator, cupboards. Nothing like food to give you a sense of how people lived, in her opinion.

The man had a weakness for ice cream—the real deal. Preferred red wine, but otherwise ate healthy.

His home office was as simply decorated and as quietly organized as the living space. As in his professional office, this also boasted a wall of photos. She imagined Michaelson sitting at his desk, doing whatever doctors did at desks, and seeing that wall of life.

Many of the babies—the really fresh ones—struck her as creepy. They either looked like fish, or really pissed-off alien life-forms. But she imagined Michaelson had taken great pride in knowing he'd been a part of bringing them into the world.

He kept a small AutoChef and a mini-friggie—fizzy water, straight juice, and herbal teas in the friggie; fruit and veggie snacks in the AC.

Not a candy bar, a caffeine source, or a bag of chips in the place.

How did the man live?

“Not a problem now,” she murmured, moving out to study his bedroom.

Tall, padded headboard on a bed with a simple white duvet and a stack of sleeping pillows cased in navy blue.

And books, she noted. Again the real deal. Novels, easily a hundred of them on built-in shelves or stacked on the nightstand.

No sex toys, not in the nightstand, and no indication in the closet of a woman who stayed over and left a robe or any clothes behind for convenience. Nor a man, as a quick survey lead her to think all the clothes were Michaelson's.

Suits, scrubs, casual clothes, gym clothes. And skates. He'd had two pair other than the ones he'd worn on his last day.

She found male sex booster pills and condoms in his bathroom—so he'd had sex, or at least had prepared for the possibility. No illegals, nothing out of the ordinary.

She finished up in a well-appointed guest room and a shining-clean powder room.

When she left, her picture of Michaelson was of a solid, dedicated doctor who had a genuine love of babies, kids, women in general. One who took care of himself, lived quietly, liked to skate, liked to read, and valued his circle of friends.

Nowhere in that picture was a motive for murder.

Back in the car, she headed east, and considered Peabody's points.

Ellissa Wyman. Young, very attractive, graceful, apparently happy, well-adjusted. Not particularly interested in men or relationships—at least on the surface. But yeah, somebody might have been interested in her. Rebuffed or simply not noticed.

Or, they might find, digging deeper, there were relationships or a lifestyle her family, her friends didn't know about.

It had to be considered, just as Michaelson had to be considered.

The worst case had to be considered, too. Straight random. It hadn't mattered who. It wouldn't matter who the next time.

It might have been a crappy day to hike the streets, but Eve pulled into an annoyingly overpriced lot, dumped the car, and hoofed it to the first building on her list. Street-level French restaurant, men's boutique, and a fancy-looking shop with lots of fancy-looking dust catchers. Three floors of apartments above, all topped by a dance studio and a yoga studio, and those were capped by a rooftop that could be accessed by the residents and the studios.

Roarke's program gave the roof the highest probability, with the yoga studio next in line. So Eve started at the top.

The wind bit; the ice stung. But when Eve pulled field glasses out of her pocket, adjusted her position, she found an excellent view of the rink. A hell of a long way off, but a stronger scope? Yeah, she could see how it could be done.

No sleet and ice the day before, she remembered. Not so much wind. Maybe part of the reason for the timing.

Standing there she put herself into the mind of the shooter. Might have to wait awhile. A stool, some sort of lightweight, retractable seat. Rest the weapon on the ledge that way. Keep everything steady.

She crouched down, mimed sitting on a stool, her hands on an imaginary weapon, her eye on the scope. From that position she took stock of neighboring buildings.

No cover, she considered, and too many windows, too much risk of someone looking out. Lunatic or not, why take that kind of chance?

Still, she took out microgoggles, went carefully over the wall, the concrete, looking for marks. Finding nothing, she went back inside, tried the yoga studio.

She found a group in session with people—mostly female—in colorful skin suits twisting into weird positions on colorful mats. All while
facing a slim and stunning woman with a perfect body, impossibly perfect form, and a wall of mirrors.

She had to give the group props just for showing up.

Soft, tinkling music played under the instructors soft, tinkling voice. Eve decided she'd probably want to wrap the woman's legs around her neck, tie her ankles in a knot, before the end of a single session.

But that was just her.

Eve stepped back, tried the adjoining dance studio.

Another wall of mirrors, more music played low. But this time, the music had a fierce, hard beat, and the lone woman in the room covered the floor to it—feet flying, legs flashing, hips rocking.

She executed three whipping spins, bounced into a one-handed handspring. And ended, right on that beat, with her arms thrown up, head back.

She said, panting but enthusiastically: “Shit!”

“Looked good to me.”

The woman, black skin wet with sweat, grabbed a towel, swiped off as she studied Eve.

“Missed the count twice, forgot the damn head roll. Sorry, are you looking for a class?”

“No.” Eve pulled out her badge.

This time the woman said: “Uh-oh.”

“Just a couple questions. Let's start with who are you?”

“Donnie Shaddery. It's my studio—I mean I rent the space.”

“Did you have classes yesterday?”

“Every day, seven days a week.”

“My background indicates no classes yesterday between three and five
P.M
.”

“That's right. Morning classes. Seven to eight, eight-thirty to nine-thirty. Ten to eleven, eleven to twelve—break twelve to one. One to
one-thirty's sort of freestyle, then afternoon class from one-thirty to two-thirty. Then except for Fridays, I break until five.”

“You're the instructor?”

“There are two of us. I had morning and afternoon yesterday, my partner had evening. Why?”

Not the place, Eve thought, with the schedule that tight. But.

“I need to know if anyone was here, or in the studio next door, between three and four
P.M
.”

“I was here. I've got a call-back—for a new musical—today. I've been working on the damn routine every chance I get. I was here from about six-thirty yesterday morning until five.”

“What about the yoga studio?”

“I know Sensa was here before seven. And she did her afternoon meditation about three—at least she always does, I didn't actually look in. She's got two other instructors, and one of them—that's Paula—came in around three, after the afternoon class, because she's a dancer, too, and she came over and watched me practice for a while.”

“So, basically, someone was in the space all afternoon.”

“Yeah.”

“Did anyone else come in during that time frame?”

“Not that I saw. Or heard. Should we be worried about something?”

“I don't think so.” Eve walked over to the windows. “Seven days a week,” she repeated. “And someone's generally here—on the floor—in the afternoons.”

“That's right. If we leave, we lock up. We have a sign—Sensa and I split the rent for the floor, and we share an excuse for an office, and keep some stuff in here. Extra mats, some costumes—we co-teach a belly-dancing class on this side twice a week. It's not much to steal, but we lock up. Was there a break-in?”