"I'm crushed," Jack said. With his fingers intertwined, he let his hands fall onto the top of his head. "I
even called a surgeon friend of mine and asked if there would be any other reason to find sutures in the vena cava, the hepatic artery, and the biliary system. He said no: that it had to be a transplant." "What can I say?" Ted commented. "Of course, for you I'd be happy to fudge the results." He laughed, and Jack pretended to take a swipe at him with his hand. Jack's phone jangled insistently. Jack motioned for Ted to stay, while he picked up the receiver. "What?" he said rudely.
"I'm out of here," Chet said. He waved to Jack and pushed past Ted. Jack listened intently. Slowly, his expression changed from exasperation to interest. He nodded a few times as he glanced up at Ted. For Ted's benefit he held up a finger and mouthed, "One minute." "Yeah, sure," Jack said into the phone. "If UNOS suggests we try Europe, give it a try." He glanced at his watch. "Of course it's the middle of the night over there, but do what you can!" Jack hung up the phone. "That was Bart Arnold," he said. "I've had the entire forensics department searching for a missing recent liver transplant." "What's UNOS?" Ted asked.
"United National Organ Sharing," Jack said. "Any luck?" Ted asked.
"Nope," Jack said. "It's baffling. Bart's even checked with all the major centers doing liver transplants." "Maybe it wasn't a transplant," Ted said. "I'm telling you, the probability of my two tests matching by chance is very small indeed."
"I'm convinced it was a transplant," Jack said. "There's no rhyme or reason to take out a person's liver and then put it back."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," Jack said.
"You seem committed to this case," Ted commented. Jack gave a short derisive laugh. "I've decided that I'm going to unravel this mystery come hell or high water," he said. "If I can't, I'll lose respect for myself. There just aren't that many liver transplants. I mean, if I can't solve this one, I might as well hang it up." "All right," Ted said. "I'll tell you what I can do. I can run a polymarker which compares areas on chromosome four, six, seven, nine, eleven, and nineteen. A chance match will be in the billions to one. And for my own peace of mind, I'll even sequence the DQ alpha on both the liver sample and the patient to try to figure out how they could have matched." "I'll be appreciative whatever you can do," Jack said.
"I'll even go up and start tonight," Ted said. "That way I can have the results tomorrow."
"What a sport!" Jack said. He put out his hand and Ted slapped it. After Ted left, Jack switched off the light under his microscope. He felt as if the slide had been mocking him with its puzzling details. He'd been looking at it for so long his eyes hurt. For a few minutes, Jack sat at his desk and gazed at the clutter of unfinished cases. Folders were stacked in uneven piles. Even his own conservative estimate had the figure somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. That was more than usual. Paperwork had never been Jack's forte, and it got worse when he became enmeshed in a particular case. Cursing under his breath from frustration at his own ineptitude, Jack pushed back from his desk and grabbed his bomber jacket from the hook on the back of his office door. He'd had as much sitting and thinking as he was capable of. He needed some mindless, hard exercise, and his neighborhood basketball court was beckoning.
The view of the New York City skyline from the George Washington Bridge was breathtaking. Franco Ponti tried to turn his head to appreciate it, but it was difficult because of the rush-hour traffic. Franco was behind the wheel of a stolen Ford sedan on the way to Englewood, New Jersey. Angelo Facciolo was sitting in the front passenger seat, staring out the windshield. Both men were wearing gloves. "Get a load of the view to the left," Franco said. "Look at all those lights. You can see the whole freakin' island, even the Statue of Liberty."
"Yeah, I've seen it already," Angelo said moodily. "What's the matter with you?" Franco asked. "You're acting like you're on the rag." "I don't like this kind of job," Angelo said. "It reminds me of when Cerino went berserk and sent me and Tony Ruggerio all over the goddamn city doing the same kind of shit. We should stick to our usual work, dealing with the usual people."
"Vinnie Dominick is not Pauli Cerino," Franco said. "And what's so bad about picking up some easy extra cash?"
"The cash is fine," Angelo agreed. "It's the risk I don't like." "What do you mean?" Franco questioned. "There's no risk. We're professionals. We don't take risks." "There's always the unexpected," Angelo said. "And as far as I'm concerned, the unexpected has already occurred."
Franco glanced over at Angelo's scarred face silhouetted in the half light of the car's interior. He could tell that Angelo was dead serious. "What are you talking about?" he questioned. "The fact that this Laurie Montgomery is involved," Angelo said. "She gives me nightmares. Tony and I tried to whack her, but we couldn't. It was like God was protecting her." Franco laughed in spite of Angelo's seriousness. "This Laurie Montgomery would be flattered that
someone with your reputation has nightmares about her. That's hilarious."
"I don't find it funny at all," Angelo said. "Don't get sore at me," Franco said. "Besides, she's hardly involved in what we're doing here." "It's related," Angelo said. "And she told Vinnie Amendola that she's going to make it her personal business to find out how we managed to get Franconi's body out of the morgue." "But how is she going to do that?" Franco said. "And worse comes to worse we sent Freddie Capuso and Richie Herns to do the actual dirty work. I think you're jumping to conclusions here." "Oh yeah?" Angelo questioned. "You don't know this woman. She's one persistent bitch." "All right!" Franco said with resignation. "You want to be bummed out, fine by me." As they reached the New Jersey side of the bridge, Franco bore right onto the Palisades Interstate Parkway. With Angelo insisting on sulking, he reached over and turned on the radio. After pushing a few buttons he found a station that played "oldies but goodies." Turning up the volume up he sang "Sweet Caroline" along with Neil Diamond.
By the second refrain, Angelo leaned forward and turned off the radio. "You win," he said. "I'll cheer up if you promise not to sing."
"You don't like that song?" Franco questioned as if he were hurt. "It's got such sweet memories for me." He smacked his lips as if he were tasting. "It reminds me of making out with Maria Provolone." "I'm not going to touch that one," Angelo said, laughing despite himself. He appreciated working with Franco Ponti. Franco was a professional. He also had a sense of humor, which Angelo knew he himself lacked.
Franco exited the parkway onto Palisades Avenue, passed Route 9W, and headed west down a long hill into Englewood, New Jersey. The environment quickly changed from franchise fast-food restaurants and service stations to upper-class suburban. "You got the map and the address handy?" Franco asked. "I got it right here," Angelo said. He reached up and turned on the map light. "We're looking for Overlook Place," he said. "It will be on the left." Overlook Place was easy to find, and five minutes later, they were cruising along a winding, tree-lined street. The lawns that stretched up to the widely spaced houses were so expansive they looked like fairways on a golf course.
"Can you imagine living in a place like this?" Franco commented, his head swinging from side to side. "Hell, I'd get lost trying to find the street from my front door." "I don't like this," Angelo said. "It's too peaceful. We're going to stick out like a sore thumb." "Now don't get yourself all bent out of shape," Franco said. "At this point, all we're doing is reconnoitering. What number are we looking for?"
Angelo consulted the piece of paper in his hand. "Number Eight Overlook Place."
"That means it's going to be on our left," Franco said. They were just passing number twelve. A few moments later Franco slowed and pulled over to the right side of the road. He and Angelo stared up a serpentine driveway lined with carriage lamps to a massive Tudor-style house set against a backdrop of soaring pine trees. Most of the multipaned windows were aglow with light. The property was the size of a football field.
"Looks like a goddamn castle," Angelo complained. "I must say, it's not what I was hoping for," Franco said. "Well, what are we going to do?" Angelo asked. "We can't just sit here. We haven't seen a car since we pulled off the main drag back there."
Franco put the car in gear. He knew Angelo was right. They couldn't wait there. Someone would undoubtedly spot them, become suspicious, and call the police. They'd already passed one of those stupid NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH signs with the silhouette of a guy wearing a bandana. "Let's find out more about this sixteen-year-old chick," Angelo said. "Like, where she goes to school, what she likes to do, and who are her friends. We can't risk going up to the house. No way." Franco grunted in agreement. Just as he was about to press on the accelerator, he saw a tiny figure come out the front of the house. From such a distance he couldn't tell if it was male or female. "Somebody just came out," he said.
"I noticed," Angelo said.
The two men watched in silence as the figure descended a few stone stairs and then started down the driveway.
"Whoever it is, is kind of fat," Franco said. "And they got a dog," Angelo said.
"Holy Madonna," Franco said after a few moments. "It's the girl." "I don't believe this," Angelo said. "Do you think it really is Cindy Carlson? I'm not used to things happening this easy."
Astounded, the two men watched as the girl continued down the driveway as if she were coming directly to greet them. Ahead of her walked a tiny, caramel-colored toy poodle with its little pompom tail sticking straight up.
"What should we do?" Franco questioned. He didn't expect an answer; he was thinking out loud. "How about the police act?" Angelo suggested. "It always worked for Tony and me." "Sounds good," Franco said. He turned to Angelo and stuck out his hand. "Let me use your Ozone Park
police badge."
Angelo reached into the vest pocket of his Brioni suit and handed over the walletlike badge cover. "You stay put for the moment," Franco said. "No reason to scare her right off the bat with that face of yours."
"Thanks for the compliment," Angelo said sourly. Angelo cared about his appearance and dressed to the nines in a vain attempt to compensate for his face, which was severely scarred from a combination of chicken pox as a child, severe acne as a teenager, and third-degree burns from an explosion five years previously. Ironically, the explosion had been ignited thanks to Laurie Montgomery. "Ah, don't be so touchy," Franco teased. He cuffed Angelo on the back of the head. "You know we love you, even though you look like you should be in a horror movie." Angelo fended off Franco's hand. There were only two people he allowed even to make reference to his facial problem: Franco and his boss, Vinnie Dominick. Still, he didn't appreciate it. The girl was now nearing the street. She was dressed in a pink down-filled ski parka, which only made her look heavier. Her facial features indented a puffy face with mild acne. Her hair was straight and parted down the middle.
"She look anything like Maria Provolone?" Angelo questioned, to get in a dig at Franco. "Very funny," Franco said. He reached for the door handle and got out of the car. "Excuse me!" Franco called out as sweetly as possible. Having smoked heavily from age eight, he had a voice that normally had a harsh, raspy quality. "Could you, by any chance, be the popular Cindy Carlson?"
"Maybe," the teenager said. "Who wants to know?" She'd stopped at the foot of the driveway. The dog lifted his leg against the gate post.
"We're police officers," Franco said. He held up the badge so that the light from the streetlamp glinted off its polished surface. "We're investigating several of the boys in town and we were told you might be able to help us."
"Really?" Cindy questioned.
"Absolutely," Franco said. "Please come over here so my colleague can talk to you." Cindy glanced up and down the street, even though not a car had passed in the last five minutes. She crossed the street, pulling her dog who'd been intently sniffing the base of an elm tree. Franco moved out of the way so that Cindy Carlson could bend over to look into the front seat of the car at Angelo. Before a word was spoken, Franco pushed her into the car headfirst. Cindy let out a squeal but it was quickly smothered by Angelo who wrestled her into the car. Franco swiftly yanked the leash out of Cindy's hand and shooed the dog away. Then he squeezed into the front seat, crushing Cindy against Angelo. He put the car in gear and drove away.
Laurie had surprised herself. After the delivery of the Franconi videotape, she'd been able to redirect her
attention to her paperwork. She'd worked efficiently and made significant progress. There was now a gratifying stack of completed folders on the corner of her desk. Taking the remaining tray of histology slides, she started on the final case, which could be completed with the material and reports she had. As she peered into her microscope to examine the first slide, she heard a knock on her open door. It was Lou Soldano. "What are you doing here so late?" Lou asked. He sat down heavily in the chair next to Laurie's desk. He made no effort to take off his coat or hat, which was tipped way back on his head. Laurie glanced at her watch. "My gosh!" she remarked. "I had no idea of the time." "I tried to call you at home as I was coming across the Queensborough Bridge," Lou said. "When I didn't get you, I decided to stop here. I had a sneaking suspicion you'd still be at it. You know, you work too hard!"
"You should talk!" Laurie said with playful sarcasm. "Look at you! When was the last time you got any sleep? And I'm not talking about a catnap at your desk." "Let's talk about more pleasant things," Lou suggested. "How about grabbing a bite to eat? I've got to run down to headquarters to do about an hour's worth of dictating, then I'd love to go out someplace. The kids are with their aunt, God love her. What do you say to some pasta?" "Are you sure you're up for going out?" Laurie questioned. The circles under Lou's dark eyes were touching his smile creases. His stubble was more than a five o'clock shadow. Laurie guessed it was at least two days' worth.
"I gotta eat," Lou said. "Are you planning on working much longer?" "I'm on my last case," Laurie said. "Maybe another half hour." "You gotta eat, too," Lou said.
"Have you made any progress in the Franconi case?" Laurie asked. Lou let out an exasperated puff of air. "I wish," he said. "And the trouble is with these mob hits, if you don't score quickly, the trail cools mighty fast. We haven't gotten the break I've been hoping for." "I'm sorry," Laurie said.
"Thanks," Lou said. "How about you? Any more of an idea how Franconi's body got out of here?" "That trail is about equally as cool," Laurie said. "Calvin even gave me a reaming out for interrogating the night mortuary tech. All I did was talk to the man. I'm afraid administration just wants the episode to fade."
"So Jack was right about telling you to lay off," Lou said. "I suppose," Laurie reluctantly agreed. "But don't tell him that."