Authors: Gini Hartzmark
“Kate,” exclaimed Dr. Gordon, coming on the line. From the booming quality of her voice and the sound of running water in the background, I surmised she was on the speakerphone in one of the autopsy suites.
“Thank you for seeing to it that things got moved along,” I said. “I talked to Detective Kowalczyk and he told me that you’d already released the body.”
“Yes. The funeral home has already picked it up. I understand the young woman’s father is taking the body back to New York with him for burial.”
“Yes. All the arrangements have already been made.“
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I kept my promise and called in a favor from one of the chemists in the toxicology lab and had him screen for the kinds of drugs you and I talked about.”
“And?”
“You’ll be interested to know that Dr. Sylvestri noticed a fresh puncture mark on your roommate’s arm.“
“What kind of puncture?”
“Consistent with a hypodermic injection. It turns out your suspicions were correct. Dr. Stein was injected with Pavulon before she died.”
CHAPTER 26
I rocked back in my desk chair and told myself to breathe. Suspicion is one thing. Knowing is another.
“So she didn’t surprise a burglar,” I said finally.
“No,” agreed Julia Gordon, “it doesn’t look that way.“
“But what I don’t understand is, if you were going to inject her with Pavulon, why would you then stab her? What’s the point?”
“Perhaps whoever did it was trying to disguise the nature of the crime by making it appear to have occurred during the course of a robbery. Besides, injecting someone with Pavulon probably wouldn’t kill them.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, confused. “I thought you told me that Pavulon is a derivative of curare.”
“It is. But it’s a relatively short-acting drug. It works by temporarily paralyzing the long muscles of the body. Administered continuously through an IV, it causes respiratory arrest, but given in a single dose in an injection would probably only render the subject incapable.”
“For how long?” I demanded, as the sickening realization of what had happened slowly began to dawn.
“That would depend on how much was given, as well as the size of the person it was administered to.”
“I understand all that, but what would be your best ballpark guess?”
“Somewhere between thirty and ninety seconds.”
“Just long enough to make it easy to stab her in exactly the right spot,” I declared bitterly, “and then leave her there to die without the murderer so much as getting blood on his shoes.”
As soon as I got off the phone I called Joe Blades. At this point I didn’t care about HCC and Prescott Memorial Hospital, I didn’t even care if my mother never spoke to me again. I was determined to do what I could to help find out who’d murdered Claudia.
I also needed to keep moving, if only to keep myself from dwelling on the horror of what had happened to her. Even as I dialed the number, all I could think of was her lying paralyzed on the floor of her own apartment watching as someone she trusted enough to let into the apartment fetched a knife from the block in order to stab her.
I didn’t know if Dr. Gordon had already called Blades and let him know about the toxicology results, but it was clear he was expecting my call.
We agreed to meet at a restaurant called Emperor’s Choice, a storefront in Chinatown that was convenient to the sixth district police station where he was assigned. Through the dim light of the restaurant I could make out two heads in the booth at the back of the restaurant, and my heart sank, thinking that I’d have to contend with Blades’s partner, Kowalczyk. But when I got back to the table, I was relieved to find Joe reliving the highlights of their most recent police league basketball game with Elliott.
They were drinking Tsing Tao beer and eating hot scallion pancakes. I slid into the booth beside Elliott, grateful for the reassuring warmth of his thigh against mine. A waiter materialized, and I ordered myself a beer, but couldn’t stomach the thought of food. Elliott took my hand under the table and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“When Joe told me that you guys were meeting, I thought I’d come along and make sure he brought the rubber hoses.”
“You just heard she was buying dinner and didn’t want to pass up a free meal,” Joe replied.
“Have you brought Carlos in for questioning yet?” I asked. Usually I enjoyed listening to their gym-floor banter, but tonight I had no patience for it.
“We picked him up at home this morning and brought
him
in,” replied Blades. “It doesn’t look like he’s our guy.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Somebody called in sick in his unit, and he ended up pulling a double shift last night.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I pointed out. “Paramedics are like firemen. They come and go while they’re on. It’s not like they ride around on patrol. Did you check his log? Just because he was working doesn’t mean he couldn’t have come to the apartment—“
“That’s why we’re pretty sure it’s not him,” reported Blades patiently. “He and his partner answered a call last night at seven-ten. A four-hundred-pound woman got wedged into her bathroom and couldn’t get out. Her neighbors heard her screaming for help and dialed 911, but by the time Carlos and his partner got there, she was having chest pains to boot. They weren’t able to get her stable and out of there until after midnight. The medical examiner puts the time of her death somewhere between nine and midnight, so our friend Carlos is off the hook.“
“Shit.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Elliott.
“I was working on a theory, and I was starting to get attached to it,” I confessed. I went on to tell Joe about the postsurgical deaths at Prescott Memorial and my suspicion that Pavulon had been the agent used to cause them. I also told him about Mrs. Estrada and Claudia’s efforts to find a common denominator among the patients and the fact that her notes and backpack had disappeared from the apartment.
“We had them check at the hospital,” reported Blades. “They didn’t find her backpack or anything like the notes you described. Are you sure you saw them when you left the apartment that morning?”
“Yes. They were on the dining room table. Where did you look at the hospital? Maybe she left them someplace weird....”
“By the time we got to the hospital, the head of her department had already gone in and emptied out her locker and retrieved all of her things. He said he didn’t want the sight of them to traumatize her coworkers any more than they already were by her death. It was all boxed up and ready for us. No backpack. No notes.”
“So if it wasn’t Carlos, who was it?”
“Well, from what the medical examiner’s saying, I think we can pretty much rule out a surprised burglar, unless they’re starting to carry hypodermics filled with anesthesia stuff around with them,” Blades replied. “Which means that it was premeditated,” said Elliott. “Looks that way,” said Blades, “and from what Kate is telling me, we’re probably looking at this as a series of related crimes.” From the weariness in his voice, I could tell he was less than thrilled by the prospect. “I’m going to go to the D.A. Monday morning and see if I can get him to sign on to opening up an investigation.” His beeper went off at his waist, and Elliott slid him his cell phone so that he could call in to the dispatch operator. He punched in the number and pulled out the little notebook he invariably kept in his jacket pocket. Apparently the conversation was one-sided, because as soon as he’d identified himself, he started writing. When he was finished, he handed Elliott back his phone and said, “Got to go, kids. Duty calls.”
“What’s up?” asked Elliott.
“Somebody just turned up ten-seven in a vacant lot on King Drive.”
“Ten-seven?” I asked.
“Police communication code for ‘out of service,’ ” Elliott informed me as he got to his feet to shake Joe’s hand good-bye.
“It’s probably nothing. Just a little friendly competition among heavily armed drug dealers,” sighed Blades. “I’ll take that kind of case any day over a string of mysterious deaths at a highly respected hospital.”
After Joe left, Elliott slid into his place so that he could face me from across the table. I kicked off my high heels and slipped my stockinged feet into Elliott’s lap.
“You okay?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. Instead I picked up a chopstick and started pushing grains of rice around a plate.
“You know that eventually Joe will get this guy, whoever he is.”
“I know,” I sighed. “It’s the eventually part that I don’t like. With Joe going to the D.A., you know as well as I do what we’re talking about—a massive investigation that drags out over months. Not only will I have to read Claudia’s name in the newspaper every day, but also the damage to the hospital will be irreparable. How many old rich guys do you think are going to want their name associated with a place where they let somebody run around killing patients? Now we have no choice but to sell to HCC....”
“I know you’ve suffered a terrible loss,” said Elliott gravely, “and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. But this doesn’t sound like you at all.”
“What do you mean? I’m just being realistic—“
“That’s exactly my point,” said Elliott. “Normally I wouldn’t expect you to be worried about what was realistic.”
“What would you expect me to be worried about?” I asked.
“The Kate I’m in love with would be worried about what was right.”
CHAPTER 27
It was strange coming home to the new apartment. It was so big and so empty. Everything in it seemed unfamiliar; I’d picked it all from photographs and fabric swatches. And although I’d studied the decorator’s drawings for months, seeing the floor plan sketched out was one thing, while walking through a room filled with actual furniture was another. I was glad that Elliott hadn’t offered to come home with me. I wasn’t sure I would have had the strength to say no, and yet I knew I didn’t want our first night together to be tainted by tragedy.
I bolted the door behind me and switched on the alarm. Then I walked through, turning on every light in the place. On the kitchen table I was surprised to find a tumble of Marshall Field’s bags and a note from my mother, who’d apparently taken it upon herself to go shopping. There were sheets and pillows, a terry cloth bathrobe, scented soap, and a pound of coffee and a box of Frango Mints. For some reason the simple kindness of it undid me completely. I sat at the table clutching the folded terry cloth of the robe like a pillow to my chest and wept for a very long time.
When I was finished, I didn’t feel better, just exhausted. Even so, I made my way into the little room adjacent to the kitchen that I intended to use as an office. While the rest of the apartment was furnished with valuable pieces about which adjectives like
one of a kind
and
unique provenance
applied, I’d decorated this room myself with a utilitarian computer desk from Pottery Barn and a fabulously comfortable double-wide reading chair upholstered in a cheery shade of red I’d picked out of the Crate and Barrel catalog.
I plunked my briefcase down on the desk and unclipped my hair. I was surprised to find sections were still wet from the morning. I picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the apartment operator. The amenities of my new building went well beyond having a prestigious address. Besides the security and the twenty-four-hour valet and the concierge services that rivaled a four-star hotel’s, all calls that weren’t picked up on the fifth ring were immediately transferred to the building’s own answering service, who took down the messages verbatim in shorthand.
I’d had four calls. One was from Stephen, offering his condolences and inquiring about funeral arrangements. Another was from Cheryl, just letting me know that Professor Stein had gotten off safely and that she’d taken the liberty of giving Carl Laffer my home number. Not surprisingly, the next call was from Laffer asking when it might be convenient to drop off Claudia’s personal effects. The last call was from my mother.
I thanked the operator and dialed my parents’ number. Anna, the tight-lipped Filipino woman who’d been my mother’s maid for as long as I could remember, answered the phone and informed me that “the Mrs., she is out.”
I practically had to beg, but I finally managed to convince her to get my mother’s personal phone book and give me Gavin McDermott’s home number. When I finished taking it down, I looked up at the clock. It was after eleven. “Good,” I thought to myself savagely. “I hope I wake him up.”
The phone rang twice before Patsy answered sounding groggy and none too pleased. “I thought you said you weren’t on call,” I heard her say to someone, presumably McDermott, between the time she picked up the receiver and actually said hello.
“Hi, Patsy, this is Kate Millholland. I’m sorry to disturb you so late at night, but I need to speak to Gavin right away.”
I waited for so long that I worried that perhaps she’d just turned over and gone back to sleep. I was about to hang up when Gavin came on the line. He didn’t sound sleepy at all. Instead he sounded furious.