“Please, Laurie, no games. I was due in the OR ten minutes ago.”
“Do the names Henriette Kaufman and Dwight Sorenson mean anything to you?” Laurie questioned.
“They’re two of my patients. Why?”
“They were your patients,” Laurie said. “They were both killed last night along with their spouses. Their autopsies are going on as we speak.”
“My God!” Jordan said.
“And that’s not all,” Laurie said. “The night before last three other patients of yours were murdered. All of them were shot in a manner that suggests an organized-crime connection. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Oh, my God,” Jordan said. “And Paul Cerino was in my office threatening me just this morning. This is a nightmare.”
“How did he threaten you?” Laurie asked.
“I don’t even want to discuss it,” Jordan said. “But he’s quite angry with me and I’m afraid I have you to thank.”
“Me?”
“I wasn’t going to bring this up until we got together,” Jordan said, “but now that we’re on the subject—”
“What?”
“Why did you tell a detective Soldano about my treating Cerino?”
“I didn’t think it was a secret,” Laurie said. “After all, you talked about it at my parents’ dinner party.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jordan said. “But how did you happen to tell a homicide detective of all people?”
“He was here observing autopsies,” Laurie said. “Cerino’s name came up in relation to some homicides: several gangland-style execution victims pulled out of the East River.”
“Oh, boy,” Jordan said.
“I’m sorry to be the Greek messenger with all this bad news.”
“It’s not your fault,” Jordan said. “And I guess I’m better off knowing. Thankfully I’ll be doing Cerino this evening. At this point the sooner I get rid of him the better.”
“Just be careful,” Laurie said. “Something strange is going on. I’m just not sure what.”
Jordan didn’t need Laurie to remind him to be careful, not after Cerino’s threat to crush his hands. And now this news that five of his patients had been murdered and another one dead, possibly also murdered. It was too much.
Preoccupied with this bizarre yet terrifying set of circumstances, Jordan got up from the chair in the surgical lounge of the Manhattan General Hospital and traipsed into the OR. He wondered if he should go to the police and tell them about Cerino’s threat. Yet if he did go to the police, what would they do? Probably nothing. What would Cerino do? Probably what he threatened. Jordan shivered with fear at the thought and wished that Cerino had never walked through his door.
As he scrubbed his hands, Jordan tried to think of why five and possibly six of his patients would be killed. And what about Marsha? But try as he might, he couldn’t think of a reason. Holding his hands in the air, he pushed into the operating room.
Surgery for Jordan was a cathartic experience. He was relieved to be able to lose himself in the exacting procedure of a corneal transplant. For the next few hours he completely forgot about threats, mob hits, Marsha Schulman, and unsolved homicides.
“Wonderful job,” the junior resident commented after Jordan had finished.
“Thank you,” Jordan said. He beamed. Then, to the nursing staff, he added: “I’ll be in the surgical lounge. Let’s turn the room around as soon as possible. The next case is one of my VIPs.”
“Yes, your Highness,” the scrub nurse teased.
Walking back to the surgical lounge, Jordan was glad that Cerino was next. He just wished it was already over. Although complications were rare for Jordan, they did occur. He shivered to think of the consequence of a postoperative infection: not for Cerino, for himself.
Gripped by his scary thoughts, Jordan was oblivious of his surroundings. And when he sank into one of the armchairs in the lounge and closed his eyes he hadn’t noticed the man sitting directly across from him.
“Good afternoon, Doctor!”
Jordan opened his eyes. It was Lou Soldano.
“Your secretary told me you were up here,” Lou said. “I told her it was important that I talk with you. I hope you don’t mind.”
Jordan sat bolt upright and his eyes nervously darted around the room. He knew Cerino had to be close, probably in the holding area at that moment. And that meant that the tall gaunt fellow would be around someplace. Cerino had insisted on it, and the administration had agreed. Jordan did not relish the idea of Cerino’s man seeing him with Lou Soldano. He didn’t want to be forced to explain it to Cerino.
“Certain facts have come up,” Lou continued. “I’m hoping you might have some explanations.”
“I have another operation,” Jordan said. He started to get up.
“Sit down, Doctor,” Lou said. “I only want a minute of your time. At least at the moment. We’ve been puzzling over five recent homicides which we have reason to believe were done by the same person or persons, and the only way we have been able to associate them so far, other than the manner in which they were killed, is that they were your patients. Naturally we’d like to ask you if you have any idea why this has happened.”
“I’d just been informed about it an hour ago,” Jordan said nervously. “I haven’t the slightest idea why. But I can tell you there is no way that it could involve me.”
“So we can assume they have all paid their bills?” Lou asked.
“Under the circumstances, Lieutenant,” Jordan snapped, “I don’t think that is a very funny comment.”
“Excuse my black humor,” Lou said. “But guessing how much that office of yours had to cost and knowing you have a limo—”
“I don’t have to talk with you if I don’t want to,” Jordan said, interrupting Lou and again motioning to get up.
“You don’t have to talk with me now,” Lou said. “That’s true. But you’d have to talk with me eventually, so you might as well try to cooperate. After all, this is one hell of a serious situation.”
Jordan sat back. “What do you want from me? I don’t have anything to add to what you already know. I’m sure you know much more than I.”
“Tell me about Martha Goldburg, Steven Vivonetto, Janice Singleton, Henriette Kaufman, and Dwight Sorenson.”
“They were patients of mine,” Jordan said.
“What were their diagnoses?” Lou asked. He took out his pad and pencil.
“I can’t tell you that,” Jordan said. “That’s privileged information. And don’t cite my mentioning the Cerino case to Dr. Montgomery as a precedent. I made a mistake talking about him.”
“I’ll be able to get the information from the families,” Lou said. “Why don’t you just make it easy for me?”
“It’s up to the families to tell you if they so choose,” Jordan said. “I am not at liberty to divulge that information.”
“OK,” Lou said. “Then let’s talk generalities. Did all these people have the same diagnosis?”
“No,” Jordan said.
“They didn’t?” Lou questioned. He visibly sagged. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Jordan said.
Lou looked down at his blank pad and thought for a moment. Raising his eyes he asked: “Were these patients related in some unlikely way? For example, were they customarily seen on the same day, anything like that?”
“No,” Jordan said.
“Could their records have been kept together for some reason?”
“No, my records are alphabetical.”
“Could any of these patients have been seen on the same day as Cerino?”
“That I can’t say,” Jordan admitted. “But I can tell you this. When Mr. Cerino came to see me, he never saw any other patient nor did any other patient see him.”
“Are you sure of that?” Lou asked.
“Positive,” Jordan said.
The intercom connecting the surgical lounge to the OR crackled to
life. One of the OR nurses told Jordan that his patient was in the room waiting for him.
Jordan got to his feet. Lou did the same.
“I’ve got surgery,” Jordan said.
“OK,” Lou said. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
Lou put on his hat and walked out of the surgical lounge.
Jordan followed him to the door and watched as Lou continued down the long hallway to the main hospital elevators. He watched as Lou pushed the button, waited, then boarded and disappeared from view.
Jordan’s eyes swept the hallway for Cerino’s man. Stepping across the hall, he peered into the surgical waiting room. He was encouraged when he didn’t see the gaunt man anyplace.
Turning back into the surgical lounge, Jordan sighed. He was relieved that Lou had left. The meeting with him had left Jordan feeling more rattled than ever, and it wasn’t only because of the fear that Cerino’s man would see them talking. Jordan sensed the detective didn’t like him much, and that could mean trouble. Jordan was afraid he’d have to put up with the man’s annoying presence in the future.
Stepping into the men’s locker room, Jordan splashed his face with cold water. He needed to pull himself together to try to relax a moment before going into the OR and doing Cerino. But it wasn’t easy. So much was happening. His mind was in a turmoil.
One of the thoughts that was particularly disturbing was that he’d realized there was one way that the five homicides were related, including Mary O’Connor. He’d realized it while Lou Soldano had been talking with him, but Jordan had chosen not to say anything about it. And the fact that he had so chosen confused him. He didn’t know if the reason he’d not mentioned it was because he wasn’t sure of its significance or because it scared him. Jordan certainly did not want to become a victim himself.
Walking down toward the operating room where Paul Cerino was waiting, Jordan decided that the safest course of action for him was to do nothing. After all, he was in the middle.
Suddenly Jordan stopped. He’d realized something else. Despite all these problems, he was doing more surgery than ever. There had to be another part to it all. As he started walking again, it all began to make a kind of grotesque, malicious sense. He picked up his pace. Definitely playing dumb was the way he should handle it. It was the safest by far. And he liked to do surgery.
Pushing into the operating room, he went up to Cerino, who was significantly sedated.
“We’ll have you done in no time,” Jordan said. “Just relax.”
After giving Cerino a pat on the shoulder, Jordan turned and headed out to scrub. As he passed one of the orderlies in scrubs, he realized it wasn’t one of the orderlies. Jordan had recognized the eyes. It was the gaunt one.
11
* * *
4:30 p.m., Friday
Manhattan
Laurie was hesitant to visit the lab again. She didn’t want to risk another run-in with John DeVries. But attempting any more paperwork just then was ridiculous. She was far too distracted. She decided to find Peter. Surely he had to have more results by then.
“I know you promised to call if you found anything,” Laurie said once she’d found him, “but I couldn’t help but stop by just to check how you were doing.”
“I haven’t found a contaminant yet,” Peter said. “But I did learn something that might be significant. Cocaine is metabolized in the body in a variety of different ways producing a variety of metabolites. One of the metabolites is called benzoylecgonine. When I calculated the ratio of cocaine and benzoylecgonine in the blood, urine, and brain of your victims, I can estimate the amount of time from injection to death.”
“And what did you find?” Laurie asked.
“I found it was pretty consistent,” Peter said. “Roughly an hour in thirteen of the fourteen. But in one of the cases it was different. For some reason Robert Evans had practically no benzoylecgonine at all.”
“Meaning?” Laurie questioned.
“Meaning that Robert Evans died very quickly,” Peter said. “Maybe within minutes. Maybe even less, I really can’t say.”
“What do you think the significance is?” Laurie questioned.
“I don’t know,” Peter said. “You’re the medical detective, not me.”
“I suppose he could have suffered an instantaneous cardiac arrhythmia.”
Peter shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “And I haven’t given up on a contaminant. But if I find something, it’s going to be in nanomoles.”
Leaving the toxicology department, Laurie felt discouraged. Despite all her efforts she didn’t feel any further along in her investigation of these unlikely overdoses than she had been at the start. Intending to talk again with George Fontworth and have him explain what had surprised him on the autopsies, Laurie descended to the basement level and poked her head into the autopsy room. She didn’t see George, but she saw Vinnie and asked about George.
“He left about an hour ago,” Vinnie said.
Laurie went upstairs to George’s office. The door was open but he wasn’t there. Since his room was adjacent to one of the serology labs, Laurie went in and asked if anyone had seen George.
“He had a dentist’s appointment,” one of the techs said. “He mentioned he’d be back later, but he didn’t know when.”
Laurie nodded.
Stepping out of the lab, she paused outside George’s office. From where she was standing she could see the autopsy folders from the two overdose cases he’d handled that day.
Looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, Laurie stepped into the office and opened the top folder. It was Julia Myerholtz’s file. That was the case George had been working on when Laurie had gone over to his table. She hastily read through George’s autopsy notes. Immediately she understood what he had meant by the “surprise.” Obviously he’d responded the same way Laurie had with Duncan Andrews.
Looking at the forensic investigator’s report, Laurie noticed that the victim had been identified at the scene by “Robert Nussman, boyfriend.”
Taking a piece of scratch paper from a pad on George’s desk, Laurie jotted down Julia’s address.
Laurie was just about to open the second file when she heard someone coming down the hall. Sheepishly, she closed the folder, pocketed the piece of scrap paper, and stepped back out into the hall. She nodded and smiled guiltily as one of the histology techs passed by.
Although Bingham had chastised Laurie for visiting Duncan Andrews’ apartment, she decided she would go to Julia Myerholtz’s place. Hailing a cab, she convinced herself that Bingham’s anger had more to do with the unique fact that the case was such a political hot potato. He hadn’t objected to examination of the scene per se—or so Laurie rationalized.
Julia’s apartment was in a large posh building on East Seventy-fifth Street. Laurie was quite surprised when the doorman came to the curb to open her door for her as she paid the cab fare. It amazed her to experience the kind of style some people enjoyed in the city. The ambience was certainly a far cry from her own in Kips Bay.
“May I help you, madame?” the doorman asked. He had a thick Irish brogue.
Laurie showed her medical examiner’s badge and asked to see the superintendent. A few minutes later the man appeared in the foyer.
“I’d like to view Julia Myerholtz’s apartment,” Laurie told him. “But before I go up, I want to make certain that no one is there just now.”
The superintendent asked the doorman if the apartment was empty.
“It is indeed,” the doorman said. “Her parents aren’t due in until tomorrow. You want the key?”
The superintendent nodded. The doorman opened a small cabinet, took out a key, and handed it to Laurie.
“Just give it back to Patrick here when you leave,” the superintendent said.
“I’d prefer if you came along.”
“I have a hot water leak in the basement,” the superintendent explained. “You’ll be okay—9C. It’s to the right when you get
off the elevator.”
The elevator stopped on 9, and Laurie got out. Just to be sure, she rang the bell of 9C several times and even pounded on the door before going in. She didn’t want to run into any of the deceased’s loved ones this time around.
The first thing Laurie noticed were the shards of a plaster cast statue scattered over the floor of the foyer. Judging by the larger pieces, Laurie guessed the piece had been a replica of Michelangelo’s David.
The roomy apartment was decorated in a comfortable, country style. Not sure of what she was looking for, Laurie simply roamed from room to room, surveying the scene.
In the kitchen Laurie opened the refrigerator. It was well stocked with health food: yogurt, bean sprouts, fresh vegetables, and skim milk.
In the living room the coffee table was loaded with art books and magazines: American Health, Runner’s World, Triathlon, and Prevention. The room was lined with bookshelves filled with more art books. On the mantel, Laurie noticed a small plaque. She went closer to read the inscription: “Central Park Triathlon, Third Place, 3034.”
In the bedroom Laurie discovered an exercise bike and lots of framed photographs. Most of the photos featured an attractive woman and a handsome young man in various outdoor settings: on bikes in a mountain setting, camping in a forest, finishing a race.
As she wandered back into the living room, Laurie tried to imagine why an amateur athlete like Julia Myerholtz was apparently taking drugs. It just didn’t make any sense. The health food, the magazines, and the accomplishments just didn’t jibe with cocaine.
Laurie’s musings were abruptly cut short when she heard a key in the door. For a second of absolute panic she contemplated trying to hide, as if she expected Bingham to come through the door.
When the door opened, the young man who entered seemed as surprised as Laurie to meet someone in the apartment. Laurie recognized him as the man in many of the bedroom photos.
“Dr. Laurie Montgomery,” Laurie said, flipping open her badge. “I’m from the medical examiner’s office, investigating Miss Myerholtz’s death.”