Critical (37 page)

“What's the plan?” Vinnie asked Angelo in his most serene tone. For those who knew him, it was a sign that he was major-league perturbed.

Franco, Angelo, Freddie, and Richie were all sitting in one of the Neapolitan booths, talking with Vinnie Dominick. Espresso cups, overflowing ashtrays, and a platter of cannoli cluttered the tabletop.

“I agree with Franco, it's a challenge,” Angelo said. “Unfortunately, she moved out of her digs on Nineteenth Street, which would have otherwise made it a breeze. We may be forced to find out where she lives, but for now I think we should continue to try at the medical examiner's office. Franco's also right about needing more bodies, especially if we have to deal with the boyfriend, something I wouldn't mind doing. And we need another van.”

“Why another van?” Vinnie questioned.

“For backup. If the snatch goes bad, we have an alternate getaway vehicle.”

Vinnie nodded while staring at Angelo. Everyone stayed quiet while Vinnie ruminated.

“I want to be sure about this, too,” Vinnie said finally. “In the past, it seems as if she has had nine lives, and with two hospitals right in the same area, a shot would have to be damn good. It would be just our luck if we got her good and they saved her. Snatch her and get rid of her once and for all! As far as another van goes, we've got more than we need. Are you going back to the OCME at lunchtime? We can't wait around for a week for this to go down, you know what I'm saying.”

“We are aware,” Angelo said. He was relieved Vinnie didn't jump at the easy way out. The more Angelo thought about it, the more intent he was on a slow demise for Dr. Laurie Montgomery.

“Are you okay with this?” Vinnie asked Franco.

“It has its merits,” Franco said grudgingly. “But I'm worried about one thing.”

“What's that?”

“In all due respect, Angelo is a bit too juiced up over this job. This morning, after we left the stakeout, we had to stop at Home Depot for a big bucket and a couple of bags of quick-set. I get nervous when there's this degree of emotion. I mean, he's thinking about this purely as payback, not a job. When emotions are involved like this, mistakes happen. People don't think right.”

A wry smile appeared on Vinnie's face as he turned to Angelo. Clearly, he did not disapprove of Angelo's vengeful plans. At the same time, Vinnie knew Franco was right.

“So you want Laurie Montgomery to stew for a while before you drop her in the drink?”

“Something like that,” Angelo admitted.

“What about Franco's point about mistakes can be made if emotions are involved and you're too eager?”

“I'll keep it in mind, and tone myself down.”

Vinnie switched his attention to Franco. “Satisfied?” he questioned.

Franco nodded. “If he listens to me.”

Vinnie nodded as well and looked back at Angelo. “You two are a team. Talk to each other! Don't take chances! Be cool!”

Angelo nodded.

“Okay,” Vinnie said. “It's decided. Freddie and Richie, get another van. Keep in touch with each other and keep me informed.”

“Right!” the men said in unison as they slipped out of the booth.

After the men had left, Vinnie had Paolo Salvato make him yet another espresso. As Vinnie sat in the silent, empty restaurant, he thought of Angelo's plans for Laurie Montgomery. It was perfect, and he fantasized about being there himself. After all the troubles she'd caused him, he'd wanted to whack her when he'd been released from prison, but he hadn't because Lou Soldano had specifically warned him that if something were to happen to Laurie, he'd personally come after Vinnie, suspecting the worst. But now, ten years later, Vinnie was confident that enough time had elapsed.

L
aurie hurried out of the autopsy room after completing her final postmortem for the day. She was anxious about the time, since the final two cases had taken longer than she'd expected, and she was desperate to get back to the MRSA mystery. She was also anxious about not knowing what else to do. She'd put a lot of stock in what she thought she might learn from the CDC, and although she sensed it was important to have learned that the three cases that had been extensively subtyped were all the exact same bacterium, she didn't quite know what to make of it. She'd also hoped that Silvia, a recognized MRSA expert, would have come up with some ideas and suggestions, but she hadn't.

As Laurie removed her Tyvek coverall, she stopped for a minute and looked at her hands. They were shaking, as if she'd had twenty cups of coffee. Preoccupied as to what she should do next, Laurie ducked into the locker room to change back into her clothes.

“Are you just finishing now?” Riva asked as Laurie appeared.

“I'm afraid so,” Laurie said, spinning the combination lock on her locker.

“I thought I'd assigned you cases that would have been quick. Sorry.”

“Maybe I should have been able to do them quicker, but I felt the medical condition should be carefully documented. Both can be teaching cases.”

“Really! Why?”

“The first one, the death at the dentist's office, turned out to be preventable, which is why it would be a good teaching case, particularly for primary-care and emergency-care physicians. The patient was reported by a family member to have had syncopal attacks involving palpitations, flushing, and diaphoresis, but it was never investigated.”

“Hyperthyroidism,” Riva said.

“You are exactly right,” Laurie said. “It was not an allergic reaction as was suspected. The thyroid gland and the thymus gland were both diffusely enlarged, as were the heart and the spleen. That was why her blood pressure was so high in the emergency room.”

“What about the second case?” Riva asked. “The stationary bike rider.”

“That was also interesting. I thought I was going to find atheromatous coronary heart disease, but I didn't.”

“That was what I suspected as well. I'm glad I put it in the pile to be autopsied.”

“Everything was normal with the heart and the coronary arteries.”

“Really?” Riva questioned with surprise.

“Except for one thing,” Laurie said. “The right coronary artery had an exceptionally acute angle takeoff. Suddenly, something the patient had unfortunately done while riding the bike cut off flow to the artery.”

“I've heard of that but have never seen it,” Riva said.

“Which is why I thought it too would be a good teaching case. I carefully dissected the area free and will have it preserved.”

In contrast to Riva, who was taking a break between cases, Laurie had continued changing from scrubs to her clothes during the conversation. When she was finished, she slammed her locker closed, spun the combination lock, and waved to her office mate.

“I'll see you upstairs,” Riva called after her.

Not willing to take the time for lunch, Laurie went to the front elevator and rode directly up to the fifth floor. Before retreating to her office, she went into the histology lab to see if her pulmonary slides were available on David Jeffries. She had little hope they would add anything significant at this point. She felt obliged to get the slides, since she'd specifically asked Maureen O'Connor to put a rush on them.

“You are eager,” Maureen said in her colorful Irish accent when she caught sight of Laurie. “When I said I'd have them today, I didn't say I'd have them this morning.”

“I hate to be a pest,” Laurie said. “I'll be in my office.”

“I'll have someone run them down when they're ready.”

Laurie hastened down the hall. After sitting at her desk, she surveyed the jumble of case files and hospital records, with the matrix front and center. She picked up the matrix. It was far from complete. Glancing back to the pile of cases, she felt a drain on her enthusiasm and optimism. Transferring the information took longer than she expected, yet it seemed as if the matrix was the only hope she had of understanding what was going on with the Angels Healthcare hospitals.

As Laurie was about to start, she remembered she did not have Ramona's hospital record, as well as a few others. Picking up her phone, she called down to the PA's office. When Bart Arnold, the chief PA, answered, she asked to speak with Cheryl.

“What can I do for you?” Cheryl asked when she came on the line.

“I left word with Janice earlier this morning I needed a hospital chart on Ramona Torres.”

“I got the message and put in the call. They promised me they'd send it with the others. I'd be surprised if it wasn't already in your e-mail.”

“Hang on,” Laurie said. Quickly, she opened her e-mail. As Cheryl suggested, the missing hospital records were there waiting for her.

“Sorry,” Laurie said. “You're right. They are all here.”

After hanging up with Cheryl, Laurie put the large file in the printing queue and then headed down to the first floor to pick up her printouts.

 

ADAM HAD HAD
a pleasant morning. After his second cup of coffee that morning back at the hotel, he'd made his way to the Metropolitan Museum. As one of the first people through its imposing front entrance, he'd felt as though he had the place to himself. He didn't try to cover too much, but viewed objects he'd appreciated in his youth, including Athenian red figure vases, several classical Greek statues, and the old masters exhibits.

When noon approached, Adam had decided to return to the OCME for a short stay and had parked in the same location he'd parked that morning. As he'd told himself earlier that morning, he thought the chances of seeing the target over the lunch hour were slim, but he now came prepared. On the seat beside him, he had a rolled-up towel from the Hotel Pierre in the form of a cone and held in place with clear tape. Inside the cone was one of his favorite weapons: a nine-millimeter Beretta fitted with a three-inch-long suppressor. The suppressor's tip could just be seen at the pointed end of the cone. In the open end, he could insert his hand and seize the automatic pistol's handgrip. In this fashion, he could use the weapon in public without causing a panic, which it invariably did when it wasn't so camouflaged. Of course, even with the towel, the amount of time the weapon was out from under his coat was kept to an absolute minimum of only a few seconds.

With his seat tilted back, his elbows on the armrests, and his hands on his stomach and fingers intertwined, Adam had made himself snugly comfortable, especially with Arthur Rubinstein playing Chopin at a moderate volume on the vehicle's CD player. The light rain outside added to his tense contentment.

In contrast to that morning, relative calm prevailed at the corner of First Avenue and 30th Street, except for the traffic, with its incessant thundering medley of city buses, dump trucks, paneled vans, taxis, and private cars heading north. The protesters were gone, as were the police, and there was minimal pedestrian traffic, particularly in and out of the oddly designed OCME.

Shielded from the hum of the traffic by his vehicle's impressive soundproofing as well as the CD player, Adam calmly went through a number of possible scenarios in case Laurie Montgomery fooled him and suddenly appeared, preferably alone. Of course, he would immediately step from the car with his borrowed Hotel Pierre towel and close the gap between himself and Miss Montgomery. At that point, he could not predict what would happen, as it would depend on what had transpired between the time he'd left the car and the time he got within striking distance of approximately arm's length. The variables included passersby, particularly if anyone showed any interest in his activities whatsoever. If all was copacetic, the towel would come out and he'd fire from three feet into the back of the head. He would then calmly return to the Range Rover and motor away, driving directly to the Lincoln Tunnel. He had his belongings in the car, and his handlers would take care of Mr. Bramford's hotel charges. At least that's how it had happened on most of Adam's previous operations.

In the middle of his musings, Adam, who was continually aware of what was transpiring in his surroundings, noticed in his rearview mirror that the occupants of the blue van that had pulled up behind him were arguing to beat the band. What had caught his attention, besides their mouths going a mile a minute, was that each was rudely stabbing a finger at the other, interspersed with angry waves of dismissal. Since violent arguments were not common in public and because of his line of work, Adam was always sensitive to unexpected behavior. As he watched, the driver made what looked like the final wave of dismissal before opening his door. As the driver tried to climb out, the companion attempted to stop him by grabbing his arm. But it was to no avail. The driver easily shook himself free and alighted from the vehicle. The passenger responded by following suit and leaping out of the van as well.

Adam had watched this simulated silent movie in his rearview mirror, but suddenly he was aware that the driver had come alongside the Range Rover. Adam turned and stared at him. Adam did not like to be approached while on a mission. It made the possibility of recognition after the fact much more possible.

Adam noticed two things about the man. First, his extensive scarring from burns and his careful attention to his clothes, which seemed out of place in relation to the condition of the van. Adam's first thought was that the man was an Iraq veteran like himself. Adam had seen many people with similar burns during his long rehab. The driver then shocked Adam by rapping noisily against the Range Rover's window.

There were two choices: Either open the window or just drive away. Just driving away was the most rational, since the hit was now off even if Laurie were to come out, but as curious as Adam was, especially if the man was an Iraq veteran, he opened the window.

“There's no parking here, mister,” Angelo snapped vehemently.

The van's passenger had joined the driver. He seemed equally angry, not at Adam but at the driver. He even ordered the driver back to the van, but the driver would have none of it.

“Did you hear me!” Angelo demanded, talking to Adam. Franco threw up his hands in disgust and returned to the van.

“Are you an Iraq vet?” Adam asked. After the totality of the experience in that nightmarish country and the long process of rehabilitation because of his leg, Adam felt a unique and immediate bonding with anyone who'd suffered similarly.

“What kind of question is that, you asshole?” Angelo hissed.

“I thought because of your burns you might have served,” Adam said, controlling himself against taking offense from the man's rudeness.

“Are you making fun of me?” Angelo snarled.

“Quite the contrary. I thought you and I had something in common.”

Angelo gave a short, derisive laugh. “Listen, fruitcake, I love your music, but I want you to move this trash heap of yours out of here. It's a no-parking area.”

“I'm not parking at the moment, I'm standing.”

“Okay, wise guy,” Angelo growled. “Out of the vehicle.”

Adam stared at the grotesque man ordering him out of the car. In such a confrontation, Adam had several advantages. First, he truly didn't care what happened to himself and in many ways wished he'd died with his buddies, and second, his martial arts training had been so intense, he reacted by pure reflex.

Once again Adam debated. The wise thing for everyone, including the nattily dressed apparent hoodlum and his companion, was for him to drive away, but the problem was that Adam had allowed himself to get angry, and it fused with all the anger he was actively suppressing.

Adam opened the door and slowly got out. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready to uncoil.

Angelo stepped back. Although the blond stranger was more heavily built, Angelo felt he had the trump card. He was, as usual, packing his Walther, and he slipped his hand under the lapel of his jacket and grasped the gun. He wasn't going to shoot the man. He was just going to pistol-whip him once to get him the hell away from the area.

The nanosecond that Adam saw the direction of Angelo's hand movement, he sprang forward with lightning speed, sending a flurry of karate chops that took Angelo by complete and total surprise. The first hit his right forearm, producing an electriclike numbness to Angelo's hand, causing him to drop his weapon onto the pavement. The second and third landed on Angelo's head and the side of his neck, causing him to stumble backward but remain on his feet. The final blow was a kick to the chest that hurled him down to the wet pavement.

With equal speed, Adam snatched up Angelo's gun and quickly glanced through the van's windshield at the companion. Luckily, Franco didn't move, and for a beat he and Adam locked eyes. Adam was concerned he, too, might be armed.

Adam broke off, backed up, and quickly climbed back into the Range Rover. He started the engine, and then tossed Angelo's gun out into First Avenue where it was repeatedly run over. He then pulled from the curb and accelerated down First Avenue.