Critical (6 page)

“I guess that rules out your apartment,” Chet said. “I'm single—very single, actually—and I have a terrific apartment just around the corner. How about a nightcap?”

“And see your etchings, I suppose. Sorry. I've got both my daughter and the two hundred thousand dollars to think about.” Angela waved to one of the waiters and motioned for the check.

“I'll take care of the check,” Chet said magnanimously.

“No, you won't!” Angela said with a voice that brooked no disagreement. “I'm afraid I used you, in a way. As penance I insist.”

“Used me?” Chet questioned with a confused expression. “What do you mean?”

“It would take much too long to explain, and I've got to get home.”

Chet acted a tad desperate as Angela signed the check to her house account. “How about dinner tomorrow night?” he suggested when she'd finished.

“That's very generous of you, but I'm afraid I can't take the time. I'm not sure what to expect at the office tomorrow.”

“But it would give you a chance to explain how you, quote, ‘used me,'” Chet said. “I certainly don't feel used, and I've truly enjoyed meeting you. If I've offended you, I apologize. I promise I won't be so flippant. It's just an act.”

Mildly surprised at Chet's willingness to reveal what seemed to be vulnerability, Angela stuck out her hand as she got to her feet. While shaking hands, she said, “I've enjoyed your company. I mean that. Maybe after the IPO we can have another drink or even a dinner.”

“I'd like that,” Chet said, regaining his aplomb. “And it will be my treat.”

“It's a deal,” Angela said, knowing that now it was her turn to be the one less sincere.

L
isten,” Dr. Jack Stapleton said with uncamouflaged irritation, “I'm lucky to have gotten on Dr. Wendell Anderson's schedule. Hell, he does all the knees for all the high-priced athletes in the city. There has to be a reason, and the reason is he's obviously the best. If I cancel for this Thursday, I might not get back on the schedule for months. The man is that busy.”

“But you only tore your ACL a week ago,” Dr. Laurie Montgomery said with equal emotion. “Obviously, I'm not an orthopedic surgeon, but it stands to reason that operating on your knee, which has been so recently traumatized, is taking added risk. For God's sake, your knee is still twice its normal size, and your abrasions haven't completely healed.”

“The swelling has come down a lot,” Jack said.

“Did the doctor suggest you have the surgery this quickly?”

“Not exactly. I told him I want it ASAP, and he turned me over to his scheduling secretary.”

“Oh, great!” Laurie said mockingly. “The date was set by a secretary.”

“She must know what she's doing,” Jack contended. “She's been working with Anderson for decades.”

“Now, that's an intelligent assumption!” Laurie said with equal sarcasm.

“Another reason I don't want to cancel is that I was lucky enough to be assigned as Anderson's first case. If I have to have surgery, I want to be scheduled as the first case. The surgeon is fresh, the nurses are fresh, everybody's fresh. I remember when I was doing surgery back when I was practicing ophthalmology, I would have wanted to be my own first case.”

“And where is this Angels Orthopedic Hospital?” Laurie questioned irritably. She ignored Jack's attempt at humor. “I've never even heard of it.”

“It's north and not too far away from the University Hospital on the Upper East Side. It's relatively new—I don't know exactly when it opened, but less than five years ago. Anderson told me for the patients it's like checking in to the Ritz, which you can hardly say about either University or Manhattan General. He likes it because the doctors run the show, not some bureaucratic administrator. In the same amount of time, they can do twice the number of cases.”

“Damn it, Jack!” Laurie complained. She turned away and glanced out the side window of the taxi at the rain-swept New York City streets. To say that Jack could be stubborn was putting it mildly, and when she was irritated, she considered “bullheaded” to be much closer to the truth. When they'd first started working together as forensic pathologists at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner for the City of New York, she'd thought his wild bike riding to and from work and his brutish outdoor basketball playing with kids half his age were somehow charming. But now, twelve years later and married to the man for less than a year, she considered such risk-taking behavior by a fifty-two-year-old to be juvenile and even irresponsible now that he had a wife and a hoped-for child to consider. If truth be told, she wanted to delay his surgery not only to reduce surgical risk but also because she couldn't help believe the longer he stayed away from commuting on his bike and street basketball, the more chance he'd give it up altogether.

“I want to have my surgery Thursday,” Jack said, as if reading her mind. “I need to get back to my normal exercise routine.”

“And I want an intact husband. You could be killed carrying on the way you do.”

“There's lots of ways to be killed,” Jack responded. “As medical examiners, we both know that better than most.”

“Put it off for a month,” Laurie pleaded.

“I'm having the surgery,” Jack said. “It's my knee.”

“It's your knee, but we are supposed to be a team now.”

“We are a team,” Jack agreed. “Let's drop the subject. We can talk about it tonight if you insist.”

Jack gave Laurie's hand a squeeze, and she squeezed back. Knowing Jack as well as she did, she took his willingness to suggest that they could bring the subject up again as a small victory.

When the traffic light changed at the corner of 30th Street and First Avenue, the cabbie made a wide left-hand turn and pulled to the curb in front of a dated six-story, blue-glazed brick building with aluminum-mullioned windows wedged between NYU Medical Center on one side and the Bellevue Complex on the other. They had arrived at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, or OCME, where Laurie had worked for sixteen years and Jack twelve. Although Jack was older, forensic pathology had been a second medical career for him after a large HMO had gobbled up his private practice back when HMOs were in their heyday.

“Something's brewing,” Jack commented. Ahead of them were several TV news vans parked at the curb. “Interesting deaths attract reporters like honey attracts flies. I wonder what's up.”

“I think of reporters more like vultures,” Laurie commented as she got out curbside, then reached back into the taxi to extract Jack's lengthy and awkward crutches. “They feed on carrion, are more destructive of evidence, and can be a hell of a nuisance.”

Jack paid the driver while he gave Laurie credit for a more apropos and clever simile. Out on the street, he took the crutches, got them poked into his armpits, and started toward the stairs. “I hate taxis,” he murmured under his breath. “They make me feel so vulnerable.”

“That's a strong statement,” Laurie scoffed, “coming from a person who thinks commuting on a bike and challenging the city traffic is appropriate.”

As expected, there were a half-dozen reporters in the OCME reception area busily chatting and feasting on takeout coffee and doughnuts. Several TV cameras were perched on the aged magazines on the coffee table. The reporters briefly glanced at Laurie and Jack as they traversed the room. Jack could move quickly on the crutches. Since he could put weight on the injured knee without a lot of pain, he could have done without the crutches, but he didn't want to take any chance of reinjury. Marlene Wilson, the receptionist, buzzed Laurie and Jack into the ID room before any of the reporters recognized them.

Within the ID room were two groups of people occupying separate sides. One group was six Hispanic-appearing individuals of widely mixed ages. They looked enough alike to be members of the same family. Two were children, and were wide-eyed in the spooky alien environment. Three youngish adults were whispering to an elderly matronly-appearing woman who intermittently dabbed a tissue against her eyes.

The second group was a couple who could have been husband and wife and who, like the Hispanic children, appeared like deer caught in headlights.

Laurie and Jack passed through a third door into a separate room that housed the OCME's communal coffeepot. It was here that the medical examiner on call for the week went through the cases that had come in overnight and decided which cases needed to be autopsied and who out of the eleven doctors on staff would do the case. Laurie and Jack almost always arrived early, mostly at Jack's insistence, since Laurie was a night person and more often than not had trouble getting up in the morning. Jack liked to get in early to cherry-pick through the cases, requesting the most interesting. The other doctors didn't mind, because Jack always did more than his share as compensation.

Dr. Riva Mehta, Laurie's office mate, who had started at the OCME the same year as Laurie, was sitting at the ID room desk behind various stacks of large manila envelopes, each representing a different case. She nodded and smiled a greeting at Jack and Laurie. There were two other individuals in the room, both sitting in vinyl club chairs and concealed behind newspapers, with steaming mugs of coffee within arm's reach. Laurie and Jack knew who was behind the
Daily News.
It had to be Vinnie Amendola, the mortuary tech who had to come in prior to the other techs to help in the transition from the night shift to the day shift. Frequently, he worked with Jack because Jack also liked to get a jump on the day down in the pit.

Neither Jack or Laurie knew who was hiding behind
The New York Times,
but they soon learned, when Jack's crutches clattered to the bare wooden floor as he tried to lean them up against one of the other two club chairs in the room. The noise was sharp, not too dissimilar from the sound of a gunshot.
The New York Times
dropped and exposed the surprised, tense, and chronically sleep-deprived face of Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano. By reflex, the detective's right hand shot inside the lapel of his rumpled jacket. With his gravy-stained tie loosened and the top button of his wrinkled shirt unbuttoned, he had a decidedly disheveled appearance.

“Don't shoot!” Jack said, holding up his hand in mock surrender.

“Jesus,” Lou complained as he visually relaxed. As was often the case, he sported a heavy five-o'clock shadow. It was apparent he'd not been to bed that night.

“Considering the reporters out in reception, I suppose we shouldn't be surprised to see you,” Jack said. “How the hell are you, Lou?”

“As good as can be expected after spending most of the night out in the harbor. It's not something I'd recommend.”

Lou had been Laurie's friend initially. Laurie and Lou had even dated after solving a case together, but their brief romance hadn't worked out. When Jack had come on the scene and ended up dating Laurie, Lou had been a strong advocate of their relationship. He'd even been part of their wedding the previous June. They were all good friends.

Laurie went to Lou and briefly touched cheeks before heading to the coffeepot.

Jack sat in a club chair next to Lou's and elevated his bum leg on the corner of the desk. Laurie called out to ask if Jack wanted any coffee. Jack gave her a thumbs-up sign.

“What's up?” Jack asked Lou. Since Lou had become a strong advocate of the contribution medical forensics played in homicide cases, he was a frequent visitor to the morgue, although he hadn't been there for more than a month. From experience, Jack knew that when he did come, there was a high probability it would be an interesting case. The previous day, Jack had had three routine autopsies, two natural deaths and one accidental. There'd been little challenge. Lou's presence augured that things might be different.

“It's been a busy night,” Lou said. “There are three homicides I need help with. From my perspective, the most important one is a floater that we hauled out of the Hudson River.”

“Do you have an ID on the victim?” Jack asked. Laurie came over and put Jack's coffee mug down. He mouthed a thank-you.

“Nope, not a clue, at least so far.”

“Are you sure it was a homicide?”

“Absolutely. He was shot in the back of the head at close range with a small-caliber bullet.”

“Sounds straightforward from a medical forensics point of view,” Jack said with some disappointment.

“But not from mine,” Lou said. “The body is that of a well-dressed Asian man, not some street person. What scares me is that this might be an organized crime–related hit. We know there's been some friction between the established crime syndicates and some up-and-coming Asian, Russian, and Hispanic gangs, particularly in regard to recreational drugs. If some kind of crime war over territory breaks out, a lot of innocent people get killed. I'm hoping you or Laurie could find something, some kind of break so we can nip this in the bud, before all hell breaks loose.”

“I'll do my best,” Jack said. “What else?”

“The next one's a sad story. A detective sergeant in Special Fraud, and a good guy, has a daughter who has been arrested for killing her good-for-nothing boyfriend with a baseball bat last night. His name is Satan Thomas, if you can believe it. She's been a disaster for the detective since she was a preteen, always hooking up with the dregs for boyfriends and into drugs and you name it. Anyhow, she denies killing the guy and says the boyfriend was using the baseball bat to trash the apartment. She even claims he came after her, which he'd done in the past. By the way, Satan's delightful family is camped out in the waiting room.”

“You mean he'd been physically abusive to her.”

“Apparently. She claims that when she fled, he was still busting up the place.”

“Did it look like he died of blunt trauma?”

“Oh, yeah! I'm afraid it looks like he got bashed in the forehead with the bat.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Sounds bad for your detective friend, and even more so for the daughter.” Jack felt depressed. Two out of three autopsies were going to be straightforward. Reluctantly, he asked for the details on the third case.

“This one is similar to the last, but it's the girl who got whacked. She, too, was in an abusive relationship, according to her parents, the Barlows, who are also still in the waiting room. Apparently, Sara Barlow and her boyfriend got into a row over the fact she didn't clean the apartment to his liking. He admits he slapped her around but claims that when he left to calm down, she was fine, just bawling and saying she'd do better. When he gets back, he claimed she was lying across the bed with her face and hands purple.”

“Purple blotches or her whole face?”

“One of the patrolmen who responded to the scene insisted the boyfriend said the whole face, but when the patrolman viewed the body, all he saw was what he described as purple bruises.”