Blindsight (23 page)

"My "series' has doubled," Laurie said. "There are now twelve cases, not six."
"That's interesting," Lou said flatly.
"I was hoping that you might know some way we can warn the public," Laurie said. "I think we're about to see a flood of these cases unless something is done, and done soon." "What would you have me do?" Lou asked. "Have an ad posted in
The Wall Street Journal:
"Yuppies, Just Say No'?"
"Lou, I'm serious," Laurie said. "I'm truly worried about this." Lou sighed. He took out a cigarette and lit up. "Must you smoke?" Laurie asked him. "I'll only be here a few moments." "Jesus Christ," Lou snapped. "It's my office." "Then try to blow the smoke away, please," Laurie said. "I'll ask you again," Lou said. "What do you want me to do? You must have had something in mind if you bothered coming all the way down here." "No, nothing specific," Laurie admitted. "I just thought the police narcotics squad might have some way of warning the public. Couldn't they make some kind of announcement to the press?" "Why doesn't the medical examiner's office do it?" Lou asked. "The police are around to arrest people with drugs, not help them."
"The chief refuses to take a public stand so far. I'm sure he'll come around, but in the meantime lives are being lost."
Lou took a drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. "What about the other medical examiners? Are they as convinced as you about this thing exploding into a glut of dead yuppies?" "I haven't polled them," Laurie said.
"Don't you think you might be a little overly sensitive about these deaths because of your brother?" Lou offered.
Laurie became enraged. "I didn't come down here for you to play amateur psychologist. But while we're on the subject, sure, I'm sensitive. I know how it feels to lose a loved one to drugs. But I would say that kind of empathy is a boon to my work. Maybe if a few more jaded policemen like yourself had a little more empathy, we civil servants would be in the business of saving lives instead of picking corpses' pockets."
Lou held his temper. "Frankly, Dr. Montgomery, I'd love to be in the lifesaving business. In fact, I already consider myself to be in the lifesaving business. But unless you furnish me with more proof as to this grand contaminant theory of yours, I'm afraid Narcotics won't do anything more than laugh me back to Homicide."

"Isn't there anything you can do?"
"Me? A detective lieutenant in Homicide?" Lou was exasperated but he knew Laurie was genuinely concerned. "Can't you go to the media?"
"I can't," Laurie said. "If I go to the media behind Dr. Bingham's back, I'll be looking for work. That much I know. We already had a run-in about that. How about you?" "Me?" Lou questioned with surprise. "A homicide lieutenant suddenly involved with drug overdoses! They'd want names and where I got them, and I'd have to say I got them from you. Besides my bosses would wonder why I was worried about druggies and not solving the problem with the gangland slayings. No, I can't go either. If I went to the media I'd probably be out looking for work as well." "Won't you try talking with the narcotics division?" Laurie asked. "I got an idea," Lou said. "What about your boyfriend, the doctor. It's sorta natural that a doctor would be interested in this kind of problem. Besides he seems to be pretty high profile with a limo and that posh office."
"Jordan is not my boyfriend," Laurie said. "He's a male acquaintance. And how do you know about his office?"
"I went to see him this afternoon," Lou said. "Why?" Laurie asked.
"You want the truth or what I told myself?" Lou said. "How about both," Laurie said.
"I wanted to ask him about his patient Paul Cerino," Lou said. "And also about his secretary now that she is a homicide victim. But I was also curious to meet the guy. And if you want my opinion, he's a creep."
"I don't want your opinion," Laurie snapped. "What I don't understand," Lou persisted, "is why you'd be interested in such a fake, pompous, ostentatious bum. I've never seen such an office for a doctor. And a limo... please! The guy must be robbing his patients blind. Excuse the pun! What is it that attracts you? His money?" "No!" Laurie said indignantly. "And as long as you are bringing up money, I called your Internal Affairs department--"
"So I heard," Lou interrupted. "Well, I hope you sleep better now that you've probably gotten some poor patrolman in hot water while he's trying to send his kids to college. Bravo for your strict morality. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to go out to Forest Hills and try to solve some real crime." Lou stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. "So you won't talk to your drug division?" Laurie asked, trying one more time.

Lou leaned over his desk. "No, I don't think so," he said. "I believe I'll just let you rich people look
after yourselves."
Having reined in her anger over the last few minutes, Laurie now gave in to it. "Thanks for nothing, Lieutenant," she said superciliously. Getting up, she got her coat, picked up her briefcase, and stalked out of Lou's office. Downstairs she threw her visitors pass on the Security table and walked out. Catching a cab was easy as they came in from the Brooklyn Bridge. With just about a straight shot up First Avenue, she was home in no time. Getting off the elevator on her floor, she glared at Debra Engler, then slammed her door.
"And at one point you thought he was charming," she said out loud, ridiculing herself as she stripped down and got into the shower. She couldn't believe that she had allowed herself to sit for as long as she had in Lou Soldano's office absorbing all that abuse in the futile hopes that he might deign to help her. It had been a degrading experience.
Ensconced in a white terry robe, Laurie went to her answering machine and listened to her messages while a hungry Tom rubbed across her legs and purred. One was from her mother and the other was from Jordan. Both asked her to call when she got home. Jordan had left a number different from his home number with an extension. When she called Jordan at the number he'd left, she was told that he was in surgery but that she should hold on.
"Sorry," said Jordan once he picked up a few minutes later. "I'm still in surgery. But I insisted on being told when you called."
"You're in the middle of an operation right now?" Laurie couldn't believe it. "It doesn't matter," Jordan said. "I can break scrub for a few minutes. I wanted to ask if we could make dinner tonight a bit later. I don't want to keep you waiting again, but I have another case to go." "Maybe it would be just as well if we took a raincheck." "No, please!" Jordan said. "It's been a hell of a day and I've been looking forward to seeing you. Remember, you took a raincheck last night." "Won't you be tired? Especially if you have another case." Laurie herself felt exhausted. The idea of going straight to bed sounded wonderful to her. "I'll get a second wind," Jordan said. "We can make it an early evening." "What time can you meet for dinner?"
"Nine o'clock," Jordan said. "I'll send Thomas around then." Reluctantly, Laurie agreed. After she hung up, she called Calvin Washington at home. "What is it, Montgomery?" Calvin demanded once his wife called him to the phone. He sounded

grumpy.
"Sorry to bother you at home," Laurie said. "But now that I have twelve cases in my series, I'd like to ask that I be assigned any more that might come in tomorrow." "You're not on autopsy tomorrow. It's a paper day for you." "I know. That's why I'm calling. I'm not on call this weekend so I can catch up with my paperwork then."
"Montgomery, I think you ought to cool it. You're getting much too carried away with all this. You're too emotionally involved; you're losing your objectivity. I'm sorry, but tomorrow is a paper day for you no matter what comes through the door feetfirst." Laurie hung up the phone. She felt depressed. At the same time she knew there was a certain amount of truth in what Calvin had said. She was emotionally involved in the issue. Sitting by the phone, Laurie thought about returning her mother's call. The last thing she wanted to go through was the third degree about her budding relationship with Jordan Scheffield. Besides, she hadn't quite decided what she thought of him herself. She decided to wait on calling back her mother.

As Lou drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway, he wondered why he insisted on continually bashing his head up against a brick wall. There was no way a woman like Laurie Montgomery would look at someone like himself other than as a city servant. Why did he keep entertaining delusions of grandeur in which Laurie would suddenly say: "Oh, Lou, I've always wanted to meet a police detective who's gone to a community college"? Lou slapped the steering wheel in embarrassed anger. When Laurie had suddenly called and insisted on coming down to his office, he'd believed she'd wanted to see him for personal reasons, not some harebrained idea of using him to publicize a yuppie cocaine epidemic. Lou exited the Long Island Expressway and got onto Woodhaven Boulevard, heading to Forest Hills. Feeling the need to do something rather than play with paper clips at his desk, he'd decided to go out and do a little gumshoeing on his own by visiting the surviving spouses. It was also better than going back to his miserable apartment on Prince Street in SoHo and watching TV. Pulling up the Vivonettos' long, curved driveway, Lou couldn't help but be awed. The house was a mansion with white columns. Right away, lights went off in Lou's head. This kind of opulence suggested serious money. And Lou had a hard time believing a simple restaurateur could make that kind of dough unless he had organized-crime connections. Lou parked the car by the front door. He'd called ahead so Mrs. Vivonetto was expecting him. When he rang the bell, a woman wearing a ton of makeup came to the door. She was wearing a white, off-the-shoulder wool dress. There was not much suggestion of aggrieved mourning. "You must be Lieutenant Soldano," she said. "Do come in. My name is Gloria Vivonetto. Can I offer you a drink?"

Lou said that just water would be fine for him. "You know, on duty," he muttered by way of
explanation. Gloria poured him a glass at the bar in the living room. She fixed herself a vodka gimlet. "I'm sorry about your husband," Lou said. It was his standard intro for occasions like this. "It was just like him," Gloria said. "I'd told him time and time again he shouldn't stay up and watch television. And now he goes and gets himself shot. I don't know anything about running a business. I'm sure people are going to rob me blind."
"Was there anyone that you know of who would have wanted your husband dead?" Lou asked. It was the first question in the standard protocol. "I've been all over this with the other detectives. Do we have to go through it again?" "Perhaps not," Lou said. "Let me be frank with you, Mrs. Vivonetto. The way your husband was killed suggests an organized-crime involvement. Do you know what I'm saying?" "You mean Mafia?"
"Well, there's more to organized crime than the Mafia," Lou said. "But that's the general idea. Is there any reason that you can think of why people like the Mafia would want your husband killed?" "Ha!" Gloria laughed. "My husband was never involved with anything as colorful as the Mafia." "What about his business?" Lou persisted. "Did Pasta Pronto have any connection whatsoever with organized crime?"
"No," Gloria said.
"Are you sure?" Lou questioned.
"Well, no, I guess I'm not sure," Gloria answered. "I wasn't involved with the business. But I can't imagine he ever had anything to do with the Mafia. And anyway, my husband was not a well man. He wasn't going to be around much longer anyway. If someone wanted him out of the way they could have waited for him to keel over naturally."
"How was your husband sick?" Lou asked. "In what ways wasn't he sick?" Gloria shot back. "Everything was falling apart. He had bad heart problems and had had two bypass operations. His kidneys weren't great. He was supposed to have his gallbladder removed but they kept putting it off, saying his heart wouldn't take it. He was going to have an eye operation. And his prostate was messed up. I'm not sure what was wrong with that, but his whole lower half didn't work anymore. Hadn't for years." "I'm sorry," Lou said, unsure of what else to say. "I suppose he suffered a lot." Gloria shrugged her shoulders. "He never took care of himself. He was overweight, drank a ton, and he smoked like a chimney. The doctors told me he might not last a year unless he changed his ways, which wasn't something he was about to do."
Lou decided there wasn't much more he'd learn from the not-so-aggrieved widow. "Well," he said,

standing up, "thank you for your time, Mrs. Vivonetto. If you think of anything else that might seem
important, please give me a call." He handed her one of his business cards. Next Lou headed for the Singleton residence. The place was a simple, two-story, brick row house with two pink flamingos stuck in the front lawn. The street reminded him of his old neighborhood only a half dozen blocks away in Rego Park. He felt a stab of nostalgia for the evenings in the alleyway, playing stickball.
Mr. Chester Singleton opened the door. He was a big man, middle-aged and quite balding. He had a hounddog look thanks to his beefy jowls. His eyes were red and streaked. The instant Lou saw him he knew he was in the presence of true grief. "Detective Soldano?"
Lou nodded and was immediately invited inside. Inside, the furniture was plain but solid. A crocheted comforter was folded over the back of a plaid, well-worn couch. Dozens of framed photos lined the walls, most of them black and white. "I'm very sorry about your wife," Lou said. Chester nodded, took a deep breath, and bit his lower lip. "I know that other people have been by," Lou continued. He decided to go right to the heart of the matter. "I wanted to ask you flat-out why a professional gunman would come into your home to shoot your wife."
"I don't know," Chester said. His voice quavered with emotion. "Your restaurant-supply business supplied some restaurants with organized-crime connections. Do any of the restaurants you supply have any complaints with your service?" "Never," Chester said. "And I don't know anything about any organized crime. Sure, I heard rumors. But I never met anyone or saw anyone I would call a mobster type." "What about Pasta Pronto?" Lou asked. "I understand you had new business there." "I recently got some of their business, that's true. But only a piece of it. I think they were just trying me out. I hoped to get more of their business eventually." "Did you know Steven Vivonetto?" Lou asked. "Yes, but not well. He was a wealthy man." "You know he got shot last night as well?" Lou said. "I know. I read about it in the paper." "Had you received any threats lately?" Lou asked. "Any attempts at extortion? Any kind of protection racket knocking on your door?"