Angelo gripped the steering wheel so hard that the blood drained from his hand. He was going to have to tell Cerino about Tony whether he asked or not. Because of Tony they had whacked the wrong woman, an Assistant D.A., no less. This kid was driving him berserk.
“It’s me-Ponti,” Franco said. He’d put a call through to Vinnie Dominick. “I’m in the car heading for the tunnel. I just wanted you to know that I just watched the two guys we’ve discussed hit another young woman in broad daylight. It’s crazy. It makes no sense.”
“I’m glad you called,” Vinnie said. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. That snitch you set me up with, that friend of a friend of Tony Ruggerio’s girlfriend, just clued me in. He knows what they’re doing. It’s unbelievable. You’d never have figured it out.”
“Want me to come back?” Franco asked.
“No, stay on those two,” Vinnie said. “I’m heading out now to talk directly with some Lucia people. We’ll figure out what to do. We got to stop Cerino but in a way to take advantage of the situation. Capisce?”
Franco hung up the phone. Angelo’s car was about five carlengths ahead. Now that Vinnie knew what was going on, Franco was dying to know as well.
Cupping her hands around her face, Laurie pressed them against the locked glass doors of the converted brownstone on East Fifty-fifth Street. She could make out a set of marble steps that rose up to another closed door.
Laurie stepped back to view the front of the building. It was five stories tall with a bow front. The second floor had tall windows from which light poured. The third floor had lights as well. Above that the windows were dark.
To the right of the door was a brass plate that said MANHATTAN ORGAN REPOSITORY: HOURS NINE TO FIVE. Since it was after five, Laurie understood why the front doors were locked. But the lights on the second and third floors suggested that the building was still occupied, and Laurie was determined to talk with someone.
Going back to the door, Laurie knocked again just as loudly as she had when she’d first arrived. Still no one responded.
Looking to the left, Laurie noticed a service entrance. Walking over to this door, she tried to peer inside but saw nothing. It was totally black. Returning to the main door, Laurie was about to knock again when she noticed something she’d not seen. Below the brass plate and partially hidden from view by the ivy that snaked up the building’s facade was a small brass bell. Laurie pushed it and waited.
A few minutes later the foyer beyond the glass doors illuminated. Then the inner door opened and a woman in a long, tight, unadorned wool dress came down the few marble steps. She had to walk sideways because of the snugness of the dress about her legs. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties. Her humorless face was stern and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
Coming to the door, she pantomimed that they were closed. To emphasize her point, she repeatedly pointed at her watch.
Laurie mimed in return, indicating that she wanted to talk with someone by making her hand move as if she were operating a hand puppet. When that didn’t work, Laurie took out her medical examiner’s badge and flashed it despite Bingham’s dire warnings that he’d have her arrested. When that didn’t work its usual wonders, Laurie took out the business card she’d taken from Yvonne Andre’s apartment and pressed it against the glass. Finally the woman relented and unlatched the door.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed for the day,” the woman said.
“I gathered that,” Laurie said, putting a hand on the door, “but I must speak with you. I only need a few minutes of your time. I’m with the medical examiner’s office. My name is Dr. Laurie Montgomery.”
“What is it you wish to discuss?” the woman asked.
“Can I come in?” Laurie suggested.
“I suppose,” the woman said with a sigh. She opened the door wide and let Laurie in. Then she locked the door behind them.
“This is quite lovely,” Laurie said. Most of the building’s nineteenth-century detailing had been preserved when it had been converted from a private residence to office space.
“We’re lucky to have the building,” the woman said. “By the way, my name is Gertrude Robeson.”
They shook hands.
“Would you care to come up to my office?”
Laurie said that she would, and Gertrude led her up an elegant Georgian staircase that curved up to the floor above.
“I appreciate your time,” Laurie said. “It is rather important.”
“I’m the only one here,” Gertrude said. “Trying to finish up some work.”
Gertrude’s office was in the front, and it accounted for the light streaming out of the windows from the second floor. It was a large office with a crystal chandelier. Vaguely Laurie wondered how it was that so many nonprofit organizations had such sumptuous surroundings.
Once they were seated, Laurie got to the point. She again took out the business card she’d picked up at Yvonne’s and passed it to Gertrude. “Is this individual a member of the staff here?” Laurie questioned.
“Yes, he is,” Gertrude said. She gave the card back. “Jerome Hoskins is in charge of our recruiting efforts.”
“What exactly is the Manhattan Organ Repository?” Laurie asked.
“I’d be happy to give you our literature,” Gertrude said, “but essentially we’re a nonprofit organization devoted to the donation and reallocation of human organs for transplantation.”
“What do you mean by your “recruiting efforts’?” Laurie asked.
“We try to get people to register as potential donors,” Gertrude said. “The simplest commitment is just to agree that in the event of an accident that renders one brain dead, one would be willing to have the appropriate organs given to a needy recipient.”
“If that’s the simplest commitment,” Laurie said, “what’s a more complicated one?”
“Complicated is not the right word,” Gertrude said. “It is all simple. But the next step is to get the potential donor to be blood and tissue typed. That is particularly helpful in replenishable organs like bone marrow.”
“How does your organization do its recruiting?” Laurie asked.
“The usual methods,” Gertrude said. “We have charitable fund-raisers, telethons, active college groups, that sort of thing. It’s really a matter of getting the word out.
That’s why it’s so helpful when a recipient can command media attention, like a child needing a heart or liver.”
“Do you have a large staff?” Laurie questioned.
“It’s rather small, actually,” Gertrude said. “We use a lot of volunteers.”
“Who responds to your appeals?” Laurie asked.
“Mostly college-educated people,” Gertrude said, “particularly those who are civic-minded. People who are interested in social issues and are willing to give something back to society.”
“Have you ever heard the name Yvonne Andre?” Laurie asked.
“No, I don’t believe so,” Gertrude said. “Is this someone I should meet?”
“I don’t think so,” Laurie said. “She’s dead.”
“Oh, dear,” Gertrude said. “Why did you ask if I knew her?”
“Just curious,” Laurie said. “Could you tell me if Yvonne Andre was someone Mr. Hoskins recruited?”
“I’m sorry,” Gertrude said. “That’s confidential information. I cannot give it out.”
“I am a medical examiner,” Laurie said. “My interest in this is not casual. I was speaking with Yvonne Andre’s mother today, and she told me her daughter was committed to your cause before her untimely death. Mr. Hoskins’ card was in her apartment. I don’t want to know any details, but I would appreciate knowing if she’d signed up with your organization.”