“Cedric, are you all right? You look a little pale.”
Driscoll knew. Thomlinson was sure of it. He’d wait until the case was resolved to deal with it. “A little touch of the flu,” he said.
Driscoll shot him a look. A look that said “we should talk.” The moment passed in silence. It was Driscoll who broke it. “Have the tech wizards figured out the password to Moira’s hard drive yet?”
“Fraid not,” said Margaret.
“They’re being overpaid.”
“What is it with the bones?” she asked.
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
“And our guy takes the whole lot. What the hell does he do with them?”
“Maybe he’s rebuilding his ladies from the inside out,” said Thomlinson. “Sorta like the serial killer in Silence of the Lambs. Remember? The guy was sewing together pieces of flesh he had carved from the bodies of his victims.”
Margaret poured herself a cup of coffee. “Flesh on top of bone. Now there’s a thought. Maybe our guy reads the Old Testament.”
“I’m listening,” said Driscoll.
“‘And I will lay sinews upon you and will bring up flesh upon you and cover you with skin.’ Ezekiel. Chapter 37, verse 6,” she said.
Driscoll was astounded that Margaret was so familiar with liturgical verse. He looked at her and smiled. “Lord knows he wouldn’t be the first Bible-savvy predator.”
“In Kings, they actually talk about bones being stolen,” said Thomlinson.
Driscoll was impressed. “You guys might really be on to something.”
“So, we’ll add that to the profile. Our guy may be driven by particular scenes from the Bible,” said Thomlinson.
“We could use a bone specialist,” said Driscoll. “Margaret, aren’t you dating a bone man?”
“One date. Lunch in a hospital cafeteria. I’d hardly call that dating.”
“But you did say he had suggested dessert somewhere else. He’s opened the door for you. Why don’t you give the good doctor a call and ask him out to dinner. That wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. This is the twenty-first century, remember?”
“But, he’s no osteopath. His specialty is X-rays.”
“Close enough.”
“Does that give me a green light to discuss the case?” she asked.
“Not in any great detail. Just pick his brain a little. Keep in mind that this man, a radiologist, was in St. Vincent’s pediatric ICU using defibrillator paddles on the DA’s daughter. That’s got odd written all over it. I say we keep a watchful eye on the guy.”
“Will do,” said Margaret as she swept passed Driscoll and made her exit. Thomlinson lingered behind.
“You think it’s coincidence that brought Doctor Pierce and Margaret together, Cedric?” Driscoll asked.
“As opposed to-?”
“Suppose the guy’s got his own reasons for staying close to a police investigation.”
Chapter 70
A dockhand cast the line, and the ferry pulled away from its berth, foaming the water with its propellers. The sun had begun its incendiary descent against the Manhattan skyline, igniting it in flamboyant amber. The fifteen-minute crossing would land Doctor Pierce and Margaret at the foot of Battery Park just steps away from the restaurant she had chosen. Pierce had suggested the island-hopping cruise to set the mood.
A soulful instrumental version of “The Nearness of You” serenaded the passengers. A bearded black man, his upturned hat at his feet, was making magic with his reed.
“There’s nothing like a saxophone at twilight to take the edge off the day,” said Pierce.
Margaret studied Pierce’s face. She thought he resembled a dark-haired Donald McDonough, a friend she had made at the Police Academy during the onset of her career. The notion brought back a blizzard of memories: cramming for tests, overcrowded study halls, repetitive on-site procedural drills, and fun weekend partying. Back then, Amstel Light was her drink of choice. As she continued her study of Pierce’s features, she asked herself the question Driscoll had pondered. What would a radiologist be doing in the pediatric ICU at the bedside of a comatose patient? And why was he using defibrillator paddles?
“Margaret? Are you all right? You look as though you’re in a trance.”
She answered him with a smile. “I’m fine,” she said. “You resemble a friend I haven’t seen in years.”
“Each face has a dozen lookalikes that span the globe. How would you handle that particular happenstance in a police lineup?”
“Number 4, step forward…no, number 3…make that number 7…or is it number 10?”
The pair shared a laugh as a humid breeze entangled Margaret’s hair, spilling strands of it into her eyes. She sipped champagne from a paper cup.
“We mustn’t let the harbormaster know we smuggled our own Veuve Clicquot on board,” Pierce laughed. “The Captain will have us walk the plank.”
From Amstel Light to Veuve Clicquot. If only McDonough could see me now.
“Champagne’s the perfect accompaniment for night sailing. Don’t ya think?” said Pierce.
“I’ll say.” She took another sip.
“Those monks at the Benedictine Abbey of Hautvillers deserve a debt of gratitude for discovering this wondrous concoction.”
“I’ll be sure to drop them a line.”
“You know, they buried their deceased brethren alongside casks of wine.”
“To continue the party?”
“For all eternity. And did you know that the Pharaohs were buried with their beer?”
“I had no idea. Hey, Colm, you’re a walking encyclopedia when it comes to booze!”
“I should be. I own a winery.”
“Really? Where?”
“On the North Fork of Long Island. Maybe someday we’ll go there.”
Margaret was enjoying Pierce’s company. She found him to be intelligent, good looking, charming, and delightfully mysterious. To top it off, he had a pair of soulful blue eyes that a woman could get lost in. But the question kept gnawing at her. Why the defibrillator paddles? She was determined to seek an answer at dinner.
“Ever been to the catacombs in Rome?” Pierce asked.
“Back in high school. I don’t think I could have endured them, though, without some help from a bottle of Chianti Ruffino,” Margaret mused. “When in Rome-”
“Been there, done that. With pictures!”
“Pictures?”
“Used an infrared camera,” he boasted. “Don’t forget, I have an anatomist’s interest in bones.”
“Bones, hmm.”
“Incredible substances. As hard as granite, lighter than wood, and very much alive. Bones are made to withstand mountains of stress. They don’t rust, they are non-corrosive, and they are edible. A true miracle of evolution!”
The Harbor Club boasted a spectacular view of downtown Manhattan. The pair chose a table near a bay window overlooking the Wall Street skyline. The waiter made his approach. “And now for tonight’s specials…” Margaret and Pierce sat through the interminable oration. “May I suggest starting with a cocktail?” the waiter finished.
Margaret ordered the house Chardonnay, while Pierce chose the Merlot.
The waiter returned with their selections, took their dinner order, and quickly disappeared.
A gust of laughter erupted at an adjacent table. Margaret pricked her ears to steal fragments of the conversation between the two women. They spoke in a foreign tongue that had a Slavic ring to it.
“They sound like they’re enjoying themselves,” she whispered to Pierce.
“Scandalous stuff. The one in the blue dress caught her husband with their nanny…in the playpen, of all places.”
“That’s so sad. Why are they laughing?”
“Three million dollars! That was the divorce settlement!”
“Wow, I’d laugh too,” Margaret said, sipping her Chardonnay.
Pierce was bilingual. Margaret wondered what other languages he’d mastered.
The waiter arrived with their hors d’oeuvres.
“Coquelet poule au poivre, for madam. Escargot for monsieur.” The waiter delivered his lines like the unemployed actor he was.