“It’s Monica. Petra just found her on the floor in the ladies’ room. She’s not moving, and we can’t tell if she’s breathing—”
“Where is she?” Mike demanded.
The young man pointed down a carpeted hallway, and Mike took off.
“You can’t go back there!” the receptionist called.
“He’s a cop,” I told her.
“Call 911. Now!” Mike shouted over his shoulder.
The receptionist dialed while I grabbed the hysterical intern. “What happened?”
“Like I said, Petra found her. She’s still with her. I took a peek, and I think she might be dead. She’s blue, and her tongue’s, like, hanging out.”
“Okay, take it easy,” I told him. “Take a breath and sit down.”
I was about to follow Mike but decided against it. I knew where Monica’s office was, and that’s where I went instead. The door was open, and the computer was on when I got there. Monica’s purse was on the desk, but I went right for the drawers. I lifted up that pencil tray and found the black lacquered box. The array of plastic, sepia-colored prescription bottles was still inside.
Using a tissue from a container on her desk, I carefully picked up each one and lined them up on the glossy, fine-grained wood. I examined the labels of each bottle. There was no pharmacy name or phone number printed, only the word Rxglobal and a Web address.
Still keeping the tissue between Monica’s things and my own fingerprints, I lifted the business card inside the box. The card was for a “Mr. Benjamin Tower, freelance photographer.” There was a telephone number and e-mail address. On the back someone—presumably Mr. Tower—had written a note:
Great lunch, Monica! Looking forward to working
with you!
I placed the card on the table beside the bottles and touched the computer mouse. The Runway New York! screen saver vanished, and Monica’s Internet start page appeared. I scanned the list of Web sites the woman had book-marked. Most were fashion designer home pages, the sites of competitors’ magazines, or news pages. One address jumped out at me: Rxglobal.
I hit the button, and the computer connected to the Rxglobal home page. There were lists of vitamins for sale, along with dietary additives, herbal supplements, and homeopathic remedies—in short, nothing Monica or anyone else would require a prescription to purchase. I cruised the site a bit to make certain I wasn’t missing something and came up empty.
Someone touched my shoulder, and I jumped in the chair. Mike was frowning down at me. “This is a crime scene, Clare. You shouldn’t be here.”
“How’s Monica?”
“Ms. Purcell is dead.” His tone was suddenly cold. “It’s not official, but that’s only because the medical examiner isn’t here yet. I’ve seen enough overdoses to know she’s gone.”
“Look at this.” I pointed to the bottles on the desk.
Mike snapped on a latex glove and read one of the labels. “Amphetamines.”
“There are at least nine vials here, Mike. She must have been abusing speed for months, probably to control her weight.”
He placed the bottle on top of the desk, examined several others. “A cocktail of these other drugs with the speed may have caused her death. We won’t know for sure until the toxicology report comes in. But I know one thing.”
“What?”
“These prescriptions are counterfeit. There’s a doctor name, sure—probably also bogus. But there’s no DEA number. Every legit prescription sold has a valid DEA number that consists of two letters, six numbers, and one check digit that’s too complicated to explain right now. There should also be a pharmacy name and address on the label, but all we’ve got is—”
“Rxglobal. I know. I was looking at their Web site.”
Mike peered over my shoulder at the terminal. “Yeah, that might be their site. Or they might have another site that can only be accessed with a special password. We’re going to have to look into this.”
“You said there were other developments. That’s why you were late, remember?”
Mike nodded. “This morning I traced that unlisted number you got from Monica’s cell phone. The call was made to a man named Stuart Allerton Winslow, a chemist who lives on the West Side, not too far from Monica’s apartment. This guy once owned a small pharmaceutical research company that went out of business because of multimillion-dollar law-suits filed against it in civil court.”
“Why would this Winslow be interested in Breanne’s wedding rings? What’s he going to do? Break down their chemical composition? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Things always make sense, Clare, once all the facts are in.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright-orange color coming toward us, a cheerful hue, like freshly peeled carrots. A wiry man, attached to the conspicuous shade, entered the room. He was a head shorter than Quinn, his perfectly pitched tenor trumped by a heavy Queens accent.
“Is this the office of the deceased?”
Quinn turned to me. “Clare, meet one of the detectives I’m working with, Sergeant Sullivan. That’s Finbar Sullivan, so you can see why we call him Sully.”
Sullivan’s face was open and friendly. I met his eyes and smiled. “I think Finbar is a perfectly fine name. Very Celtic.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not so hot when you’re growing up in Ozone Park. That’s John Gotti country, land of Tonys and Vinnies. But thanks,” he said, then leaned toward me and cupped a hand over his mouth. “I can see why the big guy here’s fallen for you. You say the sweetest things.”
“Don’t flirt with my girl, Sully.”
Sully threw me a wink anyway, then turned to Quinn. “I saw the victim, Mike. She was thin. Real thin. You think drunkorexia?”
“Drunk-a-what-ia?” I asked.
Quinn glanced at me. “It’s not an official medical term, just shorthand for a relatively new condition: a combination of addiction like binge drinking, and eating disorders like anorexia. We usually see it in younger women, college age. The girls starve themselves to be thin, often abuse drugs, and consume alcohol as pretty much their only sustenance. Once they start, they have a life expectancy of about five years.”
“It’s crazy, all right.” Sully shook his head. “These girls won’t put an olive in their mouth, but they got no problem sucking down the martini it came with.” He turned to his partner. “You want me to secure the scene. Right, Mike?”
“Bag up Ms. Purcell’s personal effects and all the prescription bottles you can find. We’ll check them for residue. Prints. I’ll get back to you soon. I’m going to get Ms. Cosi out of here and swing by the Sixth for notification.”
“I hate that part.” Sully’s light mood suddenly vanished. “Okay, Mike, I’ll cover things here.”
As we left Monica’s office and walked down the hall, I touched Quinn’s arm. “What’s notification?”
Quinn stared straight ahead. “When I tell the next of kin what happened to their loved one, that’s notification.”
“Oh.”
The reception room was nearly empty now and eerily still. Two uniformed police officers stood at the front desk. The magazine’s art director was sitting behind it. The tall East Indian woman with long dark hair was sobbing into a handkerchief.
As we moved to exit through the glass doors, one of the uniforms called out, “Lieutenant? A word.”
Quinn looked at me. “I need a few minutes.”
“Go. I’ll wait.”
The glass doors opened a moment later, and Matt walked in. “Hey! Clare! What a morning I had! You won’t believe it!”
I blinked.
“Just look at me,” he said. “I’m dripping wet.”
Dark stains marred his white cotton button-down.