The M.E.’s report had narrowed the time of death down to sometime between six o’clock Friday evening and noon Saturday, which was all very scientific, but in Oberholzer’s mind was very stupid as well; given the method of the killing, the detective was much more inclined to put the time of death as somewhere between nine p.m. and two a.m. of the same days, having ruled out the earlier hours on the grounds that it wouldn’t have been really dark by then, and someone looking out of any one of several dozen windows with a view of Costanza’s apartment could have clearly seen what was going on. If the killer had half a brain — and in Oberholzer’s experience most killers had at least that — he would have waited until anyone looking in the direction of Costanza’s apartment would have had to have the lights out and the curtains open in their own. Not a one hundred percent chance of not being seen, but far better than climbing around on fire escapes in broad daylight. He’d also figured that Costanza would have gone to bed by two in the morning, so wouldn’t have been sitting on her sofa as an easy target. The odds, in fact, were that the killing had taken place sometime between nine and ten, since the only reasonable access to the fire escape was over the roof, given that the ladder from the second floor down to the street showed no sign of having been either moved or used, and the only access to the roof was through the building. Having already determined that there’d been a large party going on in one of the apartments on the fourth floor, it would have been simple enough for the killer to get in simply by ringing half a dozen buzzers then waiting for someone to unlock the front door, and since the host of the party had already admitted to letting at least a dozen people into the building between eight and nine without making certain who they were, Oberholzer figured the odds were pretty good that at least one of those people had gone to the roof instead of the party.
But now he had at least a dozen more names of people he’d have to track down to see if any of them had seen someone who hadn’t been at the party. He figured the odds on that one at close to zero, but knew he’d have to go through the motions anyway.
Just before lunch he’d gone to Costanza’s office to talk face to face with everyone who’d worked with her. The only person he’d figured could have had anything to do with it was the geek who worked in the cubicle next to hers, but the longer he talked to the guy — his name was Rosenberg — the less convinced he was. The guy had liked Costanza, but Oberholzer hadn’t picked up any vibes at all that the relationship had gone much past the office-buddies stage. Dinner together every now and then, but that was about it.
“What about this guy Humphries?” the detective had asked as he was winding up the interview with Rosenberg. “Any idea what that appointment was about?”
Rosenberg’s head had bobbed. “She went to see him about one of her cases — a little girl who lives in The Rockwell.”
“Foster parents in The Rockwell? Some kids get all the luck, hunh?”
To Oberholzer’s surprise, Rosenberg had shaken his head. “Andrea was worried about the girl, and wanted to talk to her doctor, who also happens to live in The Rockwell. And the doctor didn’t cooperate.” As Frank Oberholzer had listened silently and scribbled a few notes, Nate Rosenberg recounted the conversation he’d had with Dr. Humphries Monday morning.
“So what do you think?” the detective asked when he was finished. “Did he sound like he was pissed at Costanza for wanting to see the kid’s records?”
Rosenberg shrugged. “Not particularly — he sounded more like he was just making sure everything was done right before opening a patient’s records. And he’s right — he could get sued if he just opened them up.” He hesitated, and Oberholzer instantly knew there was something else.
“What is it?” he prompted.
“It’s probably nothing,” Rosenberg replied. “But Andrea didn’t like Humphries.”
He fell silent, and Oberholzer prompted him again, not quite so gently. “You wanta tell me about it, or do I have to play a guessing game?”
Rosenberg held his hands up almost defensively. “There’s not that much — Andrea just didn’t think much of some of Humphries’ ideas, that’s all. I mean, he’s an osteopath and a homeopath, and Andrea isn’t—” He caught himself, and adjusted the tense. “—Andrea wasn’t very impressed. She wasn’t much for alternative medicine.”
Oberholzer scratched behind his ear with the end of his pencil. “Think she would have let him know that?”
“Hard to say,” Rosenberg said, shrugging. “If she did, Humphries didn’t mention it. All he was concerned about was that she have the right authorizations before he’d give her a look at the Mayhew girl’s medical records.”
Oberholzer had picked up the pastrami sandwich on the way back to the office, and as he stuffed the last bite into his mouth with one hand, he fished in the jumble on his desk for Andrea Costanza’s address book. Years of experience had taught him that with an address book, the best thing was to call the newest entries first — old friends didn’t often kill each other, but new friends could be unknown quantities. Paging through the book, he searched for entries that looked fresh.
On the ‘E’ page, he came across an entry that had been scratched out entirely, obliterated by an impenetrable layer of black ink as if she’d crossed it out with a laundry marker or something. Well, the lab could probably sort that out if it came down to it. Then, on the next page, he saw what was obviously a new entry for a Caroline Fleming, with a work number and a home number.
He frowned, then picked up the Day-Timer and flipped through it until he came to the page marked with the notation ‘Caroline’s wedding.’
So Caroline wasn’t a new friend — just a new listing for an old friend with a new last name.
He went back to the address book, going through it from start to finish, but other than the entry for Caroline Fleming, nothing else stuck out as new; indeed, most of the entries made in what looked like the freshest ink were extra phone numbers and e-mail addresses. But even as he went through it again, he kept going back to his conversation with Nathan Rosenberg, and finally he found a copy of the yellow pages and leafed through it until he found the listing for Dr. Theodore Humphries.
On the fourth ring, an answering machine picked up and a deep voice informed him “I am out of the office until two. If you wish, you may leave a number and I shall return your call.” Deciding he didn’t wish, Oberholzer hung up, but as he went back to the address book — and the task of calling every one of the numbers — he kept thinking about the message he’d just heard on the telephone. There had been a strange note not only in the voice, but in the choice of words as well. ‘If you wish…’ ‘I shall return your call.’ The phrases had sounded stilted, and the voice that delivered them had sounded — at least to Oberholzer’s ears — a bit arrogant.
But so what?
Weren’t a lot of doctors arrogant? But if Andrea Costanza had challenged this particular arrogant-sounding doctor on either his credentials or his refusal to let her see one of his patient’s files, how would he have reacted?
Deciding he’d rather talk to the doctor in person than on the phone, he turned Andrea Costanza’s address book over to one of the newest additions to the squad, a rookie named Maria Hernandez who’d just been promoted to detective last month. “Start calling these people,” he said. “See what you can find out about who might have been mad at Andrea Costanza. You’re a woman — gathering gossip should be right up your alley.” He turned around and headed out of the squad room, apparently oblivious to the venomous look Maria Hernandez gave him.