“You’re shameless.”
“Don’t you just love it?”
The thought of her, stretched out on the bed, toying with herself stirred him.
“Jesus, read the damn article before you run out of breath.”
She laughed heartily, sipped her coffee, and said, “Tell Dave to speed it up.”
“Screw the article.”
“No, screw me, darling. Oh, I know, I know, Dave can hear you and we can’t have any fun, right?”
“Very perceptive.”
“Okay, and did I hear please?”
“Please, for Christ sake.”
“Ahh, that’s my boy. Want me to finish what I’m doing before I read it?”
“Victoria!”
“Ohhh-kay.” She sat and smoothed out the tabloid. “My God, they even have a picture.”
“They shot it before dinner. They can send photos from a laptop in two minutes these days.”
“The headline reads: ‘Has Literati Bad Boy Gone Soft?’ Are you soft, sweetheart?”
“Stop it, just read on. And it’s literatus. ”
“Look at you, all dressed up in your little tux. Aren’t you cute.”
“Just read what it says, okay?”
“’kay. ‘Ward Lee Hamilton, best-selling author of enough books to fill a small library, who has never met a human being he didn’t insult, proved to be a tame tiger at the Philip Marlowe Award banquet in Philly last night as he accepted the Lifetime Achievement Award from a full house of his peers.
“’Hamilton, known for his condescending attitude, his whiplash tongue, and his flamboyant couture, was an absolute dear as he praised several fellow nominees whom he said, ‘deserved the honor’ adding ‘they should all be standing beside me here tonight.’
“’Hamilton was dressed in an elegant and conservative, black tuxedo, a rad departure from his usual attire. The only thing missing was gal pal, socialite Victoria Mansfield, who was at a charity affair here in the city. What a shame. She would have been proud of her usually boorish play toy.’”
“Play toy! That bitch!”
“Oh, calm down, sweetie, you know Sophie has to get her digs in. Maybe that cop will be a little friendlier if he thinks you’ve turned into Mister Nice Guy.”
“I’m on to something about him. I’ll jump on the computer when I get home and…”
“You even go near that office and pussycat is gonna close shop.”
“Blackmail?” he said, feigning shock.
“Listen you, when you walk in the door I’ll be wearing that eight hundred dollar peignoir I bought yesterday and I expect your full attention and appreciation. Understood?”
He chuckled. “A bit waspish, aren’t we?”
“ We? I am going to turn this boudoir into a bordello, darling boy,” she said. “Single-handedly if need be. Have you forgotten?”
“I don’t forget anything.”
“Good,” she whispered, fondling the phone. “It’s Story Lady time.”
30
The corpse was floating sideways in a deep tub, still in a sitting position, hands still frozen in its lap, its eyes staring half open through melting ice crystals that floated by and then shrank and vanished into small veils of rising steam from the water, which was being maintained at exactly 98.6 degrees. Max Wolfsheim, who finally had checked his phone messages, had arranged for the large gray plastic container to be delivered before he even got to the lab. Annie had set up the thermostatic faucet which delivered the water to the tub so the temperature would stay consistent as the icy contents melted. It was beside the stainless steel slab on which the systematic dissembling of the body would take place.
“He was a classy, old fella,” Wolf said sadly and to nobody in particular.
Annie was at a long lab table nearby preparing a chemical analysis of the red wine in the bottle found beside the dead man. The rest of the crew was in the adjoining big room, preparing the briefing.
“How long will this take?” Cody asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” the wizard answered. “Right now he’s floating because ice is lighter than water. When he goes down and is fully immersed, he’ll thaw faster. Normally the lungs, which are ninety-percent water, would thaw first but we have to wait until the body and skin temperature rises to about 82.4 degrees to preserve the tissue before we start cutting. So blood will thaw first; it’s eighty-three percent water. He was probably dead by the time his temp dropped to 82.4. How long you figure he was in the icebox?”
“I’d say, roughly, 2 a.m. to 8:30 when we started moving him.”
“Six-plus hours at zero Fahrenheit,” Wolf muttered. “I’m guessing he was dead, hell, little guy that size, in probably two hours max. Depends on some other things. What he ate, if there was anything else contributing to death, stuff like that.” He paused and added, ”That was cruel, undressing him like that.”
“And no signs of a struggle,” Annie said.
“That’s because he was heavily drugged,” said Wolf. “Hypothermia begins at about ninety-five degrees. There would be intense shivering. By the time it drops to ninety-three the tremors would be severe, other abnormal body reactions would also set in-hallucinations, delirium. Look at him, totally relaxed, hands in his lap. He was deeply unconscious when all the bodily reactions normally start. Perhaps he was dead before he was put in the freezer.”
Cody said, “That was Si’s guess.”
The Wolf turned to Simon. “Based on what?” he asked.
“Hunch.”
“You mean the idea just floated into his head?” Wolf said with a grin.
“Well, look at the set up. I don’t think this was a revenge killing or some impulsive thing. It’s just weird. So, I’m guessing it’s Androg’s work and if it is, the obvious cause of death will not be what killed him.”
Wolf looked back at the body which was slowly beginning to roll on its face.
“Good guess,” Wolf said, turning his attention to Annie Rothschild. “You ready for the toxicology tests?”
“Uh huh. I’m doing an analysis of the wine while we wait for blood samples and stomach contents. I think it was spiked.”
“How come?”
“I think that’s why the bottle and glass were next to the body. Like Si said, sooner or later Androg’s going to start bragging. Smell the bottle.”
Wolf picked it up, looked at the label. “Nobile di Montepulciano, 1986. Good year.” He took a sniff, lowered the bottle for a second, then took another. “It’s very faint.”
“Yeah. I didn’t notice anything until I started setting up the test sample.”
Wolf handed Cody the bottle.
“Take a whiff.”
Cody held it a few inches from his nose and moved it slowly back and forth, then leaned close and took a hefty smell.
“Chlorine, maybe?”
“Hardly discernible.”
“But it’s there,” Annie said and Wolf nodded agreement.
“So you’re guessing what? Chloral hydrate?” Cody said.
“Good old-fashioned knockout drops,” Wolf nodded. “If so, our killer slipped Uncle Tony a pretty strong mickey. It kicked in when he started eating and he fell face forward right into his dinner. Make that number one on the toxicology list, Annie.”
“Already have,” she answered.
“So the immediate cause of death was freezing,” Wolf said. “We’re looking for the proximate cause-what really killed him. I’m guessing we’ll find that in the blood sample.”
“And it won’t be drugs or thermal,” said Cody.
Annie nodded agreement. “Too obvious,” she said.
Cody thought for a moment and then pressed the button on his headset. “Hue?”
“Right here.”
“How’re you doing?”
“Ready for you.”
“Good. We’ll be over in a few minutes. Bring up Wolf’s list on the big board.”
“Gotcha.”
31
Sunday, October 28
Lou Stinelli was finishing his first cup of coffee and perusing the Sunday Times obits when he stopped at a headline.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.