“I find surprise can be quite revealing,” Hamilton answered. “Happy to see you’re already at it this morning, Captain.” He said the last word as though it were a taunt.
Cody had little use for writers in general. They were always sticking their noses in other people’s business, clogging up the machinery of life. On top of that, this one was a snob, smug, condescending, and arrogant. And it didn’t help that he was working on a magazine expose on cold cases, beginning with the only case in Cody’s twelve-year record as a homicide detective that went cold on him: the murder of Melinda Cramer.
“If you turn over your files,” Hamilton was saying, “we can make this painless for you. I won’t have to interview you here and tape it.”
“You won’t interview me because I don’t have time.”
“Yes,” Hamilton said coyly, “I do understand you have your hands full right now.”
Cody stared the man down, refusing to take the bait he was so subtly being offered.
“Don’t worry, Captain Cody, I won’t be too hard on you. I know you weren’t at the crime scene, and that the coroner put her down as a suicide.”
“That’s correct,” Cody said. “It was four days later that I had her exhumed, and re-autopsied. It was determined that she was dead before she hit the ground.”
“And that the cause of death was suffocation,” Hamilton chimed in, “not blunt trauma.”
Cody nodded. “Manual strangulation was indicated by fine pin point hemorrhages in the eyes.”
“Also hairline fractures of the larynx and hydroid bone,” Ward added, “that had been completely overlooked at the first autopsy.”
“The case was cold before I got it,” Cody finished, trying to keep any defensiveness out of his voice. “Since you seem to know so much about it, why do you need the files?”
“I like to investigate fuck-ups.” Hamilton’s smile was warm as a viper’s. “The public gets plenty of exposure to investigatory brilliance on television. I pride myself on giving them the other side of the coin-especially if it takes the hottest detective on the force down a notch or two. If I can slow your rise to power by just a little, I’ll consider my job well done.”
It was all Cody could do not to punch the guy in the face. But he hadn’t had his coffee yet, and he had better things to do this morning. The sooner Hamilton was out of here, the better. He couldn’t resist. “Didn’t you finally receive an award some people say was twenty years overdue?”
“Don’t even think of jousting with me, dear boy.” Hamilton absent-mindedly brushed off the lapel of his signature white suit. “We can’t have our police thinking cold cases will go away just because they’re being ignored. If you don’t give me the file, I’ve already had my attorney fill out the Freedom of Information forms. He just has to pull the trigger.”
Cody was seething. But for now Raymond Handley and Uncle Tony-and now Dr. Song Wiley-were his priorities.
Ward Hamilton was not.
Mindful of Stinelli’s pleas, Cody reached across the desk and handed over the green file containing a Xeroxed copy of the Cramer file he’d ordered Kate to check over before she left the Loft yesterday evening.
Hamilton accepted the file without bothering even to glance at it, much less open it. “Remember, detective, the race goes to the swiftest.”
“Not always,” Cody replied evenly.
“And I do understand you’re busy adding a few more unsolveds to your list,” Hamilton concluded as he stood up.
This time Cody took the bait. “What the hell are you referring to?” At his orders, TAZ had bent over double to cloak the events of the last few days in secrecy.
Hamilton’s shit-eating grin said it all, but that didn’t stop him from adding: “I have my sources.”?
Kate and Rizzo were at Bellevue E.R. retracing Song’s movements last night. So far they’d come up empty-handed. No one on the day shift was the least bit useful; they might as well have been working on another planet. Kate had led Rizzo to the office Song used, but today it was occupied by a Pakistani whose English was so thickly accented that they could barely make out a word. But the gist was clear. The man hadn’t seen Dr. Wiley. When he’d started his shift, he’d gone straight to the O.R. and only just occupied the physicians’ office a half an hour ago.
Finally, a minimally-helpful desk clerk suggested they visit Human Resources. A flash of badge at the African-American who manned the reception desk was enough to get the list of everyone who worked the E.R. shift with Dr. Wiley last night. Phone numbers were another matter, however. It was an hour before they’d gone through the personnel files and created a complete roster.
“We’re losing precious time,” Kate said, berating herself for not staying awake last night for Song.
Rizzo heard the edge in her voice, and nodded. “I’m going to fax this over to TAZ,” he said. “Five people manning the phones should get the speed we need.”
And, in fact, it was only twenty minutes later that they got their first lead.
“She was heading for the pharmacy when she left here,” one of the nurses, an Hispanic named Ivonne Leonel, reported.
“What time was that?” Kate asked.
“Ten-maybe fifteen-after twelve,” Leonel said. “Why are you asking about Dr. Wiley? Is she okay?”
“Do you know why she was heading there?” Rizzo pressed, ignoring the question.
“One of my patients was complaining that we were bringing his medication too late,” Leonel explained. “Dr. Wiley said she was going to up the medication and prescribe that we bring it to him every three hours so we wouldn’t always be chasing the pain, she said.”
The pharmacy was in the basement, and they got lucky. The very weary pharmacist was doing a double shift.
He remembered Dr. Wiley had come in on her way out last night. Ruffling around in an untidy spindle, he pulled out the prescription she’d ask him to fill. He waved it toward them, as though to show off his organizational skills.
“What time was that?” Rizzo asked.
The pharmacist thought for a moment, then typed a few strokes into his computer. “Twelve-twenty,” he said. “Have to record the time for billing purposes.”
“Did Dr. Wiley wait for you to fill it?” Kate asked.
The pharmacist nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I offered to take it up myself, but she insisted. It only took me a few minutes. I handed it to her, and she thanked me and left.”
Kate brushed at her eye, as though something other than a tear was bothering it.
Rizzo noticed the thoughtful look on the pharmacist’s countenance. “Anything else you can tell us?” he asked.
“Yes,” he said. “The elevator wasn’t working. She walked back and asked me where the steps were. ‘It was working a minute ago,’ she said. I pointed down the hall and she left again.”
Kate and Rizzo shared an uneasy glance as they walked down the same hall Song had walked nine hours ago, toward the “Exit” sign that indicated the doorway to the staircase.?
They never made it to the stairs.
A few feet before the exit, a door marked “Pharmaceutical Storeroom-Authorized Personnel Only” caught Kate’s attention. The door was ajar.
“That’s odd,” she said, stopping in front of the door. Her hand extended to push it open when Rizzo intervened.
“Let me,” he said, reaching inside his jacket for his piece. “Stand behind me.”
Kate wasn’t budging. “I can handle myself,” she said.
Rizzo kicked the door open, then reached for the light switch.
For the rest of his life, Kate’s scream would haunt his dreams.
35
Like Handley and Uncle Tony, she’d been stripped naked, and was seated. On a card-table chair. Her legs and arms bound with surgical tape. One hand was clutching an open bottle of Excedrin. They could see that at least a third of the pills were missing.
The other hand was positioned on her lap, its thumb taped beneath the four fingers.