“Who’s handling it?” Delaney asked.
“Sam Rosoff. Assault and Homicide South. You know him?”
“Yes. An old-timer. Good man.”
“He surely is, Edward. He spotted the cigar stub in the ashtray on the kitchen table. A cold butt, but the saliva still wet. What would you have done?”
“Ask you to search for a skull contusion beneath the dead woman’s hair and start looking for the truck driver’s girl friend.”
Dr. Ferguson laughed. “Edward, you’re wonderful. That’s exactly what Rosoff suggested. I found the contusion. Right now he’s out looking for the girlfriend. Do you miss detective work?”
“Yes.”
“You were the best,” Ferguson said, “until you decided to become Commissioner. Now shut up, lad, and let me read.” Silence.
“Oh-ho,” Ferguson said. “My old friend Bernardi.”
“You know him?” Delaney asked, surprised.
“I do indeed.”
“What do you think of him?”
“As a physician? Excellent. As a man? A prick. No more talk.”
Silence.
“Do you know any of the others?” Delaney asked finally. “The specialists he brought in?”
“I know two of the five-the neurologist and the radiologist. They’re among the best in the city. This must be costing you a fortune. If the other three are as talented, your wife is in good hands. I can check. Now be quiet.”
Silence.
“Oh well,” Ferguson shrugged, still reading, “kidney stones. That’s not so bad.”
“You’ve had cases?”
“All the time. Mostly men, of course. You know who get ’em? Cab drivers. They’re bouncing around on their ass all day.”
“What about my wife?”
“Well, listen, Edward, it could be diet, it could be stress. There’s so much we don’t know.”
“My wife eats sensibly, rarely takes a drink, and she’s the most-most serene woman I’ve ever met.”
“Is she? Let me finish reading.”
He went through all the reports intently, going back occasionally to check reports he had already finished. He didn’t even glance at the X-rays. Finally he shoved back from the table, poured himself another huge brandy, freshed the Captain’s highball.
“Well?” Delaney asked.
“Edward,” Ferguson said, frowning, “don’t bring me in. Or anyone else. Bernardi is a bombastic, opinionated, egotistical shit. But as I said, he’s a good sawbones. On your wife’s case he’s done everything exactly right. He’s tried everything except surgery-correct?”
“Well, he tried antibiotics. They didn’t work.”
“No, they wouldn’t on kidney stones. But they didn’t locate that until they got her in the hospital for sensitive plates, and then the trouble passing urine started. That’s recent, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Only in the last four or five days.”
“Well, then…”
“You recommend surgery?” Delaney asked in a dead voice. Ferguson whirled on him. “I recommend nothing,” he said sharply. “It’s not my case. But you’ve got no choice.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He was right. Bite the bullet, m’lad.”
“What are her chances?”
“You want betting odds, do you? With surgery, very good indeed.”
“And without?”
“Forget it.”
“It’s not fair,” Delaney cried furiously.
Ferguson looked at him strangely. “What the fuck is?” he asked.
They stared at each other a long moment. Then Ferguson went back to the table, flipped through the X-rays, selected one and held it up to the light of a tilted desk lamp. “Kidney,” he muttered. “Yes, yes.”
“What is it, doctor?”
“He told you and I told you: calculus in the kidneys, commonly known as stones.”
“That’s not what I meant. Something’s bothering you.” Ferguson looked at him. “You son of a bitch,” he said softly. “You should never have left the detective division. I’ve never met anyone as-as attuned to people as you are.”
“What is it?” Delaney repeated.
“It’s nothing. Nothing I can explain. A hunch. You have them, don’t you?”
“All the time.”
“It’s little things that don’t quite add up. Maybe there’s a rational explanation. The recent hysterectomy. The fever and chills that have been going on since then. But only recently the headaches, nausea, lumbar pain, and now the difficulty passing urine. It all adds up to kidney stones, but the sequence of symptoms is wrong. With kidney stones, pain at pissing usually comes from the start. And sometimes it’s bad enough to drive you right up a wall. No record of that here. Yet the plates show…You tell me she’s not under stress?”
“She is not.”
“Every case I’ve had is driven, trying to do too much, bedeviled by time, rushing around, biting fingernails and screaming at the waitress when the coffee is cold. Is that Barbara?”
“No. She’s totally opposite. Calm.”
“You can’t tell. We never know. Still…” He sighed. “Edward, have you ever heard of Proteus infection?”
“Bernardi mentioned it to me.”
Ferguson actually staggered back a step, as if he had been struck a blow on the chest. “He mentioned it to you?” he demanded. “When was this?”
“About three weeks ago, when he first told me Barbara should go into the hospital for tests. He just mentioned it and said he wanted to do some reading on it. But he didn’t say anything about it today. Should I have asked him?”
“Jesus Christ,” Ferguson said bitterly. “No, you shouldn’t have asked him. If he wanted to tell you, he would have.”
“You’ve treated cases?”
“Proteus? Oh yes, I have indeed. Three in twenty years. Mr. Proteus is a devil.”
“What happened to them?”
“The three? Two responded to antibiotics and were smoking and drinking themselves to death within forty-eight hours.”
“And the third?”
Ferguson came over, gripped Delaney by the right arm, and almost lifted him to his feet. The Captain had forgotten how strong he was.
“Go have your wife’s kidney stones cut out,” the doctor said brutally. “She’ll either live or die. Which is true for all of us. No way out, m’lad.”
Delaney took a deep breath.
“All right, doctor,” he said. “Thank you for your time and your-your patience. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“Bother?” Ferguson said gruffly. “Idiot.”
He walked Delaney to the door. “I might just stop by to see Barbara,” he said casually. “Just as a friend of the family.”
“Yes,” Delaney nodded dumbly. “Please do that. She doesn’t want any visitors, but I know she’ll be glad to see you.”
In the foyer Ferguson took Delaney by the shoulders and turned him to the light.
“Have you been sleeping okay, Edward?” he demanded. “Not too well.”
“Don’t take pills. Take a stiff shot. Brandy is best. Or a glass of port. Or a bottle of stout just before you get into bed.”
“Yes. All right. Thank you. I will.”
They shook hands.
“Oh wait,” Ferguson said. “You forgot your papers. I’ll get the file for you.”
But when he returned, Delaney had gone.
He stopped at his home to put on a heavy wool sweater under his uniform jacket. Then he walked next door to the Precinct house. There was a civilian car parked directly in front of the entrance. Inside the windshield, on the passenger’s side, a large card was displayed: PRESS.
Delaney stalked inside. There was a civilian talking to the Desk Sergeant. Both men broke off their conversation and turned when he tramped in.
“Is that your car?” he asked the man. “In front of the station?”
“Yes, that’s mine. I was-”
“You a reporter?”
“Yes. I was just-”
“Move it. You’re parked in a zone reserved for official cars only. It’s clearly marked.”
“I just wanted-”