“Theorem.”
“Is that somebody slipped ’em that shit? But who? And why?”
“I don’t know that part yet.”
“Those parts,” LaTour corrected. “Who and why. Parts plural.”
Tal sighed.
“You think you could really give somebody a drug and tell ’em to kill themselves and they will?”
“Let’s go find out,” Tal said.
“Huh?”
The statistician flipped through his notes. “The company that makes the drug? It’s over in Paramus. Off the Parkway. Let’s go talk to ’em.”
“Shit. All the way to Jersey.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I don’t need any fucking ideas. This’s your case, remember?”
“Maybe I twenty-one-twenty-foured it. But it’s everybody’s case now. Let’s go.”
She would’ve looked pretty good in a short skirt, Robert Covey thought, but unfortunately she was wearing slacks.
“Mr. Covey, I’m from the Cardiac Support Center.”
“Call me Bob. Or you’ll make me feel as old as your older brother.”
She was a little short for his taste but then he had to remind himself that she was here to help him get some pig parts stuck into his chest and rebuild a bunch of leaking veins and arteries — or else die with as little mess as he could. Besides, he claimed that he had a rule he’d never date a woman a third his age. (When the truth was that after Veronica maybe he joked and maybe he flirted but in his heart he was content never to date at all.)
He held the door for her and gestured her inside with a slight bow. He could see her defenses lower a bit. She was probably used to dealing with all sorts of pricks in this line of work and was wary during their initial meeting, but Covey limited his grousing to surly repairmen and clerks and waitresses who thought because he was old he was stupid.
There was, he felt, no need for impending death to skew his manners. He invited her in and directed her to the couch in his den.
“Welcome, Ms. McCaffrey—”
“How ‘bout Mac? That’s what my mother used to call me when I was good.”
“What’d she call you when you were bad?”
“Mac then too. Though she managed to get two syllables out of it. So, go ahead.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “With what?”
“With what you were going to tell me. That you don’t need me here. That you don’t need any help, that you’re only seeing me to humor your cardiologist, that you don’t want any hand-holding, that you don’t want to be coddled, that you don’t want to change your diet, you don’t want to exercise, you don’t want to give up smoking and you don’t want to stop drinking your—” She glanced at the bar and eyed the bottles. “—your port. So here’re the ground rules. Fair enough, no hand-holding, no coddling. That’s my part of the deal. But, yes, you’ll give up smoking—”
“Did before you were born, thank you very much.”
“Good. And you will be exercising and eating a cardio-friendly diet. And about the port—”
“Hold on—”
“I think we’ll limit you to three a night.”
“Four,” he said quickly.
“Three. And I suspect on most nights you only have two.”
“I can live with three,” he grumbled. She’d been right about the two (though, okay, sometimes a little bourbon joined the party).
Damn, he liked her. He always had liked strong women. Like Veronica.
Then she was on to other topics. Practical things about what the Cardiac Support Center did and what it didn’t do, about care givers, about home care, about insurance.
“Now, I understand you’re a widower. How long were you married?”
“Forty-nine years.”
“Well, now, that’s wonderful.”
“Ver and I had a very nice life together. Pissed me off we missed the fiftieth. I had a party planned. Complete with a harpist and open bar.” He raised an eyebrow. “Vintage port included.”
“And you have a son?”
“That’s right. Randall. He lives in California. Runs a computer company. But one that actually makes money. Imagine that! Wears his hair too long and lives with a woman — he oughta get married — but he’s a good boy.”
“You see him much?”
“All the time.”
“When did you talk to him last?”
“The other day.”
“And you’ve told him all about your condition?”
“You bet.”
“Good. Is he going to get out here?”
“In a week or so. He’s traveling. Got a big deal he’s putting together.”
She was taking something out of her purse. “Our doctor at the clinic prescribed this.” She handed him a bottle. “Luminux. It’s an anti-anxiety agent.”
“I say no to drugs.”
“This’s a new generation. You’re going through a lot of stuff right now. It’ll make you feel better. Virtually no side effects—”
“You mean it won’t take me back to my days as a beatnik in the Village?” She laughed and he added, “Actually, think I’ll pass.”
“It’s good for you.” She shook out two pills into a small cup and handed them to him. She walked to the bar and poured a glass of water.
Watching her, acting like she lived here, Covey scoffed, “You ever negotiate?”
“Not when I know I’m right.”
“Tough lady.” He glanced down at the pills in his hand. “I take these, that means I can’t have my port, right?”
“Sure you can. You know, moderation’s the key to everything.”
“You don’t seem like a moderate woman.”
“Oh, hell no, I’m not. But I don’t practice what I preach.” And she passed him the glass of water.
Late afternoon, driving to Jersey.
Tal fiddled with the radio trying to find the Opera Hour program that Nurse Mac had mentioned.
LaTour looked at the dash as if he was surprised the car even had a radio.
Moving up and down the dial, through the several National Public Radio bands, he couldn’t find the show. What time had she’d said it came on? He couldn’t remember. He wondered why he cared what she listened to. He didn’t even like opera that much. He gave up and settled on all news, all the time. LaTour stood that for five minutes then put the game on.
The homicide cop was either preoccupied or just a natural-born bad driver. Weaving, speeding well over the limit, then braking to a crawl. Occasionally he’d lift his middle finger to other drivers in a way that was almost endearing.
Probably happier on a motorcycle, Tal reflected.
LaTour tuned in the game on the radio. They listened for a while, neither speaking.
“So,” Tal tried. “Where you live?”
“Near the station house.”
Nothing more.
“Been on the force long?”
“Awhile.”
New York seven, Boston three...
“You married?” Tal had noticed that he wore no wedding band.
More silence.
Tal turned down the volume and repeated the question.
After a long moment LaTour grumbled, “That’s something else.”
“Oh.” Having no idea what the cop meant.
He supposed there was a story here — a hard divorce, lost children.
And six point three percent kill themselves before retirement...
But whatever the sad story might be, it was only for Bear’s friends in the Department, those on the Real Crimes side of the pen.
Not for Einstein, the calculator humper.
They fell silent and drove on amid the white noise of the sportscasters.
Ten minutes later LaTour skidded off the parkway and turned down a winding side road.
Montrose Pharmaceuticals was a small series of glass and chrome buildings in a landscaped industrial park. Far smaller than Pfizer and the other major drug companies in the Garden State, it nonetheless must’ve done pretty well in sales — to judge from the number of Mercedes, Jaguars, and Porsches in the employee parking lot.