A Night at the Operation

by JEFFREY COHEN

  But I had more points for Sharon to clear up. “Why was the conference with Chapman private?” I asked. “Don’t you usually do that with a nurse in the room?”

  “Yes, but Chapman specifically requested it be just himself and me in the room. I think he was concerned that he’d get emotional, and to tell you the truth, he did.” Sharon kept shaking her head just a little. “This whole thing just keeps getting more confusing, Elliot. Chapman got a second chance at life, and someone immediately took it away from him. Why?”

  “When we find out who, we’ll know why,” I told her. “And that’s the part that’s bothering me. Because I think the person—or people—who killed Chapman is the same person—or people—who tried to take you out with a shopping cart.”

  “I still think you’re overreacting to that,” Sharon said. “It was a windy day.”

  “You’re right. The wind blew all those cinder blocks into the shopping cart, and then waited patiently until you and I were climbing up a hill against it. Yeah, that wind is a wily force of nature, all right. Besides, I saw Wally Mayer at C’est Moi! right before we left. He knew where we were.”

  “It’s still absurd,” Sharon said, as if that proved her point.

  “Just as well, I’d appreciate it if you could try to keep out of the way of the Chapman women and Wally, which I believe was the name of a disco band in the seventies. Is there any way we can find out what was in Chapman’s will? That could prove to them that you didn’t have a motive to kill their father.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Oh, one last thing: I talked to Grace . . .”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “You’re gossiping with Grace now? Honestly, Elliot, what kind of a role model are you going to be for our”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“child?”

  I ignored her. “Grace said Chapman was having an affair with someone from your office—Toni Westphal.”

  “Then Grace has been drinking,” Sharon said.

  “What, you and Toni are such good friends that she’d tell you if she was dating an older guy?”

  “No.” My ex-wife grinned. “But we’re good enough friends that I know Toni Westphal is a lesbian.”

  Oh.

  Belinda came by with the check, and studied us closely. “What’s going on?” she asked. “There’s something new with you.”

  “Yeah, now we’ve eaten,” I tried.

  “No, I’m used to that. Besides, all you had was this vegetable stuff. People don’t look that happy over vegetable stuff.” Her eyes widened a bit, and she stared at Sharon. “Are you pregnant?” she asked.

  Sharon’s jaw dropped open about two feet. A snake would have been proud of her potential food capacity. “How could you know?” she asked.

  “I’m a genius,” Belinda said. “I just know stuff.”

  “Fess up,” I told her.

  “Okay, I heard you talking about it before. So tell me.”

  “Not yet,” Sharon said. “We have to break the news to family first.”

  Belinda nodded and said, “Lunch is on me.” She would hear no argument, ripped up the check, and walked away before we could protest. Sharon stood up and started to put on her coat.

  “Gregory,” I said.

  “No, I’m Sharon,” said my ex-wife the comedienne.

  “What did Gregory say when you told him?”

  She turned away from me and put on her scarf. I knew why she turned away.

  “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  The voice that came back was small and faint. “Not yet,” Sharon said.

  I didn’t say anything. I’d suspected that this would be difficult for her, and no matter how angry it made me, I had to be sympathetic. I put on my coat and waited for her. We walked out of the restaurant together.

  Without a word, we started walking toward Comedy Tonight. I had to be back to get the place into some kind of shape for the evening’s showings, and to figure out a way to save Sophie’s job. Sharon could walk with me to the theatre, and then continue on to her practice.

  “So,” I said finally, “Chapman’s lawyer.”

  “Yes,” Sharon agreed. “You should probably call her. That might help, and I certainly can’t do it without breaking about seven different ethics codes.”

  Before I could remark about that (and it was going to be a corker, trust me), I heard a car’s brakes screech, and then someone—probably Sharon—shouted, “Look out!” Then something hard hit me in the forehead.

  And not to belabor the cliché, but at that moment, all went black.

  32

  ONE medical examination room, even in a medical practice belonging to your ex-wife, looks pretty much like every other medical examination room. But there are certain touches that, even when you’re regaining consciousness, you can recognize. Sharon always has a rubber duck in her exam rooms; she says it’s to amuse frightened children. I believe she considers it a talisman of some sort, and as evidence, I note that she calls the object Lucky Duck. I rest my case.

  In any event, old Lucky was sitting right on the shelf, directly in my line of vision, when I opened my eyes. My head felt strange, swollen in one spot and flat everywhere else, and while I didn’t exactly have a splitting headache, I was not at all anxious to touch the area just above my right eyebrow, as I had a sneaking suspicion I would find that experience regrettable.

  “I don’t have to ask where I am, but I’m curious about how I got here,” I said. My voice sounded hoarse, and my throat didn’t hurt. It also sounded like it was coming from somewhere other than inside me; I would have sworn I could hear myself speaking across the room. Closing my eyes again was starting to seem like a good idea.

  Then I caught sight of Sharon out of the corner of my eye, rushing from the other side of the room to the examination table I was lying on, her face a little wet on the cheeks. “Elliot!” she barked, then tried to calm her voice. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I was hit by the three thirty-five to Penn Station,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Someone threw a brick at you,” she said, but her voice was very low, and I was confused. Then I saw Chief Dutton loom up behind Sharon. “Someone in a passing car turned the corner in front of you and threw a brick that hit you in the head,” he said. “The doctor here called an ambulance, and they brought you here.”

  “Not to emergency?” I asked Sharon.

  “This was closer,” she said in her own voice this time. “I was afraid . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Do I have a concussion?” I asked. “Did I concuss? Am I concussing?” I don’t know why, but suddenly the word concussion seemed very funny to me. Sharon must have given me some very interesting painkillers.

  “I’m not sure,” Sharon said. “But I think you should lie still for a while.”

  “A brick?” I asked Dutton. “Somebody threw a brick at me?”

  “I guess a cinder block was too hard to throw,” he answered.

  “Is it possible they were throwing it at Sharon?” I asked.

  “Anything’s possible. We don’t even have a license number or a make on the car,” Dutton said, seemingly pointing his comments at Sharon.

  “It was dark blue,” she said with some force in her voice. “Beyond that, I thought it was more important to get help for Elliot.” It was clear they’d had this conversation already, and were now reiterating it for my benefit.

  “How long have I been out?” I asked.

  “About half an hour,” Sharon answered. “And I want you to stay here another three hours so we can observe you.”

  “I can’t. I have to be at the theatre. I have to save Sophie’s job.”

  Sharon and Dutton passed a look. Maybe my head injury was worse than they’d thought. “Do you have to talk yourself out of firing her?” Dutton asked in his best “soothe the mental patient” voice.

  “Her parents want her to quit, and I have to come up with a brilliant plan to convince them she can’t. She’s going to
meet me at the theatre any minute, and I have to come up with something. I can’t lie here for three hours.”

  Of course, the guy pressing down on my forehead with a fifty-pound mallet was making a convincing case for the other point of view.

  “An hour,” Sharon said. “I’m not letting you out of here for at least an hour. Argue with me, and I’ll send you to the hospital. Are we clear?”

  I put my head back down on the table. “I get so excited when you’re all medical, honey,” I said.

  I don’t remember a lot for some time after that.

  WHEN I realized I was conscious again, there was no one else in the room. Except Lucky Duck. I discovered this by lifting my head, which was scarier than it was painful. I sat up, and again, felt better than I had expected to. I was considering standing up when the door opened and Sharon walked in.

  “What day is it?” she asked.

  “Buy a calendar,” I suggested. Then I realized she was asking to test my brain, so I said, “Wednesday.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “You know I hate it,” I told her.

  “Who’s going to hear? I already know your middle name.”

  I told her my middle name. Don’t even dream I’d tell you.

  “What’s your mother’s maiden name?” Sharon asked.

  “Sperber.”

  “Okay. I think maybe you didn’t have a concussion, or if you did, it was a mild one. But I’m still not crazy about your condition.”

  “You liked it enough to let me get you pregnant,” I reminded her.

  Her face twisted around in a sour sort of way. “That’s it. You’re okay,” she said.

  She gave me the requisite lecture about putting ice on my head, taking acetaminophen for pain (apparently she hadn’t given me anything for pain to this point: “You don’t give pain medication to someone who’s unconscious, Elliot”), calling her if I became dizzy, and having someone look at my eyes on regular occasions to see if my pupils were dilated. I promised to do all those things (although I really intended only to take the pills), got on my feet—which didn’t require as much effort as I’d feared—and headed for the theatre. A quick check of my watch indicated I’d been asleep for an hour and forty-five minutes, which meant it was about the time the staff would start appearing at Comedy Tonight.

  Sure enough, they were grouped together in the lobby, staring at the burn marks on the wall, still in their winter coats when I arrived. Sophie, who was there despite not being “on duty,” informed me that the plumber and the electrician had apparently conspired to shut down the heating system in my absence, and were now “pretty sure” it would be on in time for the evening’s showings.

  I realized it was still less than a week since I’d first heard that Sharon was missing, and I felt at least seven years older.

  Anthony asked me about the Laurel-and-Hardy-sized bandage on my head, and I said I’d had an accident. I’d actually had an “on purpose”—someone had deliberately tried to hurt me—but telling the truth would have required an outlay of time and energy I really couldn’t spare at the moment.

  I told Anthony and Jonathan to get to work setting up, reminding Jonathan that Sophie wasn’t actually working tonight, so he’d be running the snack bar, and I’d show him how to work the popcorn machine at last. He nodded solemnly, as he always did when given responsibility for anything, and went about setting up. Sophie’s expression was somewhere between that of a proud mother watching her son attempt the multiplication tables for the first time and a nervous bank manager handing over the safe combination to Willie Sutton.

  Sophie followed me into my office, where I sat down, letting my head wound overcome my sense of chivalry. She didn’t seem to care. “How are you holding up?” I asked her.

  “I’m okay,” she said, her tone saying the complete opposite. “I’m sorry I called up and cried.”

  “I don’t mind. Well, of course I mind—I don’t want you to cry. But we have to figure out a solution to our problem. What did your parents say when you told them you had to give two weeks’ notice?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “They said I shouldn’t have to listen to you about that. They said I should tell you I’m not coming back, and that’s it, because you can’t sue me or anything because I’m a kid. That’s what I told them I was doing today, coming to tell you I’m not coming back. But I don’t want to stop working here, Elliot.”

  I sat back in my chair. “You’ve applied to how many colleges, Sophie?” I asked.

  “Seven,” she said firmly.

  “You’re pretty realistic. How many do you think you’ll get into?”

  “Seven,” Sophie answered.

  “What is it your parents expect from you?” I asked.

  She thought for a long time. “More,” she said.

  “Okay. Tell them I didn’t accept you resignation, and that I need to hear it directly from them. Get them to come here tomorrow before the showings. I’ll work it out.” I had no idea how I’d work it out, but I saw no reason to tell Sophie that.

  She grinned at me for the first time since she’d reported her SAT scores. “Thanks, Elliot,” she said. And she went out to tell Jonathan the problem was solved.

  Now all I had to do was solve it.

  And that’s when the phone rang, and the caller ID said Meg was on the line. “We finally got Wally Mayer’s cell phone records,” she told me. “Over the weekend when he was supposed to be in Japan, he made seventeen phone calls, all from Newark.”

  “Newark! Who goes to Newark?”

  “People who want to take in a hockey game or a performance at the Performing Arts Center, but nobody involved in this case that we know about,” Meg answered. “There are many fine hotels, if one doesn’t want to leave the room much. Idiot registered under his own name, too, and paid with his own credit card.” She said she’d call with any more news, or that I’d see her back at the town house later. I hung up.

  I decided not to worry about that now, because one must prioritize. The most important thing right now was Sharon’s safety, and making my head feel better. Okay, the two most important things.

  Since I couldn’t do much about the pounding in my head—having taken two pills, which had the same effect as if I’d had someone blow lightly on my temple—I needed to concentrate on keeping Sharon safe. And the surest way to do that would be to find out who killed Russell Chapman.

  I called up the copy of Chapman’s letter I had on the iMac, and read it over again. He was disappointed about his daughters’ reaction to his “death,” particularly Lillian’s laserlike focus on his money. What would a very wealthy man do in a situation like that?

  Change his will.

  There were just as many Angie Hogencamps listed under lawyers as there had been Allen Konigsbergs listed under investigators. I dialed the Spotswood number, and got a receptionist, whom I told I was calling on behalf of a party interested in Russell Chapman’s will. I figured I was a party, and I was certainly interested, although I certainly didn’t have any financial interest in Chapman’s estate. Why split hairs?

  It took some convincing, mostly in the area of why I couldn’t tell the receptionist exactly whose interest I represented, but finally, she put Ms. Hogencamp on the phone.

  “What is the nature of your interest in Mr. Chapman’s estate?” she asked after we’d exchanged artificial pleasantries.

  “I’m not as much interested in who was left how much, as I am in whether there were changes made very close to the day Mr. Chapman died,” I explained.

  “Are you a private investigator?” the attorney asked.

  “I am an investigator,” I admitted. Well, I was investigating, wasn’t I? Nobody had mentioned the word professional in any context.

  “May I ask whose interest you represent?” she asked again.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” I told her. I’ve watched enough detective movies to have that line down pat.
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  “Then I don’t see any reason I should give you any of the information I have,” Angie Hogencamp said.

  This wasn’t doing Sharon any good. “Look, Ms. Hogencamp,” I began. “The fact is, I’m not a private investigator. I own a movie theatre.”

  “I already knew that, Mr. Freed.” She did?

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “You own Comedy Tonight, a movie theatre in Midland Heights that shows only comedies. I’m told it’s quite a nice place to see a classic film.” There was a certain amused tone to Hogencamp’s voice. Dammit! Now I was starting to like her!

  “How could you have known that?” I asked her.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that information,” she parroted back to me. “But I’ll tell you this, for free: There was a change made to Russell Chapman’s will, on the very day he died.”

  “He died on a Sunday,” I reminded her.

  “When you have a client with forty-seven million dollars, every day is a working day,” she said.

  “He could sign it that fast?”

  “He was a very determined man,” Hogencamp said.

  “Has there been a resolution to Chapman’s estate yet?” I asked.

  “A resolution?” Now she was having fun with me. “You mean, has there been a reading of the will?”

  “Um . . . yeah.”

  “Nobody really does that anymore, Mr. Freed,” Hogencamp said. “I don’t know if they ever did. The fact is, when the will clears probate, I act as executor and send out letters by registered mail informing all the heirs of their share in the estate.”

  “Have those letters gone out yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet, no. It should be another day or two. Why the interest?”

  “Just between us? No tape recorders or stenographers on the other line?” I asked.

  “Oh, Mr. Freed, you really do see too many movies. Yes, we’re off the record on this. I’m just curious.”

  I stared up at the ceiling of my office, which made my head hurt, so I closed my eyes. “Frankly, Ms. Hogencamp, I’m concerned about Lillian Mayer’s reaction to his will. Someone I care about a great deal might be mentioned in his estate—although I doubt it, but Lillian thinks so—and if Lillian and Wally don’t get the kind of inheritance they expect, whether it’s this person’s fault or not, I’m afraid they might react . . . badly.”