“You’re sure? You couldn’t be mistaken?”
“Hey, anything’s possible. But if I’m wrong, it’d be a surprise. You ask me, there was no heart attack.” He again turned to his colleague. “How about it, Dave?”
“That’s how I see it,” Potensky said. “No clot, no heart attack.”
Ben looked at the body and then at Zander. “Then what did he die from?”
The embalmer shrugged. “That, I can’t say.”
“You didn’t see any marks or bruises?”
“No, nothing.”
“If there had been any,” Potensky said, “we would have spotted them when we washed him down.”
“What about poison?” Ben asked.
Zander considered the question. “Possible, but unlikely. I mean, with any kind there is, we see some evidence. Arsenic, for instance, causes hemorrhages, and ulcerations on the tissues. Same thing with cresol … or cyanide. We didn’t see anything like that here. Even ones that are hard to detect, like the organophosphates, give you clues.”
“Such as?”
“Look at his pupils,” Zander said.
Ben bent down, peering into the dead man’s eyes. They stared back at him dully.
“If he was poisoned, they’d be pinpoints,” Potensky said. “That would tell you. But his are dilated, right?”
“Like I said,” Zander went on, “poison’s possible. But I doubt it.”
Tolliver wasn’t ready to give up on it. “Barbiturates, maybe?”
The embalmer shook his head. “They depress the central nervous system. Everything relaxes.” He pointed. “The face doesn’t get all screwed up like that.”
“So if it wasn’t a blow and it wasn’t poison, what could have killed him?”
“Beats me,” Zander said.
“You’d have to have an autopsy,” Potensky added, “if you wanted to find out.”
Ben nodded. “Wouldn’t you, though.”
“Hard to figure why there wasn’t one,” Zander said. “Usually with somebody like this, there is. I mean, somebody this well known.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “But it’s never too late, right?”
“No, it’s not,” Potensky said. “A lot of times, even years after the body’s buried, a good pathologist can find the cause of death. Not always, of course, but often. That’s why it’s against the law for us to use certain poisonous compounds for embalming. Like mercury, or antimony. They’d hide the truth, or destroy it.”
“Say, Lieutenant,” Zander said.
“Yes?”
“You’ll keep your promise, won’t you? It could get us in a lot of trouble, talking out of school.”
“Don’t worry,” Ben said. “I won’t mention it.”
Another minute passed and then the door opened once more. Westover entered the room, wearing his professionally earnest look. “Well, Lieutenant. Seen enough?”
“Sure. A lot more than I thought I would.” Ben took one more look at the senator and then followed Westover out of the room.
13
There was a small restaurant around the corner from the funeral home, French and très chichi. The maître d’ greeted Tolliver imperiously. When Ben told him all he wanted was to use the phone, the guy seemed offended. But he pointed toward a rear hallway that led to the rest rooms. Tolliver hurried back there.
The instrument was on the wall, not as private as he would have preferred, but it would do. He looked up the number for the New York City medical examiner’s office and called it, half-expecting that at this time of night there’d be nobody on hand who could help him.
But he was in luck; an assistant ME was in the lab. When the pathologist came onto the line, Tolliver identified himself, saying he wanted to verify what he’d been told by embalmers about the condition of a dead body. The ME’s name was Marvin Pierce. “Go ahead,” he said.
Ben gave him a rundown on the situation he’d encountered at Bennett’s, taking care not to reveal either the senator’s name or that of the mortuary.
When Tolliver finished, Pierce said, “And the body’s already been embalmed?”
“They were pumping embalming fluid into it when I saw it.”
“Then forget it, Lieutenant.”
“What do you mean, forget it? It’s my understanding an autopsy can be performed years later and the cause of death can be determined.”
“Sometimes, but not always. If the guy was shot, or stabbed, something like that, no problem. Or if a truck ran over him, or he died from some disfiguring disease, sure. But that’s not what you’ve got here, right?”
“No, but—”
“Look, let me explain. First of all, you said you wanted to know if this guy died of a coronary thrombosis, is that correct?”
“Yes. And if not from that, from what, then?”
“Okay, one thing at a time. Once he’s embalmed, there’s no way to tell whether a coronary killed him. Not for sure, anyway. We can see if there’s evidence of cardiopathy, like maybe degeneration of the myocardium, or aortostenosis, but—”
“In lay terms.”
“Whether the heart or its major arteries show signs of weakening or damage from a preexisting condition. For instance, we might find scar tissue from previous events. But whether or not that’s what he died from, nobody can nail that down. Not now, anyway.”
“So what you’re saying is maybe he did and maybe he didn’t.”
“Correct. Of course, if we could do a post, we could give you an educated guess. Maybe six-five or better.”
Dear God, Ben thought—I need an ME, I get a horseplayer.
“Where is this guy?” Pierce asked. “Maybe if I could at least have a look at him—”
“Not possible,” Tolliver said. “What about if he was poisoned? I’m also told you can detect that, as well.”
“Who told you that?”
“The embalmers.”
The ME laughed briefly. In the receiver, it sounded like a bark. “Embalmers? What the hell do they know?”
“They said certain poisons would show up. Arsenic, for example, and—”
“Very true, Lieutenant. Arsenic, cyanide, strychnine, and a number of others. But I could also name toxins that would have killed him deader than Kelsey’s nuts and nobody would find the slightest trace of them—even before he was embalmed. Do you follow?”
What a lovely day this had turned into. “Yeah, I follow.”
“Let’s put this in perspective, all right? You want the best information this office can provide, we need to perform a postmortem before the body’s embalmed. Otherwise, the most we could do would be to give you those educated guesses I was talking about. At least when it comes to what you seem to be zeroing in on, death caused by myocardial infarction due to a coronary, or by poisons. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“In fact, you’re never going to get anything solid without a post, no matter what he died from. But at least if we did one, you’d have a better idea. Clear?”
“Entirely.”
“Give us the body, Lieutenant, and we’ll give you the best results we can.”
“Thanks a lot,” Ben said, and hung up.
14
This is no hot potato,” Michael Brennan said. “It’s a fucking bomb.” The captain was sitting in his office at One Police Plaza, with Tolliver seated across from him.
A beefy man, Brennan had been a boxer in his youth, which explained the broken nose and the scar tissue around his eyes. Like Tolliver, he’d served in the Marine Corps before joining the NYPD, and that was one of the factors that had helped to form a bond between the two men.
“You understand what I’m saying?” Brennan continued. “The thing could turn into big trouble.”
“I realize that,” Ben said.
“That’s why I think what you should do is just give the DA a report that says there was no evidence of wrongdoing. Mark the thing closed and everybody gets on with their business.”
“I don’t know, Cap,” Ben s
aid. “I’m not so sure.”
Brennan looked at him. “You’re not so sure? What’s it amount to? A bunch of ifs and maybes. No proof of anything, and that’s what you should report to Oppenheimer. It’d shut him up, so why not give it to him?”
“Suppose I say nothing suspicious happened and then it turns out to have been a homicide?”
“So? It’s the DA’s baby, isn’t it? He’s the one who’d take the heat.”
“Maybe. He might also tell the media he asked to have the police investigate the matter and they let everybody down.”
Brennan sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s why I said it’s a bomb. If it went off, it’d get everybody in the act—including the mayor. We got enough problems without His Honor taking more shots at us. He’d say it’s another example why the city needs the Civilian Review Board. Can’t trust the cops to do the job the way it should be done.”
“Maybe we ought to tell the DA there were unexplained circumstances. Demand an autopsy.”
“The family already said they don’t want one, didn’t they? Forcing it would mean getting a court order, and what judge would sign that?”
“Yeah, good point,” Ben said.
“In fact, even if we did get a post on him, then what? A medical examiner already told you they might not be able to find anything wrong. If that happened, we’d be in a worse light. The Cunninghams have got a lot of clout. They’d accuse us of pushing it for political purposes, trying to smear the senator after he was dead. And if it did show something suspicious, then all the burden would be on us. We don’t clear the case, you’d see some shake-up.”
“Probably.”
“And who would the commissioner start with? Us, that’s who. I say tell the DA there’s no evidence of anything suspicious, but then stay on top of the situation. Run down any possibilities, just for insurance.”
“Maybe that’s the way to go,” Ben conceded.
“Sure it is,” the captain said. “Look, what have we actually got? The senator was in his office being interviewed by a writer. The writer was legitimate, a journalist who worked for magazines and did a lot of free-lance articles. What’s more, another woman says she was right there in the office with them and everything was on the up-and-up. Of course it’s possible this other woman wasn’t there and her story was just a cover-up. Everybody says the old boy was a swinger, true?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Okay, then maybe—but only maybe—he was humping this writer, after all. And even if he was, who gives a shit, except the media? The point is, there’s no substantiation. Anyway, he died, and a prominent medical authority pronounced him dead. Cause of death, a heart attack. Then the embalmers said they didn’t think there was a clot in his arteries. Only there’s no proof of that, either. And this ME says that now he’s embalmed, a postmortem might not prove anything. What does it all add up to? A big nothing. Let’s keep it that way. When’s the funeral?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Okay. Tell Oppenheimer you think there were certain unresolved questions but no proof. That way, it’s up to him to decide if he wants to push this any further, and I’m pretty sure he won’t. Now what about the guy that was assigned to work with you—would he go along with that?”
“Oh yeah. He knows the political situation. He was in the job himself, retired on a medical. Name’s Mulloy.”
“Is that Jack Mulloy?”
“Yes.”
“I remember him,” Brennan said. “He was a good cop. Shot a druggie in East Harlem a few years back.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. That’s when he got hurt. You said he’s working on an investigation into Cunningham Securities? How’s that going?”
“The prosecutors’ve put together a lot of information, but they still don’t have a case.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open on that, too,” Brennan said.
“Okay, I will.”
“That’s all, Lieutenant, for the moment.”
15
At a little past noon, Orcus got out of the taxi on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street and walked back toward the apartment house. He noticed that the sky had clouded over and the breeze had stiffened.
With a scarf high around his neck and the collar of his topcoat turned up, wearing a felt hat and dark glasses, he was sure it would be all but impossible for anyone to recognize him. He maintained a steady but unhurried gait, just an average, unremarkable man out for a stroll down Sutton Place.
The building was on the east side of the street, the side toward the river. It wasn’t quite as ornate as some of the others along here, but it was stately nevertheless, faced in beige brick and with a dark green-and-white awning over the entrance. The large glass doors had fixtures of gleaming brass, and there were shrubs in stone pots on either side of the walk. A doorman was standing out front, wearing a uniform of the same color scheme as the awning.
Looking through the doors, Orcus could get a glimpse of the lobby interior. It was decorated with sumptuous furniture and tall plants in Oriental vases and there was a mural on the wall beside the elevators. He walked on by, taking in details.
On the north side, the building abutted its neighbor. But on the other side, there was a narrow alley between the apartment house and the next building. Orcus knew the alley would be for use by service people; it was what he’d been hoping to see.
There was a public phone diagonally across from the building, a semienclosed glass booth on Fifty-third Street. He crossed Sutton Place and went to the phone, dropping a coin into the box and then punching the buttons.
She answered on the first ring.
“It’s me,” Orcus said. “I just got here.”
“Good. What’s it look like?”
“Like a secure building. But don’t worry about it, I can handle it okay. You find out which apartment?”
“Twenty-two B.”
“All right, I’ll call you later.”
“Be sure you don’t miss any of it.”
He didn’t bother to reply to that. Holding the phone in one hand, he cut off the call with his other. Then he dug into his trouser pocket for a slip of paper with a different number on it. After dropping another coin into the slot, he called the second one.
This time, he listened to ring after ring without getting an answer, feeling a growing sense of disappointment. She must have gone out, and he couldn’t wait around here for her to come back. He’d have to try again another time. Shit.
He was about to hang up when at last she answered. Her voice was low and throaty. “Hello?”
“Miss Silk,” he said, “this is Mr. Orcus calling. I’m with the law firm of Wellington, Baker and Marsh. I’ve been instructed to tell you we’re prepared to meet your terms.”
There was a pause and then she said, “How do you want to proceed?”
“You can come to my office, if you wish.”
Her reply was what he’d known it would be. “No, I don’t want to do that.”
“Would you prefer to have me come to your place?”
“Absolutely not.”
He smiled to himself. That would have been too much to hope for. “Perhaps we can meet somewhere.”
“Much better. How about the bar in the Regency?”
“Fine. How soon can you be there? Our client feels it’s urgent for this to be settled. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“Yeah, I can. Let’s say in an hour?”
“Very well, I’ll be waiting for you. You’ll bring the material with you?”
“No. But I will bring a sample. What you’re to bring is a hundred thousand dollars in cash, all in hundreds. When I’m satisfied we have a deal, I’ll tell you how I want the rest of the money transferred to me. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear. And acceptable. I’ll see you at the Regency bar in one hour.” He hung up but continued to hold the phone to his mouth, using the instrument for cover as he looked over at the apartment house, watching the d
oorman.
He’d been standing there for about five minutes when a taxi drew up to the sidewalk in front of the building and an elderly woman got out, dressed in furs and carrying a shopping bag. The doorman tipped his cap and opened one of the doors for her as she stepped past him into the lobby, and then he followed her inside. The two began talking.
Orcus put the phone back on its hook and again crossed the street, striding through the alley between the apartment building and its neighbor to the south. At the end of the alley, there was a flight of stairs leading down to a metal door. He went down the stairs, and when he reached the bottom, he was out of sight from the sidewalk.
The lock was a Schlage. It was large and flush-mounted, of excellent quality. And for a man with Orcus’s skills, a piece of cake. He took two small tools from his inside jacket pocket and went to work.
The first tool was a torsion wrench, a slim, flat length of steel with an L-shaped end. He inserted the wrench into the keyway and exerted pressure counterclockwise, the direction a key would be turned to open the lock. Then he slid the second tool, a thin pick, into the keyway and began probing for the tumbler pins.
There would be five of them, he knew, in this type of lock. He had the first one in less than a minute, feeling it drop into place and at the same time getting an infinitesimal further yield from the torsion wrench, perhaps a thousandth of an inch. He went on probing and the other four pins followed in short order. Orcus gave the wrench one last twist and the lock opened. He slipped through the door and closed it softly behind him, returning the tools to his pocket.
The basement was in keeping with what he’d seen of the rest of the building; it was spotlessly clean, the walls and floor painted battleship gray. He followed overhead lights around a corner and past the furnace room, and directly ahead of him were the doors to two elevators.
There would be a superintendent around here someplace; Orcus could only hope he wouldn’t accidentally run into him, or that the man wouldn’t notice an elevator going to the basement and wonder who was using it. There would also be TV cameras, but he knew that with only one doorman on duty, the monitor would not be closely watched, if at all. He pressed the button and waited, and when the car finally arrived, he stepped inside and touched the lighted panel marked 22.
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