Illegally Dead

by Gregg E. Brickman

  "Sure thing. Have a seat. Doctor is doing a procedure. You can talk to him after he dictates."

  "Listen, Rox, I'm a outnumbered here." He glanced around the room. "Mind if I come through and wait in the office with you?"

  "What, Tony? Are you afraid of our mothers-to-be?"

  "Actually no," he said, flipping his hair off his forehead. "But I do feel out of place without Jennifer."

  "Come on back."

  Tony entered through the adjacent doorway. He pulled out a chair and straddled it. "Thanks, Rox. With Jennifer so sick, I'm afraid I don't have a lot of patience."

  "How's she doing?"

  "She's coming along. She'll start treatment soon. We'll be glad to get it going."

  "I'm glad she's progressing." She glanced down the hall. "He's going into his office. I'll buzz him."

  "Thanks." Tony hurried to the office and knocked on the doorjamb. When Villegas motioned him in, he said, "Thanks for seeing me, Julio."

  "Any time, Tony. What's up?"

  "They arrested Chamberlain Thorne yesterday."

  "Yes, I heard."

  "He isn't the type. I'm poking around myself, trying to see if I can help with his problem."

  "Don't you have better things to do? You should attend to your sick wife."

  "She wants me to help Thorne."

  The slight Cuban doctor leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his desk. "If I can help, I will. I refer many patients to Thorne. He's a good man."

  "Julio, did you notice anything unusual in the courtroom on the day of Hansen's attack?"

  "After the father brought the kid into court, my counsel was convinced we'd lose—gave up. But otherwise, nothing."

  "See anyone in the gallery?"

  "No. I focused on the proceedings. Why don't you ask the cop who guarded Hansen—the one assigned to watch the spectators?."

  "I will. When are you going back to trial?"

  "I'm not sure. I understand the Carneys want to wait for Hansen to recover before resuming the trial. I'm thinking about trying to settle."

  "Sounds like a plan—" Tony stopped in mid-sentence when Villegas answered the ringing telephone.

  "Tony, give me a minute." Villegas listened. "No the program is working fine, Jerry, why do you ask?" He listened for a long time. "Sure, I understand. But . . ." Again, he listened. "That's who it is. Yes, I'll see you at the meeting."

  "I'll be on my way." Tony extended his hand. "Let me know if you think of anything helpful. I'll leave my cell phone number with Roxanne."

  "Okay. Good luck." Villegas shook Tony's hand. "Like I said, whatever I can do to help."

  "Sure thing." Tony paused. "By the way, how is your computer system working now? You happy with it?"

  "Sure, why do you ask?"

  "Just curious." Tony pulled the door closed behind him as he left.

  Next, he stopped at Olson's orthopedic offices. It was near noon, and the waiting room bulged with patients. Tony picked a path through the crutches, canes, and walkers to the frosted window. He rang the bell on the counter.

  "May I help you?"

  "Yes, ma'am. I'm Tony Conte from the hospital. I'd like to talk with Dr. Olson for a minute, please."

  "Do you have an appointment?" The narrow-faced receptionist examined her appointment ledger. "You can see the waiting room is full. You're not in the book."

  "I need to speak with him about another matter. It's important. Will you ask if he'll see me?"

  "Have a seat." The receptionist graced him with a withering look.

  "Thank you." Tony picked a chair and reached for a two-year-old Field and Stream. He flipped through the glossy pages, his thoughts on Thorne's issues.

  He wondered what or who connected all the cases. Thorne seemed a convenient suspect—circumstantial evidence, no real proof, no reasonable motive. Tony was convinced Thorne would retire from medicine rather than do malicious harm to anyone.

  The door to the examination area opened, and a young medical assistant stuck her head into the room. "Mr. Conte."

  "Hey, wait a minute," an old man with a walker and a pained expression on his face said. "We were all here first."

  "I'm sorry," the young lady said, "but the doctor wants to talk with this gentleman. Dr. Olson said it'd only take a minute." She ushered Tony into Dr. Olson's office. Olson stood behind his desk but didn't extend a hand.

  "Thanks for seeing me." Tony stood at attention in the doorway, waiting for Olson to ask him to sit.

  "I only have a minute."

  "That's all I need." Tony stepped forward into the room, explaining he was gathering information to help clear Thorne of the murder charges. "Did you notice anything unusual during the Cray trial?"

  "No. I lost. I'd hoped for a better outcome. The physician often loses. Nothing unusual." Olson fidgeted with his hands and stared at a spot on the wall over Tony's head. His voice cracked when he continued. "Why are you poking around? Your wife is sick. Pay attention to her."

  Tony stepped closer and leaned across Olson's desk. "Why do you want to discourage me? Thorne's your friend."

  "Be smart. Mind your own business." Olson reddened. "Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a full waiting room."

  "So would Chamberlain Thorne—if he wasn't in jail." Tony snapped.

  Olson's face softened, "I'd like to help, but I can't. Just go. Thorne will have to watch out for himself. That's how it is."

  As Tony turned to leave, he glanced in the direction of the back office and saw a man in a dark suit typing on a keyboard in front of an oversized flat-screened CRT. Tony walked by on his way out, but Volney didn't look up.

  Twenty-six

  Tony and Jennifer lay in bed. Tony had awakened them both with a violent nightmare in which flames blazed everywhere. A mother screamed. This time the mother had a face—Jennifer's face.

  The early morning light made glowing vertical lines against the bedroom wall. Tony touched Jennifer's hand. She moved into his arms. Being careful not to hurt her, he drew her close to him. "I'm sorry I woke you."

  "You had a bad dream again."

  "Yes, baby, I did."

  "What was it about this time?"

  "Same old thing," he said, resignation in his voice. He understood he'd have to live with the nightmares forever. "The war, always the war." He ran a hand through her soft, dark hair. "You have beautiful hair."

  "Soon it'll be gone."

  "Then you'll have a beautiful head." He kissed her forehead. "Besides, it'll grow back. I'll shave my head. We'll match." He laughed.

  "Then the next thing you know, the boys and Monica will want to do the same thing. Won't we be cute?"

  "We'll save money on shampoo. Good deal."

  "Do you always see the benefit in everything?" Jennifer pushed him away and looked into his eyes.

  "I try." He pulled her close, again. "Cuddle with me. We don't have to get up yet."

  "Don't you have to go to work?"

  "No. This afternoon I meet with the hospital attorney again. Tomorrow we're going to Schmeck's office. Maybe she'll propose a settlement. I imagine the firm is nervous about taking malpractice cases into court."

  "Do you think they'll ask for a continuance?"

  "Who knows? I'll find out more today."

  "What are your plans for this morning?"

  "Yesterday, I didn't find out a damned thing from the doctors other than they really don't want to talk about Thorne's problems. Jerry Volney keeps materializing in the picture. I'm not sure where he fits. His past behavior proves he's capable of revenge."

  "The salad maker at Sprouts might be considered a thug."

  "More druggie than thug. He tossed the poison sprouts in the salad for drugs." He rubbed her back.

  "Feels good."

  "I'm going to poke around this morning. See what I can find stir up."

  "Daddy. Mommy. Daddy." Monica's high-pitched voice grew louder as she padded down the hallway.

  Tony climbed out of bed and pic
ked her up. "You're up early, little girl."

  "See Bella. Want to see Bella."

  "Okay. Let's go open her crate." Tony carried Monica into the family room and allowed her the privilege of releasing the exuberant young golden retriever. "Bella needs to go outside. Then we'll take her to see Mommy."

  ***

  With Jennifer looking on from their bed, Tony slipped on a light blue dress shirt, navy blue slacks, and polished black loafers. He folded a tie and slipped it into the inside pocket of his gray blazer. He wanted to be prepared for any contingency.

  "I'll let you know what's going on." He kissed Jennifer on the lips and Monica on the cheek. "Monica, stay in bed with Mommy until Nonna gets up."

  The little girl snuggled into the pillows. Bella curled up on the bed at Jennifer's feet. Tony smiled at his girls, then hurried from the house. He wanted to be at the deli early enough to watch the comings and goings of the regular customers.

  After parking his mini-van in front of King's Beverages—two doors from the deli—Tony selected a seat in the rear, picking up a Sawgrass Community Weekly from a rack near the door as he passed. He eyed the deli and pastry counter from a distance and decided a fresh bagel from one of the huge stainless steel baskets would help him be inconspicuous.

  A waitress, perhaps in her late twenties, brought a menu to the table. "Coffee?" She smiled as she handed Tony a menu.

  "Please." He ordered a raisin and cinnamon bagel, toasted and served dry. When the waitress brought the coffee to the table from a nearby serving cart, he asked, "Working here long?"

  "A couple of years. Why?"

  "Did you know Juan Iglesia?"

  "Juan stopped here every day on his way to work. He'd tell me all about his wife and kids while he ate a bagel and plain cream cheese. I'd try to get him to try something new, but he never would."

  "Did you wait on him the day he died? Do you remember?"

  "Why are you asking me all these questions? The police were here several times. They have all that information."

  "I'm not a cop. I'm a friend of Dr. Thorne. I know Juan had breakfast with Dr. Thorne on several occasions before the day he died. What I want to know is, were there any other regulars here that morning? Anything unusual?" Tony focused his brown eyes on her and smiled his most innocent smile.

  "Not that I remember. But things don't change much from day to day. The same people keep coming, except Juan and Dr. Thorne, of course. Hang around and see who comes in."

  "Good idea." Tony took a sip of his coffee and picked up the menu. "Guess I'll have breakfast." He pointed to the first combination plate listed. "That'll do. Over easy. The bagel I already ordered. Home fries. Take your time."

  Tony read the local paper from cover to cover while he picked at his food. He recognized several of the regulars as they came in, greeted the man at the counter by name, and left with their morning orders. A few patrons took seats.

  Tony glanced at his watch. The morning rush was over. He couldn't imagine Juan being in the deli after this time, and Thorne wouldn't have dallied over coffee. Tony pushed his cup away and went to the men's room. He'd consumed three large mugs of coffee while attempting to look inconspicuous.

  As Tony stepped back into the dining room, he scanned the few remaining customers, taking a mental inventory. There was a new addition. The man's brief case sat open on a chair next to him and an expensive suit jacket draped over it. Menu in hand, he sipped juice. Jerry Volney. Tony went to his table, held his cup aloft, and signaled for a refill.

  "More?" the waitress said, smiling as she approached the table.

  "Just a touch." He held his fingers up to indicate a minuscule amount. He lowered his voice. "The man by the wall."

  "Dr. Volney."

  "A regular?"

  "Every morning."

  "Did he ever share a table with Juan?"

  "Never. But I did see them greet one another by name on occasion. Juan seemed to avoid him. He'd look the other way or pick up and leave without finishing his breakfast. Dr. Volney isn't a nice man."

  "Thanks." Tony took a sip, made a face, and sat the cup down. "Enough. Thanks again." He glanced around, realizing he needed to walk by Volney on the way out.

  "Conte," Volney said.

  Tony stopped, fixed Volney in his sights, and nodded.

  "Mind your business."

  Tony raised an eyebrow. "Have no doubt I am, sir." Tony left the deli, dropping the paper in the rack as he passed.

  Tony climbed into his dark green mini-van and backed out. It was a few minutes after eight in the morning. He planned to arrive downtown before Gould and Atkins' former law offices opened for the day. He wanted to talk to the receptionist in privacy.

  Tony turned the corner around the hedge separating the driveway from the parking lot. From the van, he saw over the greenery. He stopped, waiting for traffic to clear. Volney, the bastard, he fumed. What reason would he have to be involved? He'd already been jailed once.

  As Tony contemplated where Volney might fit into the puzzle, he glanced at the deli through his rearview mirror. Volney stepped onto the sidewalk, looked both ways, then walked at a brisk pace to King's Beverages. Volney peered into the window before knocking on the door. Seconds later the door opened, and Volney stepped into the store.

  Tony raised an eyebrow as he stared at the closed door. He glanced at the clock on the dash. The liquor store didn't open for two hours.

  Tony turned south onto Flamingo Drive, anticipating lighter traffic on Broward Boulevard cross-town. It didn't matter which route he chose. The drive was interminable. He didn't mind. He needed the time to think.

  He pulled a tattered notebook from the side pocket on the door, balanced it on his lap, and tore out three crayoned pages. "Now," he said aloud, "what do the victims have in common?"

  He scribbled same nursing unit under the heading, victims. Under physicians, he wrote all being sued, same law firm, Dori and Gross, acquaintances, same office building (except Messing). In large block letters he wrote, what's missing? Volney?

  He stopped at a traffic light. Lost in contemplation, he didn't notice the Ford pickup truck pull alongside him. A sharp blast of a horn brought him to the moment. He saw the green light and stepped on the accelerator.

  The Ford angled into a space in traffic in front of Tony's van. Tony slowed to create a safe following distance, then continued pondering his meager list. Without warning, the truck slowed in the middle of the lane. Tony tromped on his brakes. "Vaffanculo. Stronzo. Watch what you're doing you . . ."

  Tony recognized the strong odor drifting forward in the van as chlorine gas. He stuck his head out the window and gulped a fresh breath of air. Fifty miles per hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic in the outside lane prevented him from moving off the road. Gulping another breath of fresh air, he waited his chance.

  A space appeared. Tony jerked left and accelerated, holding his breath so he could drive. Still at forty miles per hour, he steadied the car in the outside lane and gulped another breath of air. A turn lane. He put on his signal light, gulped another breath, maneuvered to the left, and crossed the street. He jumped from the van and stood taking deep breaths. He was okay and felt lucky, relieved. He also felt violated and in danger.

  Tony looked down the street, hoping to see the truck, but it was gone. He hadn't caught the license number, but he knew the make and model. He flung open the van's tailgate and found a bowl of liquid chlorine and one of ammonia sitting side by side in a shallow plastic tray. Sheets of plastic wrap intended to contain the odors prior to the assault floated in the toxic mix. Tony reasoned the truck driver wanted him to brake hard and mix the chemicals—wanted him warned, but not dead. Tony held his breath, lifted the chemicals from the van, and placed them on the sidewalk. The wet carpet reeked from the poisons.

  He tapped Howard's number into his cell phone, then watched the color disappear from the tan carpet as he waited for an answer. "Come on, Epstein," he muttered. They, whoever they were, wanted him out o
f the game for a while. I must be getting close to something, he thought. But what?

  "Hello, Tony?" A muffled voice on the telephone.

  "It's about time."

  "You called me. What's up?" He sounded irritated.

  "Sorry." Tony glanced both ways on Flamingo Drive, watching for the pickup truck. "Listen, someone warned me, maybe tried to kill me, but I think it's a warning."

  "Where are you? What happened?"

  Tony explained. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Stay where you are. I'm at the station. I'll be there in five minutes. Meanwhile, don't touch anything else until we get a look at it."

  The breeze changed directions and the smell of the chlorine gas drifted his way. Tony moved to the passenger side of the car, next to the street. He looked up. The Ford was coming at him.

  The truck smashed into the right front panel of the mini-van. Both vehicles careened in Tony's direction at an alarming rate. Using the full force of his legs, he pushed and dove for the grass on the other side of the sidewalk. Completing a shoulder roll, he landed on his feet and snapped around to face his assailant.

  The muscle-bound young driver charged at Tony from six feet away. Tony caught a glint of steel in the man's hand. A knife? He heard a snap. Switchblade, four-inch.

  Tony raised his hands, assuming a ready position. He'd been in this position before. The puny four-inch blade was the smallest he'd encountered in hand-to-hand combat. He waited for the thug to make the first move.

  As the man advanced, Tony stepped further into the wide grassy strip separating the sidewalk from the six-foot tall barrier wall enclosing the adjacent neighborhood. He wanted the wall behind him. He didn't need another surprise. Maybe the creep had help.

  When in position, Tony held his ground. "Listen, why don't we stop right now? I've called the cops. They'll be here in a minute."

  "That's what they all say." The man took a step in Tony's direction. "You didn't crash. Guess I'll have to take care of you myself."

  "Fancy that." Tony kept his eyes on the knife.

  The man's hand shook. He wasn't used to this kind of encounter.

  Tony became the aggressor and closed the distance between them. "Let's call this off. You're young. I don't want to hurt you."