“Jonah told his wife that Nina was involved with Patrick,” I said. “He says she confided in him as her doctor.”
“Who tells their doctor who they’re shtupping?” Ben picked up his phone. “Bonnie’s been talking to the wrong guy about Nina’s disappearance.”
The officer Ben spoke with said Detective Hernandez was testifying in court and would return his call when she was free.
Martin and I thanked the PI and took our leave. No sooner were we on the sidewalk than my cell rang. I handed SB to the padre and answered it as we strolled the half block to my car. In his unhurried way, Sten Jakobsen informed me that he’d just received the final toxicology report from Joyce Huang, the pathologist he’d hired to perform the autopsy.
“Irene died of a heart attack,” he said.
“Right, we’ve been over this,” I said. “A heart attack brought on by ingesting poison.”
“What I mean to say is, she died of a, shall we say, garden-variety heart attack, presumably brought on by… well, by the usual causes. There was not enough poison in her system to do her in, only enough to give her indigestion.”
“Wait, what?” I stopped in my tracks. Martin and Sexy Beast cocked their heads in tandem.
“I am as surprised as you,” Sten drawled, “but relieved at the same time. At least now we know she was not the victim of murder. Naturally, that young lady, the O’Rourke girl, will have to answer charges of second-degree assault.”
“Wow,” I said. “I assume you’ve shared this with Detective Hernandez?”
“I attempted to phone her, but she is—”
“I know, she’s in court.” I told him about our visit with Ben Ralston and the surprising news about Jonah.
“If I hear from the detective first,” Sten said, “I shall ask her to contact Ben posthaste.”
I told Martin about the tox report as we got into the car and merged with late-afternoon traffic on Main Street. I figured I’d drop the padre back at his place, grab a couple of slices of Sicilian and an orange soda, and watch a funny movie—perhaps in my basement home theater, where I hadn’t set foot since Irene had died there two weeks earlier. The time had come to reclaim the room, if I could do so without weeping all the way through Blazing Saddles. Thinking about the home theater triggered another memory.
“Jaws!” I smacked the steering wheel.
“Where?” Martin glanced around.
“Remember I told you that Nina somehow knew that Irene was watching Jaws when she died?”
“And you didn’t know how that was possible since the only person besides you who knew about it was… Ah,” he said.
“Exactly. Jonah promised not to spread it around, but it’s a scientific fact that the rules of discretion don’t apply to pillow talk.”
“You think Jonah told Nina about Jaws?” he asked.
“It certainly explains how she came by that tidbit, assuming she wasn’t there herself.”
“You know, a guy who’s capable of offing his mistress—”
“We don’t know that he did that,” I said. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Jonah’s always seemed like, well, a decent person.” Maybe a little less decent now that I knew he was cheating on Rachel.
“Isn’t that what the neighbors always say after the cops dig a dozen corpses out of some guy’s flower bed? ‘He seemed like such a nice man. Quiet. Mowed his lawn.’ Anyway, my point is that a man who, for the sake of argument, would kill his mistress to keep the gravy train chugging along, that man wouldn’t be above offing some nosy old biddy who’d hired a PI to snoop into his illicit love affair. He’d assume that with the paying client out of the picture, the PI’s investigation would grind to a halt and his secret would be safe.” Martin watched me, gauging my reaction. “You were thinking the same thing.”
I blew out a heavy sigh, not wanting to admit it. “But Sten just told us Irene died of a heart attack. ‘Garden variety.’ That’s how he put it.”
“Jonah’s a doctor, Jane. He’d know what drugs to give her so it looks like natural causes. You know, like those angel-of-death nurses that get away with murder.”
“The pathologist didn’t find anything except the pesticides,” I said.
“Aren’t there drugs that are undetectable?”
“You’re asking me?” I did not like where this conversation was going. Yet I couldn’t help adding, “Jonah had a key.”
“To Irene’s house?”
I nodded. “So he could let himself in for house calls. Irene trusted him.”
He said, “So those wet footprints you told me about…”
“Were probably Irene taking SB outside, like I said. But still.”
Sexy Beast’s ears twitched when he heard his name, but his car-whining continued unabated as I negotiated the side streets, heading for the parkway.
“Maybe Jonah didn’t cancel his appointment with Irene,” he said. “Maybe he parked in some out-of-the-way spot and let himself in through the back door so no one would see him enter the house. Maybe he tracked rainwater in the laundry room. Maybe he went downstairs to Irene’s home theater, and maybe he gave her a shot of some nasty stuff that he knew wouldn’t show up during a tox screen.”
“And maybe you’re letting your imagination run away with you,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt a little sick recalling how Jonah and I had hung out in Irene’s kitchen the night she’d died, waiting for Ahearn’s people to arrive. I’d shown Jonah the wet footprints, insisted that her death was suspicious. Could he have… ?
Then I remembered something else and nearly laughed with relief. “I’ll tell you why your neat little theory doesn’t hold water, Padre. Jonah was at Harbor Memorial Hospital for four solid hours that evening, till a little after nine. Sophie Halpern had to go to the ER, and she said he was with her the entire time.”
Martin offered an annoyed frown. “When did you get to Irene’s that night?”
“Quarter past nine. I found her about ten minutes later. When I called Jonah on his cell, he was on his way home from the hospital.”
“Turn the car around,” he said.
“What?”
I was about to turn right onto the entrance ramp to the parkway. Martin grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the left, making us veer into the wrong lane. I smacked his hand away as drivers around us leaned on their horns. Sexy Beast responded to the excitement with nonstop barking in my ear.
“What the hell?” I yelled.
“Turn around there.” He pointed to an upcoming intersection with a big No U-Turn sign.
“This better be good,” I said as I made a legal left and went around the block.
______
We found a parking space in front of the Town Hall building. I lowered Sexy Beast into my straw tote bag, still lined with Irene’s old blue sweater, his favorite napping surface. I didn’t know whether dogs were allowed in the building, but SB had exhausted himself with all his barking in the car, and as soon as he hit the sweater, he curled up and conked out.
The ground floor of the building housed Patisserie Susanne, and as we passed the open entrance to the bakery, the ambrosial aromas of la-dee-da pastries and coffee made me lightheaded.
“We’re swinging by there on our way out,” I told Martin, who did not object.
Sophie’s office was on the top floor of the four-story building, which had been a hotel during the 1920s and ’30s. When we stepped out of the elevator, there was no trace of the old speakeasy and gambling den that had once occupied the space. The décor of the mayor’s office suite was ultramodern, furnished in pale earth tones with brass and marble accents.
I’d anticipated a struggle getting in to see Her Honor without an appointment, but there she was in the reception area, shooting the breeze with her secretary, Amanda, and a young male intern. It was close to quitting time. Sophie was tossing back M&M’s from a bowl on Amanda’s desk and choking with laughter at something the intern had said.
Sophie greeted us wi
th hugs. I asked if we could speak with her in private. She escorted us into her office and shut the door, then peeked into my tote. “Thought so. Glad you got that animal trimmed. Poor little thing looked like a tribble on meth. Sit, sit. What can I do you for?”
“It’s about your trip to the emergency room a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “The day Irene died.”
Her eyebrows rose. “What about it?”
“Well, you told me Jonah was there with you the whole time. For four hours, you said?”
She nodded. “Thinking about signing up for his concierge service? Don’t do it. You’re young and healthy. Wouldn’t be worth the gigundo fees he charges.”
Martin spoke up. “What brought you to the ER, if I may ask?”
“Calf pain,” Sophie said, “which—surprise, surprise—was completely gone by the time I got to the hospital. Eventually they did a Doppler ultrasound and found zip. Monumental waste of time.”
“When you say ‘they’ did an ultrasound,” Martin said, “do you mean Jonah?”
“Nah, they have technicians for stuff like that,” she said. “Mine was a hottie from Brazil named Lucas. There I lay in that darkened room while Lucas gently massaged my legs—with cold gel and an ultrasound thingie.” She cackled. “I can dream, right?”
“How long did the scan take?” I asked.
Sophie looked from Martin to me. “Okay, what’s this about?”
I took a deep breath. I had no intention of slandering Jonah on such thin evidence. Hadn’t I already done that to Patrick? “It’s… complicated. Can I ask you to trust me for now? I’ll fill you in later, I promise.”
Sophie gave me a long, serious look. “I’ll hold you to that. The scan took about forty-five minutes.”
I could tell Martin was thinking the same thing I was. Jonah’s forty-five-minute window of opportunity, in and of itself, did little to bolster the padre’s theory. I was glad I hadn’t mentioned our suspicions to Sophie.
“What time did Lucas finish?” I asked.
“Around nine. Jonah looked at the results, declared my arteries to be A-okay, and walked me to my car. I felt bad for tying up his evening, but hell, that’s what I pay him for.”
“You only tied up the first half of his evening,” I said. “I ruined the rest of it.” Or rather, Irene did, by dying. “So the two of you left the hospital when? Around a quarter past nine?”
“Nine-twelve on the dot. Checked my watch to see precisely how much time I’d wasted hanging around the ER when I should’ve been down at Murray’s Pub playing bar trivia. My team nailed the local-history category last week. ‘What was the name of Charles Rutherford Nevins’s last horse?’” She shook her head, snickering. “Amateurs.”
“One last question,” Martin said, as we prepared to leave. “Make that two. What was the name of Charles Rutherford Nevins’s last horse?”
“Lucifer the Fourth. I can show you his grave. Next question.”
“You don’t happen to know what Jonah was doing while you were getting the ultrasound?”
“Out sneaking a cigarette.” Sophie made a face. “You’d think an M.D. would know better. Plus he’s a runner.”
I frowned. “I’ve never seen Jonah smoke.”
“Neither have I,” she said, “but when he put on his trench coat, I noticed it was wet, and it wasn’t raining earlier when we got to the hospital.”
My heartbeat accelerated. “The rain started around eight.”
“He admitted going outside for a smoke while I was with the handsome and debonair Lucas,” Sophie said. “Made me promise not to tell Rachel.”
The instant Martin and I were behind closed elevator doors, I said, “Jonah would have known how long that scan was going to take.” The padre’s theory was back in the running.
“Harbor Memorial is a fifteen-minute drive from Irene’s house,” he said. “He would’ve had just enough time to quietly slip out of the hospital, drive to Irene’s in the rain and give her the angel-of-death treatment, then slip back into the ER around the time Sophie’s scan ended.”
I pictured Jonah entering Irene’s home theater. I pictured her using the remote to pause the movie and bring up the room lights. Greeting him. Smiling at him. Then I pictured the rest of it. Jonah going through the motions. Asking about her stomachache. Filling a syringe with “medicine.” Watching her die. Then lowering the room lights, restarting the movie, and letting himself out of the house—at about the time I was strolling into Ahearn’s to liberate the mermaid.
I didn’t want to believe it. Jonah had been her doctor for years. Could salvaging his marriage, and his elevated lifestyle, be worth committing murder? Possibly double murder, depending on Nina’s fate.
“He called Irene a little after five,” I reminded Martin, lowering my voice as we exited the elevator. Several Town Hall employees passed us in the lobby, leaving for the day. “To cancel her appointment, I assumed, but maybe it was to tell her he was going to be late. He’d be figuring that once Sophie went in for her scan, he could sneak out and do the deed.”
“It’s a great alibi if anyone questions death by natural causes,” he said. “Everyone would assume he was at the hospital the whole time.”
“He had to know Wednesday was Maria’s day off. All things considered, it was the perfect opportunity.” I pulled out my phone. “I wonder if Bonnie’s back at the station yet.”
He snatched the phone out of my hand and shoved it back into my tote bag. “Face-to-face, Jane. We’re going to the PD. If she’s not there, we wait.”
“Okay, but first things first.” I steered him toward the entrance to Susanne’s. “I’m about to faint from hunger.”
Sexy Beast still snoozed in the tote. I hoped he’d remain asleep and unnoticed until after I’d procured my sugar fix. I suspected Susanne would not take kindly to the presence of an animal in her pristine cafe.
“What’s good here?” Martin asked as we entered the shop and perused the sweet and savory dainties arranged behind glass.
“Everything. If you’re in the mood for a sandwich, try the croque-monsieur. Or the duck.” I had my heart set on a chocolate croissant, in particular the plump specimen in the front of the case that was winking and whispering my name.
The joint was jumping with after-work customers. All the round bistro tables were occupied. We joined a short queue of folks waiting to place their orders. Idly I glanced around, and heard myself gasp.
“That’s him!” I whispered into Martin’s ear. “That’s Jonah Diamond.”
He followed my gaze to the man now paying Susanne and accepting a small white sack in return.
“He comes here a lot,” I murmured.
“Right, the carrot-cake guy. But why bring his medical bag in here?” he asked as Jonah deposited the bakery sack in his black leather satchel.
“Beats me.” I was afraid Jonah would notice me on his way out, which would have been awkward under the circumstances. But instead of heading for the exit, he moved toward the opposite side of the room and the staircase that led to the basement.
“What’s down there?” Martin asked.
“Restrooms.” The woman in front of us picked out a gorgeous little cake made to resemble a gift-wrapped box. “I hope we’re out of here before he comes back up.”
“We’re going to wait for him,” he said. “I want to meet this guy. Introduce us when he comes through.”
“No way! I don’t want to talk to him. I might, I don’t know, give something away.”
We continued to argue about it as we placed our order—Martin got a pâté sandwich—and grabbed the first available table. Several minutes later, when I was licking the last of the chocolate filling off my fingers, Jonah still hadn’t returned.
“Is there an exit down there?” Martin asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I mean, it’s a basement. I’m sure this is the only way out.”
He stood. “Come on.”
Good, he had come to his senses. I should
ered the tote—carefully so as not to wake Sexy Beast—stuffed our trash into the nearest bin, and started for the doorway. The padre seized my elbow and propelled me toward the staircase.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I couldn’t wrench free without creating a scene and waking SB. Whatever indisposition had caused Jonah to linger in the bathroom, I’d just as soon remain in ignorance.
Martin pulled me down the steps and we found ourselves in a pretty foyer with pale floral wallpaper, potted plants, and white-painted doors adorned with porcelain signs: Hommes and Femmes.
“Wait here.” He disappeared into the men’s room and reappeared seconds later, shaking his head. “He’s not in there.”
“What do you mean he’s not in there?” I asked. “That’s impossible. Where else could he be?”
“Check the women’s john.”
“Why on earth would Jonah go into the women’s john?”
He pulled an exasperated face and walked into the Femmes before I could stop him. From behind the closed door I heard a squeak of alarm and the padre explaining, “Sorry, miss, I don’t read French. Thought this was the men’s.” This was followed by muted conversation I couldn’t make out, punctuated by feminine giggles.
When he finally rejoined me, he was slipping a scrap of paper into his pocket. Only Martin McAuliffe could invade a ladies’ restroom and emerge with a phone number.
I tamped down my irritation and tried the knob of the only other door, which bore a sign that read Employees Only. Locked. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Who is he, Houdini? There are no windows down here and no other exit besides the staircase. What are you doing?”
He’d slipped a credit card out of his wallet. Or rather, something that was the size and shape of a credit card, but slightly thicker and solid black. He slid the back off the card to reveal five slim steel objects. He selected one that had a ninety-degree bend near the tip and another that had several squiggles at the end.
Realization dawned. “Put those things away,” I hissed. “You’re going to get us both arrested.” I kept one eye on the door to the ladies’ room, through which his giggly new friend could materialize at any moment.
Undertaking Irene Page 23
