Forgotten City

by Carrie Smith

  The procedure was over in two hours. When Gambarin pulled off his mask and wiped his forehead with a towel, Codella held her breath, trying not to betray her deep impatience for information. He might or might not weigh in on the cause of death before he finalized his report, and if she left without confirmation of her theory, she would be very disappointed.

  She watched him stare at the fruits of his labor. “The external exam yielded nothing out of the ordinary,” he finally announced as he rubbed his eyes. “No scratches. No bruises. Certainly no knife wounds or bullet holes. She did have one little basal carcinoma spot on the dorsal side of the left hand but nothing to indicate a cause or manner of death.”

  “And internally?” Codella asked in a carefully neutral voice calibrated to Gambarin’s perpetually blunted affect.

  He reached for a water bottle on a stainless counter. “She was a physically fit woman with the musculature of someone still in her prime. There is no plaque in her arteries. The blood vessels around her heart look perfectly normal. The valves appear healthy. I saw no thickening of the pericardium. Heart disease did not cause her death.”

  “So do you know what did?”

  He pointed to her lungs and nodded. “Noncardiogenic pulmonary edema.”

  “Fluid in her lungs?”

  He nodded. “She basically drowned to death.” He picked up a pen and pointed it at Lucy Merchant’s mouth. “That’s why her lips turned bluish. You see? She wasn’t getting enough oxygen.”

  “But how? Why?”

  “Usually pulmonary edema results from congestive heart failure. But as I’ve said, this victim’s heart was completely healthy when death occurred. Something else caused her edema.”

  “What?”

  Gambarin lifted Lucy Merchant’s left eyelid, exposing a milky-white cornea. “It’s difficult to see, but there’s miosis of the pupils.”

  “Miosis,” she repeated. “Constriction?”

  “That’s right.”

  She couldn’t contain her impatience any longer. “So what are you saying?”

  “The autopsy results are consistent with toxin-related noncardiogenic pulmonary edema.”

  “A drug overdose?”

  “Yes.”

  Codella let out a huge sigh. “Her medicine cup tested presumptively for oxycodone.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “An opioid overdose could certainly explain this, depending on the concentration, of course. We won’t know for certain until we get the toxicology back.”

  “Which could take weeks.”

  “More like a month,” he said. “Things have been very slow coming back. They really need to do something about that. But based on my observations, I’m willing to go out on a limb and state that there’s probable cause of an overdose. And that should be sufficient for you to move your investigation forward.”

  When Codella got back to her car on First Avenue, she called Muñoz and gave him the news. “I’m going up to Manhattan North to fill McGowan in. I’ve got to get a team looking into the Park Manor staff. Can you swing over there, get a contact list of employees and residents, and e-mail it to me before ten o’clock? I’ll let Hodges know you’re coming.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Merchant rode downstairs in his private elevator, stood in the lobby, and peered out the door of his Fifth Avenue building. Since he’d been subpoenaed to testify in front of the senate subcommittee, reporters had tried to ambush him every morning as he walked to the Escalade. They waited in idling cars and jumped out the moment they saw him. He didn’t intend to get ambushed today about his Lucy’s death. He scanned the cars along the street. The coast looked clear, thank God, and he dialed Felipe and said, “Swing around. Right now.”

  A minute later, the Escalade pulled in front of the entrance. Tony, Merchant’s tall Yugoslavian doorman, walked outside in front of Merchant like a human shield. When they reached the curb, Tony opened the back door of the Escalade and moved aside at the last possible instant so that Merchant could scoot in before anyone could snap a photo of him. Tony said, “Have a good day, Mr. Merchant,” and the door slammed shut.

  The car left the curb. So far, so good, Merchant thought, but with the police investigating Lucy’s death and the autopsy happening today, he would be prime meat for the media. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and called Park Manor.

  Constance answered on the second ring.

  “You’re at your desk very early,” he said.

  “What can I do for you, Thomas?” Her voice sounded cool.

  “I’d like to take you to lunch.”

  “Oh?”

  “For all you’ve done,” he added quickly. “The Four Seasons, twelve thirty?”

  “I can’t. I’ve got a detective on the way over here. I don’t know what my day is going to hold.”

  “But I need to talk to you.”

  “And I’d like a word with you, too,” she said ominously. “But it’s not a good time. In fact, it’s a terrible time, and you should know that. I’ll just say two words: Julia. Videotape.”

  Merchant sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. How about tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Codella stared at the faces around the conference room table. McGowan had assigned her a team, but he’d hardly given her the best members of the squad. The only other homicide detective in the room was Paul Novotny, a bald, angular cop who had announced he would retire at the end of April. He spent most of his time these days surfing between Expedia and Travelocity looking for hotel and airfare deals for the big trip to Prague he planned to take with his wife. The other five faces consisted of Matthew Swain, a brand-new detective with no homicide experience, and four uniformed officers who would run the background checks under Novotny’s supervision. She hadn’t brought Muñoz into the meeting. McGowan, who was leaning in the doorway, would have called her on that. Muñoz would just have to be her secret weapon.

  She held up yesterday’s New York Times, Daily News, and Post. “Lucy Merchant’s obit is in the Times. Read it if you haven’t already. The Post and Daily News will give you the lowdown on Park Manor. I’ll leave these on the table. You should know who the victim is. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill drug deal gone bad. We’re investigating the death of a Broadway legend who was given a drug overdose.”

  Swain, the young detective, was taking notes—a good sign. Novotny was blowing his nose, and the three male uniformed cops looked more interested in their coffee cups than anything she was saying. The only other female cop in the room, Jane Young, had her eyes on McGowan.

  “Come on,” said Codella. “Has anybody in here even seen a Broadway show lately?”

  “Lion King with my daughter, seven years ago,” said one of the uniforms as if Codella had actually wanted an answer.

  “Wife took me to Beautiful for our anniversary. Carole King. It wasn’t bad,” said another cop.

  “All right, all right. You may or may not give a shit about Broadway legends, but believe me, plenty of people in this town loved Lucy Merchant. A candlelight vigil in Times Square last night drew more than three thousand people, and when they find out she didn’t die a nice, natural death in her sleep, they’re not going to like it.”

  Codella paused until Jane Young—who McGowan had been spending a lot of time “mentoring” lately—stopped looking at McGowan and focused on her. “Listen up, everyone, because I only intend to say this once: Memorize the faces around the table. This is your team. If you mention details about the case to anyone not at this table—I don’t care how insignificant those details seem to you—you’re violating my direct order and I’ll make sure you never work a homicide with me again. You got that?” She glanced at McGowan. If she ever had another homicide case, she thought. She saw heads nod. “Okay, so let’s start with a little background.”

  Codella told them about Lucy Merchant’s early onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis. “She moved to Park Manor eigh
teen months ago. She lived in a special dementia care unit called the Nostalgia Neighborhood.”

  Novotny slapped the table. “That sounds like the place for my father-in-law.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t afford it, Novotny,” she said. “None of us can afford it. We couldn’t even afford a closet there with our combined salaries.”

  Novotny shrugged. Codella continued, “You’ll be vetting the entire staff at Park Manor along with the residents and their families. Lucy Merchant’s primary caregiver was a young man named Brandon Johnson. The care coordinator of the Nostalgia Neighborhood is a woman named Baiba Lielkaja. Lucy Merchant’s Nostalgia neighbors are a who’s who of New York business, culture, and society names. The families of these residents come and go from the facility. You’re going to look into them, too. You’re searching for any past or present connections between them and Lucy Merchant, anything at all that might suggest a motive for murder.”

  McGowan cleared his throat. Don’t forget I’m here. Don’t forget I’m watching you, he reminded her. He still didn’t buy her murder theory even after Gambarin’s autopsy results. He wanted her to be wrong as much as she wanted to be right. “Lucy Merchant’s husband is Thomas A. Merchant,” she continued. “Chairman of BNA—that’s Bank of New Amsterdam for anyone who still keeps his cash in a mattress.”

  Matt Swain, the young detective, laughed. At least someone in the room had a sense of humor.

  “The freezer’s a lot safer than the mattress,” said a cop named Fenton.

  “Merchant’s been all over the financial pages lately because a Senate banking subcommittee made him testify about his obscenely high compensation,” Codella continued. “He doesn’t like the idea of us digging into his wife’s death. No surprise there. And he certainly won’t like it if his name turns up in the papers. In fact, he’ll go for our throats.” Her throat, she meant. “That’s why you’re not going to pound the pavement and talk to just anyone.” She and Muñoz would do that, she thought. “You’re going to discreetly research him and all the other people on the list using our databases. You are not to contact them. Let me say that again: do not contact anyone directly. I hope that’s perfectly clear. Nobody plays the Lone Ranger. You got that?” The last thing she wanted was some glory-seeking detective-wannabe fucking up the case. Again she waited for heads to nod.

  “Detective Novotny will make your individual assignments at the end of this meeting. Work fast. I need you to get through these names by tomorrow—yes, it’ll be a late night—and if in the course of your research you come across anything that seems remotely important, share it with Detective Novotny. He’ll decide whether or not to pass it up to me right away. That’s all. Now let’s get to work.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Constance Hodges dialed the number on the detective’s business card. She counted four rings before the voice on the other end answered, “Codella.”

  “Detective, it’s Constance Hodges.” She made a conscious effort to sound confident, like one professional speaking to another. It was the same way she tried to sound whenever she called Michael Berger to update him on Park Manor’s daily operations. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Hodges?” came the equally professional response.

  “Detective Muñoz was here earlier this morning. He asked for a list of names. I thought you were going to run those tests yesterday and put this all to rest.”

  “I did run the tests, Ms. Hodges.” The detective’s voice was matter of fact. “And I’m afraid the results won’t allow us to abandon the investigation after all.”

  “Does that mean you found something?”

  “I really can’t tell you more than that.”

  Hodges heard finality tucked inside Codella’s politeness. She leaned her elbows on the desk and pressed her lips against the phone’s receiver as if she were speaking directly into Codella’s ear. “We need to talk, Detective.”

  “Why?” asked Codella bluntly. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  “No, but I know this place,” answered Hodges. “I know the people—their habits, personalities, backstories. I can be a resource to you.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to cooperate, Ms. Hodges. Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Hodges recognized the dismissal but was not deterred by it. She routinely survived the insouciance of Park Manor residents and family members. She had withstood the condescension of the puffed-up MBAs at Foster headquarters. And what did she really have to lose by pressing on? Park Manor would be injured by this investigation, and that meant she would be injured. She had to at least try to shield the institution—and herself—from culpability in whatever had happened. If she let the detective shut her out, then she couldn’t hope to influence the information Codella received, the interpretations she would make, the conclusions she might draw. “If Lucy Merchant’s death was—God forbid—murder, then there are some things you need to know, Detective, and I can save you a lot of time.”

  In the pause, Hodges knew that Codella was assessing her motives. Could she be trusted? Did she really have information? She waited, and finally Codella said, “I’m on my way to an interview right now, but I’ll come as soon as I can.” And then the connection was broken.

  Hodges’s felt her heart pounding. She took a deep breath and dialed the next name on her mental list.

  Michael Berger never sounded friendly. He didn’t like her, she knew, but then he didn’t like anyone who wasn’t a fellow member of the Harvard Club. She ignored his surly tone and got to her point. “The bad news is that Lucy Merchant’s death is probably not of natural causes. The police are continuing their investigation.”

  “You mean she was murdered?”

  “That word has not been used—yet.”

  “Shit! This is bad timing, Constance. Really bad timing.”

  Berger, of course, was thinking about the pending sale to Eldercare Elite. If Park Manor’s reputation was tarnished, Eldercare would either come back to the table with a lowball offer or walk away completely, and if that happened, Berger wouldn’t reap the rewards he was hoping for. “Could Merchant be behind this?”

  “Are you honestly asking me if he killed his wife? That would be going a little far out on the limb for a bank client, don’t you think?”

  “He’s a fucking bastard. I don’t trust him. Why didn’t he stick his wife in his own client’s facility?”

  “Because ours is better,” said Hodges, but she knew that was only one of the reasons. “Let’s just work very closely with the police on this,” she said. “Now is the time to look cooperative. Assuming it was murder, we have to make sure whoever is responsible doesn’t make Park Manor look negligent.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that, Constance?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I have a few ideas.”

  “I hope you do, because Renee wants this sale to go through, and if it doesn’t, it’s your head.”

  Hodges didn’t grace his threat with an answer.

  “Give me regular updates,” he demanded, and then he hung up. She took a deep breath and stared at the phone. You fucking pompous asshole, she thought. I hope you die a hideous death. She didn’t care how many Ivy League diplomas he had on his corner office wall. He wasn’t half as intelligent as she was. How did people like him end up making twenty times what people like her made? If Eldercare Elite bought Park Manor, he would pocket millions while she would face the loss of her position and purpose. Despite his assurances to the contrary, she knew very well that after the sale she would be replaced by an Eldercare Elite insider. And now she couldn’t even take solace in the fact that Lucy Merchant’s death might disrupt the deal, because if Park Manor’s reputation was damaged, she would take the fall for that as well.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Thomas. Maybe she should have lunch with him and get things on the table. As she listened to the rings, her anger mushroomed. Then Roberta Ruffalo’s voice warbled, “M
r. Merchant’s office,” and Hodges realized she wasn’t ready to talk to him—she needed to think things through a little more—so she slammed the phone down.

  She opened her bottom drawer and grabbed her purse. Then she walked past Heather’s desk to the powder room at the end of the hall, locked the door, set her purse on the marble sink, and plunged her fingers deep inside to find the treasure within. When she had swallowed all the liquid and could feel warmth spreading through her chest and releasing the tension in her neck, she returned the empty vessel to her purse, flushed the toilet, and ran the faucet for several moments before she opened the door and walked back to her office. Merchant might be a fucking bastard, she thought, but at least with Merchant, she knew whom she was dealing with.

  CHAPTER 45

  Cheryl O’Brien’s curly hair was just a shade away from black. Her skin was ruddy and her lips were too thin for the bright-red lipstick she’d applied. Her pale-blue dress was an inexpensive wraparound from a season or two ago, and her shoes were scuffed black flats with worn-out heels. “I need to ask you some questions,” said Codella.

  O’Brien glared at her with exasperation. “Are you kidding me? What’s going on? I just got grilled by some other detective.”

  Codella squinted into the woman’s small eyes. “What? Who did you just speak to, Ms. O’Brien?”

  “Some Detective. Novotny or something like that. Look, I’ve got to leave pretty soon.”

  Codella barely managed to contain her rage. “I’m sorry that you need to speak to both of us,” she said. “I won’t take up much of your time. May I come in, Ms. O’Brien?”