Murders at Hollings General ddb-1

by Jerry Labriola

  "Alton should be here any minute. Come in. Have a seat. Let me take you to his study." Her shoulders were still speckled with dandruff. "Awful stuff yesterday, wasn't it? Did you read the morning paper? Now there are narcotics in the picture. What a mess."

  They walked two abreast down a long hall. Six could have fit. He was struck by the echo of their voices, undampened by the crowded receptions of previous days. Nor were there now any perfumes or food spreads to mask the fusty smell of the Tudor's interior.

  They sat opposite each other in rococo chairs more appropriate in a nineteenth century parlor than in a private study. The room had blue papered walls, oak trim, and cluttered surfaces. Two patterned nine-by-twelve rugs covered the floor, corner to corner.

  David wasted no time. "Nora, while we have a minute, all right to ask you a question or two?"

  "Why, yes. But shouldn't we wait for Alton?"

  "With all due respect, I'd rather speak to him alone. Would that be okay?" David purposefully wanted separate interviews to see if their stories jibed.

  "Well … he's much closer to everything, but I'll try to be helpful."

  "Good. Does Alton own a motorcycle?"

  Nora hesitated and then laughed uncontrollably.

  She hadn't finished when David said, "Does he?"

  She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue she pulled from the sleeve of her housecoat. Then, clearing her throat, she said, "But whatever in heaven's name for?"

  "Then he doesn't?"

  "No, of course not. Why do you ask?"

  "Curious, that's all."

  He was about to inquire about their whereabouts Thursday night when Foster appeared at the door. "I saw your car out there," he said, fixing David with a level stare. "Is anything wrong?"

  "No," David said, standing. An earlier adrenaline rush had begun to wane and he felt a stitch in his knee. "Nothing new."

  "I'll leave you two alone," Nora said, looking relieved. The study door squeaked as she closed it behind her.

  Foster did not replace her in the rococo chair, instead choosing his desk swivel chair, a piece among the mishmash that represented four centuries of furniture. Foster signaled him to sit.

  "Alton, I won't take much of your time but there are some questions and … "

  "Don't be silly, fire away. Take all the time you need but first-any leads?"

  "On yesterday?"

  "On any of them. Christ, will it ever end?"

  "No, nothing definite yet."

  "They're shutting down the hospital, you know." "They're what?"

  "Starting tomorrow. I suspected it would happen, even without Spritz's killing. We'll have to discharge the electives home and ship the emergents across town. The accreditors said once they feel the hospital's safe, they'll allow us to reopen." Foster ran his fingers through his hair. "Would you like a drink?"

  "No thanks, too early."

  "Mind if I have one."

  "No, not at all."

  Foster reached into the cabinet behind him and produced a glass and a bottle of Chivas Regal. He downed half a glass-no water, no ice-in less time than it took to pour it.

  "Okay, let me start," David said, "and if a `yes' or `no' answer will do in your opinion-that's fine. You don't have to expand unless you want to."

  "Got it," Foster said with a silly grin.

  "Do you have a motorcycle you're keeping under wraps?" David took out his pad.

  "Do I have a what that I'm what?"

  "A motorcycle. A red one."

  Foster eyed the Scotch bottle and replied, "No, I'm afraid not. But if I did, I'd hightail it off into never-never land right about now."

  David looked at a blank page without writing a note. "Do you own any guns?"

  "No."

  David checked off an imaginary question. "Did you know Victor Spritz was involved in drugs?"

  "No, not as a dealer which it appeared like he was. As a user? That wouldn't have shocked me."

  David curled his finger under his mouth. "Can you tell me, Alton, where you were Friday night?"

  Foster didn't hesitate. "Right here. I had a headache after the funeral reception and I went to bed early."

  "What time was that?"

  "Eight-thirty … nine."

  "And Nora?"

  "She had some club meeting to go to. I think it was the Garden Club."

  "When did she get home?"

  "I have no idea," Foster snapped. "I was asleep."

  David pretended to write meaningful notes on two pages of his pad to allow time for Foster to decompress.

  "Okay, that's that," David said. "Next, the missing botulism vial …"

  "I was going to call you about that misunderstanding, David, but it makes no difference now. We're being closed anyway, so I'll notify the Health Department. I know John Bartholomew thinks someone made off with the vial, but I really think it must have been accidentally discarded. He's slipping, you know."

  "That much?"

  "That much."

  David regarded the hospital administrator with cold speculation. "We'll see," he said. "Now you won't like this, I'm sure, but about your surgical training."

  Foster probed David's face. "How did you find out about that?" he asked, without emotion. "I haven't advertised it."

  "I can't say at the moment, Alton, but can you tell me why P.G.H. let you go?" How can he be so calm? The liquor?

  "That's a no-brainer." Foster stuck his chin out, defiantly. "They didn't like the quality of my work."

  "And it took two years for them to come to that conclusion?"

  Foster, who had been swiveling in his chair as he answered questions, stopped abruptly and gave David a blistering look. "That's it!" he cried, his voice rising an octave. "End of conversation." He leaped from his chair, threw open the door and stormed down the hall like a duck with sore feet. David remained seated but watched him gradually slow his pace and, reaching the end of the hall, turn and waddle back.

  Foster ignored David as he passed him. He eased into his chair awkwardly, poured himself another drink, took a long slug, then another. He slammed his fist into an open hand and said, "Jesus, I hate it when I get like that. Sorry, David-nerves, I guess." He finished the drink and continued, "Look, I understand your position and that you're helping out the police and all that. But given that they're closing us down and that-let's not beat around the bush-that I'm a suspect …" He heaved a breath. "Why, for Christ's sake, I have no idea. It's my goddamn hospital!"

  David thought Foster, eyes like pinwheels, might run out the door again.

  "So, David, let me say-I'd better stick to answering just the cops' questions. Kathy's, that Nick guy, whoever. It's more official that way, and I hope you understand."

  David was not sure he did, but he nodded his approval. One question short of completing his planned list-he had intended to ask Foster about his affair with Betty Tanarkle-he thanked him for his time.

  At the front entrance, David said, "I hope we can get to the bottom of all this-for the sake of justice, and for the hospital." Foster's expression had turned opaque.

  The ride home was as fitful as an insomniac's sleep. In thinking about the brazen attempt on his life and possibly on Kathy's, he was certain if the perp had seen him fall, he would have turned the gun on her. And since he botched the first shot, he panicked and ran. But David lingered on his error in assuming the red motorcycle belonged to Spritz. And what of the oily cardboard? A week ago, he might have become stalled in questions of his analytical skills-but not now; there was too much at stake, and, he sensed, too little time. Although he considered it a giant leap in deduction, the error also warned him against prioritizing his suspect list. It leveled its membership.

  At 10 Oak Lane, as David crossed sheets of light that had dispersed from his oaks onto the driveway, he thanked the window lock for saving two lives. And he felt a greater resolve shaped by self-admonitions: keep digging, assume nothing, and work fast.

  He noticed his storm door wa
s not fully shut. He swung it open and stepped back to pick up a number 10 envelope which fell at his feet. It was addressed to INSPECTOR BROOKS. David scowled as he opened the envelope and unfolded a single sheet of paper. His scowl deepened as he read the uppercase typing:

  INSPECTOR: NO DOUBT YOU KNOW OF GIFFORD'S AUTO WRECKING IN TOWN. EVER WATCH THEM CRUSH A CAR? ENDS UP NICE AND THIN LIKE A DIME. EVERYTHING IN IT, TOO. DON'T BECOME SCRAP METAL. GET OFF THE CASE NOW!!!!

  David slapped the paper with the back of his hand and put it into his pocket.

  Chapter 23

  In the days before he had become embroiled in investigations of this intensity, David would have settled in for a Sunday afternoon football game before his television set. Instead, he sat in front of his computer, wolfing down a ham sandwich and uploading the events of the past twenty hours and some carefully thought-out embellishments to his tactical plan. It took only twenty minutes.

  He contacted the hospital lab, obtained Marsha's home number and called her.

  "Have you seen Bernie Bugles lately?" he asked. "Sure, but he just left."

  "He was there?"

  "He's been staying with me for a couple days, and he's thinking about giving up his Manhattan apartment."

  "How come? Doesn't he like Manhattan?"

  "I'm not sure, but that's nothing new-he's pretty closemouthed about everything."

  "I see." David tried not to make much of the information. Besides, he was more interested in the past few hours. "But today, how about this morning and over the noon hour?"

  "He was gone when I woke up."

  "When was that?"

  "Ah-do I have to say? Ten o'clock. But it's Sunday, Dr. Brooks."

  David felt intrusive. "And I'm sorry to bother you on a Sunday."

  "That's okay."

  "You don't mind the questions, then?"

  "Don't be silly. I know you're doing your job. And I've got to tell you, Dr. Brooks, not many people liked Victor Spritz but he didn't deserve getting killed that way."

  David reminded himself of the "keep digging" admonition. "And so Bernie came back there and left again?"

  "Yes, he stayed only a few minutes."

  "Where had he been?"

  "I have no idea."

  "And where did he go? Did he say?"

  "Yes. To Boston. He'll be there for two days of meetings with some delegations from the Far East. He wanted to arrive today so he'd be fresh at eight in the morning."

  David tingled with the sensation of becoming airborne. So he's occupied tomorrow. Hello, Manhattan! "What exactly does he do, anyway?" he asked, gazing at a list of phone numbers he kept nearby.

  "He's a medical equipment consultant."

  Still that, eh? "One last thing, Marsh. He said before that he didn't own a motorcycle. Have you ever seen him riding one?"

  He couldn't interpret the momentary silence. "No, I can't say that I have," she said, "but he'd look real neat on one if he did."

  "By the way," David said, "Do you remember where the two of you were the night before last-that's Friday."

  "Me? Sure, right here. I was waiting for Bernie. He didn't show up till after eleven."

  "How did he seem?"

  "Funny you should ask, Dr. Brooks-you must be psychic. He was agitated. Very agitated."

  "Do you know why?"

  "No, and I didn't ask. He always screams at me if I `meddle in his affairs,' as he calls it. "

  After praising Marsha's cooperation, David hung up the phone and punched in Musco Diller's number in one swift motion.

  "Musco, old buddy! Listen, Monday mornings are probably busy for you but any chance of your getting away for a few hours tomorrow?"

  Musco's response was not immediate and David had a fleeting inclination to curse to himself. Finally, he heard, "Ain't no job takes me that long."

  "It does if it's in New York City." They agreed to meet outside the Red Checker Cab Company at nine and after hanging up, David resolved the call to Kathy would be the last one of the day. "Are you okay?" he began.

  "Yes, I'm fine. Where are you?"

  "Home." He capsulized his encounter with the Fosters and his conversation with Marsha as if they were a mere preamble to his next question. "Are you packing hardware?"

  "David," she said, "that wouldn't have helped at all if the perp were a better shot. About as helpful, I'd say, as wearing a badge around the condo. But, yes, I'm okay, and yes, I'll wear the gun. At least until Mr. Wackado's caught."

  "Good. And when you arrange to have the windows fixed-call Carl's Carpentry, they'll do it-arrange for some curtains that you can't see through and that cover the whole window."

  "Oh, sure, why not just board them up real tight?" This time, it was David who initiated a phone silence. He broke it with, "I should have hugged you, Kath." "What? What are you talking about?"

  "Back at the kitchen. That bullet whizzed by our ears. He could have killed us both, you know. When he didn't, I should have hugged you."

  In the course of informing her about Musco's willingness to accompany him to Manhattan in the morning, he interrupted himself. "Damn!" he said, snapping his fingers.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I should have made it for today. I could have asked Musco to go with me now. Why not? Bernie's not around."

  "David, wait till tomorrow."

  "But this is a perfect opportunity … "

  "So's tomorrow. It can wait till then."

  "I don't think so. I'm calling him back."

  "Will you do me a favor? Don't do anything for ten minutes."

  "What do you mean, don't do anything for ten minutes?"

  "I'm coming over."

  Kathy didn't remove her light clutch before taking David's hands in hers. "Look, darling," she said, "I think you're trying to do too much too soon. Rest up. Collect yourself. I really think you've gotten a little … well … frankly … emotional."

  "Collect myself? Emotional? For Christ's sake, we've got bodies dropping like flies. You and I could have been two more, and you say I'm emotional?"

  Kathy took a step back. "Listen to yourself," she said.

  David's silent concurrence dominated the next two hours along with the blare of a football game he had trouble processing. But, after drinks and hamburgers on the barbeque, he and Kathy mixed business and pleasure talk, and he realized he couldn't remember the last time he had heard the roar of his own belly laugh.

  At one point, Kathy phoned Nick to get exact directions to Bernie's New York apartment. And David leveled with her that he always believed Nick's one-day stake-out there had been a new Chief of Detectives' effort to impress his superior as a hands-on guy.

  Later in bed, he hugged her for most of the night.

  The top was down on the speeding Mercedes, a toy beneath its towering driver and a slouching passenger. The Merritt Parkway at nine-thirty was cleared of its earlier morning traffic rush and the weather, deceptive in January, rendered use of a heater redundant.

  "Someday, I'll get me one of these Benzos," Musco said, patting the dashboard.

  "Uh-huh," David replied.

  It was their only conversation for the initial fifty-mile stretch as David sifted through a logjam of thoughts and the cabby mostly dozed, his cap pulled down over his eyes. David felt the manufactured wind leveling his hair and watering his nose, and he knew it would be a day when he was alert for any contingency and ready to take on any question-one of which was why in hell he was making the trip in the first place.

  He wasn't sure what he'd find at Bernie's apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side nor what he was even looking for. But if he's on "Suspect-6," and if the discoveries at Bugles', Foster's and Spritz's are any measure, then Bernie's place is worthy of inspection, and a drive there, especially without snow or ice, is a fair price of admission.

  He believed Bernie was the most enigmatic on the list. Were there shady ties-drug ties-to the Far East? Was "medical equipment consultant" simply a cover? Did he have similar ties to
his departed stepfather and to the departed Spritz? They clearly had territories. Did Bernie? Or Robert? Was his half brother thought capable of maintaining a territory, or had he been cut out of a deadly family affair? And what of the hospital connection on the list: Foster or Corliss, the psychiatrist? And the police connection: Nick or Sparky? Drugs? Other motives?

  Often, even in diagnostic quagmires, the more David tried to purify its waters, the more darkened they became, but he was used to that, familiar with the feeling of wading through distractions and red herrings. So he still felt alert and ready as he drove along the Hudson River, beyond the George Washington Bridge with its double-decker ant procession, and, on the left, Riverside Church, its spire saluting the heavens.

  Deep in its canyons, David realized he had forgotten the smell of New York City-not altogether unpleasant but distinctive. He hadn't forgotten its vehicular frenzy though, the cagey maneuvering and charging and honking, the competition of taxicabs and delivery trucks and cars darting around one another, eager to secure yet another advantage.

  He was acquainted with the area, having spent some time training at St. Luke's Hospital back in the mid-eighties, yet he gave Nick Medicore a mental bow for providing expert directions. As David idled before the designated brownstone off Cathedral Parkway, he saw an Avis Parking Garage diagonally across the street.

  In its cramped waiting area, he remained in the car and said to an attendant, "Tell you what. I'll double your fee if you let me park my own car." The man agreed and pointed to an empty spot just inside a tunnel.

  The door to Bernie's ninth floor apartment was fifty or sixty of David's paces down from a glass and gold-plated elevator. Musco, following close behind, made it in one hundred. They passed no other doors on the way. Monet and Renoir replicas lined both walls of the carpeted hallway, ornately framed paintings David thought might have been reserved for the apartments themselves. It was a thought related to the incongruity of a building with outward elegance but without a security guard or elevator operator.

  At the door, ten feet from a fire escape, David shielded a crouching Musco who gave the usual knock, then performed his skewer routine with silence and speed. He cracked the door open an inch and whispered, "I'll wait out on the landing here. Do a good job, whatever it is."