“Your husband lectured me, Bertie. Did you know that? Like I was some delinquent schoolboy. I don’t care if he was my lawyer. He had no right to act the way he did. Poking his nose into my private affairs. Taking exception to my business associates. Questioning my authority. Me, Momolu Taylor, the inventor of Testemaxx! Can you imagine?” The doctor’s dark eyes sparkled with malice. “I couldn’t say anything to him then, of course. But I was determined that one day he would pay for his impudence.”
Stunned at the naked hatred playing across the doctor’s face, Bertie took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts.
“I’m sure my husband meant no disrespect,” she said meekly. “Anyway, it’s all in the past, right?”
“So it is, my dear.” Taylor chuckled softly. “That is exactly what makes this payback so sweet. I have been looking forward to this moment for a long, long time.”
“If you kill me, you’ll be caught for sure. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life in jail?”
Even as she made her case, Bertie could tell that her words were not getting through. Momolu Taylor’s face glowed with the manic energy of a man who had totally lost touch with reality.
“Hush, my lovely Bertie. Our time together is too short to waste on idle speculation. I have something important to tell you.” Taylor drained the rest of his whiskey, stood up, and opened the door. “Get in here, Jawann,” he hollered.
Jawann Peters ambled into the room and studied Bertie coldly.
“I told you she’d be trouble,” he said. “Tayquan’s gone home, but I’ll shoot her myself if you want me to.”
Like the host of some demented variety show, the doctor bounced cheerfully on the balls of his feet and rubbed his hands together.
“Have a seat, Jawann. Keep a close eye on Mrs. Bigelow here. See that she minds her manners and keeps her mouth shut. I have a little story to tell the two of you.”
Peters removed a large handgun from his waistband and shoved it in Bertie’s face.
“You heard the man,” Peters said. “One wrong word, and I cap you. It would be a pleasure.” With an evil grin, he put his gun away and sat down. “Okay, boss,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll be interrupted again. What was it you wanted to say?”
For a long moment no one spoke. Bertie could hear the blood pounding in her ears as she willed herself not to show fear. Just breathe, she told herself. In, out. In, out. Taylor poured himself a fresh glass of whiskey and positioned his back against the wall across from Bertie and Peters.
After a pregnant silence, he began to speak in a small singsong voice, as though telling a children’s story.
“Twenty years ago in Woolworth, Mississippi, there lived a man named Thomas Poundor. Thomas Poundor was a doctor, and one day he got a brilliant idea. He was making a decent income dispensing flu shots and prescribing blood pressure medication and the like. But he realized he could make a lot more money providing the residents of his community with the stuff they really wanted—that little touch of ecstasy that could relieve the tedium and boredom of their everyday lives. I’m talking, of course, about OxyContin. A wonderful drug with a wonderful high. Perfectly legal, as long as it’s prescribed by a doctor.”
As if reading Bertie’s thoughts, Taylor said, “You guessed it, my dear. Doctor Thomas Poundor became a drug dealer. He used the staff and facilities of his little clinic to provide happiness to thousands of blighted souls. It was holy work, really. Too bad his bitchy little wife did not see it that way.”
Taylor turned to look at Peters. “I’ve treated you well, Jawann, have I not?”
“Sure have,” Peters said. “You cut me in on your OxyContin hustle. You even gave me free Testemaxx. I can get it on six times a night, if I feel like it.”
“Then let me give you a little advice. Never, never, never let a woman run your affairs.” Taylor took a dainty sip from his glass before resuming his singsong narration.
“Thomas Poundor could have lived happily ever after, running his little clinic and dispensing joy to the populace, except for one thing. He had an uppity, stuck-up, high-yellow bitch of a wife who did not approve of how he made his living. Despite the furs, the Cadillac, the twelve-room mansion, and the swimming pool Poundor gave her, the woman still did not approve.”
Like a snake shedding its skin, Taylor abandoned his lilting African accent in favor of a down-home Mississippi drawl.
“The sorry heifer even had the nerve to call the law,” he said. “Can you believe that shit? Called the law on her own husband. Her provider. The man who put bread on the table.”
The doctor turned to look at Jawann Peters. “Would you ever let a woman tell you how to live, Jawann? Would you?”
Peters’s harsh laugh reminded Bertie of a car with a broken fan belt. “I’d a slapped the bitch into next week, boss.”
“Dr. Thomas Poundor did better than that,” Taylor replied with a grin. “One night, while his wife was fast asleep, he shot her full of Klonopin. The next thing anybody knew, Olivia Poundor was dead, and Thomas Pounder was a free man again. Of course, he had to disappear to Africa for a while afterwards. Change his name and mingle with the natives. But it was a small price to pay for freedom, don’t you think?”
Jawann Peters’ heavy features wrinkled in confusion. “I don’t get it, boss. What’s this Poundor guy got to do with it?”
“I am Thomas Poundor, you idiot,” Momolu Taylor snarled. The doctor’s transformation from genial talk show host to raging lunatic was now complete. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes glowed with Messianic fervor. The doctor drained his remaining whiskey in one gulp and hurled his glass to the floor.
“I killed my wife when she attempted to interfere with my operation,” he said. “It’s been fifteen years since I stuck that lethal needle deep into her tender flesh. In all that time, I haven’t forgotten for one moment how sweet it was to watch her die.”
Peters nodded impatiently. “It’s getting late, boss. When we gonna snuff this broad? I gotta chop her up and dump the pieces in Lake Michigan before the sun comes up.”
“All in good time,” Taylor said. He took a deep breath. “Before she dies, Mrs. Bigelow must understand fully what a very bad girl she’s been. She has been nosing into our affairs, Jawann. Her and that bratty little choirboy LaShawn Thomas.” Taylor’s voice dripped with scorn. “When LaShawn called Alderman Clark a junkie at the Christmas concert, everyone thought the kid was just running his mouth. But he and I both knew he was talking about the illegal stimulants I was putting in Testemaxx. I knew right away the little shit would have to be eliminated. Didn’t I say so, Jawann?”
Jawann Peters grunted. As Bertie watched silently, she could see Peters was unnerved by his boss’s sudden descent into madness. He looked uneasily toward the open door and stole a glance at his watch.
Meanwhile, Momolu Taylor was on a roll. He had a captive audience and showed no sign of wrapping up his bizarre harangue.
“That meddlesome judge Theophilous Green was another irritation,” he continued. “The old fool really thought I was an African. Can you imagine that? He was going to report me to immigration. If he had, my true identity as Dr. Thomas Poundor might have been discovered. So I had Tayquan steal LaShawn’s gun and bring it to me. When I paid Theophilous Green a little visit early New Year’s morning, I took the gun with me.” Taylor laughed merrily.
“Not a soul saw me slip out of Patrice Soule’s apartment and knock on the judge’s door, and LeShawn was blamed for the shooting, just as I had planned. I hadn’t counted on the kid being released on bail, though. Drive by shootings are not my style, but for a small percentage of my Testemaxx profits, my friends in the Conquering Lions gang were only too happy to help me out.”
Momolu Taylor paused and studied Bertie coldly.
“Thought you were pretty clever, didn’t you? Contacting the police about our operation. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I tried to warn you. I even sent OJ and Damon to burn down your h
ouse, but they failed to complete the job. If you really want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”
Taylor grabbed the bottle of whiskey, threw his head back, and took a long swallow.
“Come, Peters. It’s time for us to administer Mrs. Bigelow’s medication.” He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and extracted a large syringe from the drawer of the desk behind him. “In case you’re wondering, Bertie my dear, this is the same lethal injection I gave the lovely Mrs. Poundor fifteen years ago. Hold her head still, Peters. To kill her instantly, I need to hit her right in the carotid artery.”
Peters put down his gun and lifted his bulk out of the chair. Even though she knew it was useless, Bertie began to scream at top volume as Peters attempted to hold her head still. Whatever Dr. Momolu Taylor might do to her, she was not going to make it easy.
“Shut up, you crazy bitch,” Peters yelled and punched her hard in the face. Stars danced before her eyes as her head slammed back against the table. Syringe in hand, Dr. Taylor loomed over her.
“Quiet, my dear Bertie,” the doctor cooed. His face was a twisted mask of hatred. “Do you want me to have Peters shoot you instead? Blow away your pretty face and splatter your brains all over the room? He will, you know. Someone as lovely as you deserves a more poetic end, don’t you think?”
Smacking his lips, Momolu Taylor turned to Peters and said, “Revenge is the sweetest drug in the world, Jawann. Let go of Bertie’s head. I want to hold her down myself. I want to feel her writhing in agony beneath me as I administer the death blow.”
“Sure, boss,” Peters muttered. He shrugged and stepped back from the table.
Intent on finding the proper spot to inject the lethal overdose, Momolu Taylor’s face was now within inches of Bertie’s own. Syringe in hand, the doctor’s breath came in ragged gasps as he slowly traced his fingers down her neck.
Bertie gritted her teeth and prepared for the worst. The end was near, and the only possible consolation was that soon she and Delroy would be together once again in heaven. In spite of everything, though, something deep inside Bertie Bigelow was not yet ready to give up. If this loathsome lunatic was going to kill her anyway, she might as well go down fighting. Focused on finding the perfect spot to inject the poison, Taylor relaxed his grip momentarily. Seizing her opportunity, Bertie raised her head and sank her teeth into the doctor’s ear until she tasted blood.
Taylor shrieked and dropped to his knees in pain. Blood spurted from his ear and dripped down the side of his neck as the syringe filled with poison clattered to the floor next to him. Peters reached into his pocket for his gun, only to discover he’d set it down on the floor moments before. As he bent down to retrieve his weapon, Bertie heard the sound of feet running in the hallway outside.
“Help!” she screamed, pouring every last ounce of strength she possessed into each syllable. “Help me, someone! Help!”
Seconds later, a half dozen policemen in bulletproof vests waving assault rifles rushed into the room. Jawann Peters stood up slowly, dropped his gun, and raised his arms over his head in surrender.
As the policemen freed Bertie and lifted her off the table, the adrenaline-fueled strength that had sustained her began to slip away. As if by magic, a team of paramedics appeared carrying a stretcher. The last thing Bertie remembered before blacking out completely was the image of Momolu Taylor on his knees, moaning softly and holding his mutilated ear. As blood continued to pour down the doctor’s neck, Detective Michael Kulicki walked into the room. He took out a .357 Magnum and pressed it against the doctor’s head.
“One wrong move and you’re a dead man,” the detective said calmly. “The way I’m feeling at the moment, I might just shoot you for the hell of it.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2013—9:15 A.M.
When Bertie regained consciousness, she was lying in a hospital bed with a bandage over one eye and a tube sticking out of her arm.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bigelow. You’re a very lucky woman.” A brown man in his mid-fifties picked up a clipboard and positioned himself next to her bed. In a lilting Bengali accent, the doctor told Bertie that, had she arrived at Mercy Hospital any later, her sight would have been permanently impaired.
“You have suffered severe physical trauma, including a blow that shattered the bones around your left eye. However, we expect you to make a full recovery. Your karma is good, Mrs. Bigelow,” he said. “If you continue to improve, you will be able to return home by the end of the week.”
For the next several hours, time as Bertie had been accustomed to living it came to a standstill. Machines monitored her heart rate and tracked her brain waves. Nurses came and went as Bertie slipped in and out of consciousness. When she woke up the next morning, David Mackenzie was standing by her bed with two dozen roses in his hand.
“Is that you, Mac?”
The doctors had removed the bandage from her left eye sometime earlier that day, but her vision was still blurry. The burly lawyer placed the roses on her bedside table and leaned in closer.
“Of course it’s me, Bert. I’ve stopped by a couple of times before, but this is the first time you’ve been awake. How are you feeling?”
She managed a wan smile. “Better, thanks. They say I’ll be out of here by the end of the week.”
“You really had me worried,” Mac said. “Promise me you’ll take better care of yourself.” He touched her hand gently. “You mean a lot to me, you know. I’d hate to lose you.”
Despite the drugs and the pain in her eye, Bertie felt her pulse quicken. Was Mac trying to tell her something?
“Delroy loved you more than life itself, Bertie. He’d have wanted me to look after you.” Mac rubbed his hand absently over the top of his head and sighed. “My wife says I never speak about my feelings. I used to argue with her, but the truth is, she’s right. Angelique and I value your friendship, Bertie. I know we’ve been through some rocky times lately. But I’m determined to make a better effort. A better effort in my marriage, and a better effort with my friends.”
Bertie exhaled slowly. Although she hadn’t noticed until that moment, she had been holding her breath as Mac spoke. Fortunately, the lighting in her room was dim. With any luck, Mackenzie would not be able to read the disappointment on her face.
“Thanks, Mac. I hardly know what to say.”
“No need to say a word,” Mac said with a grin. “The minute you get out of here, Angelique and I are taking you out to the finest, most expensive restaurant in Chicago. That’s a promise.”
Later the same day, Ellen Simpson stopped by the hospital with a plate of goat curry from the Jamaican Jerk Villa. When the nurse on duty expressed concern, Ellen swept past without stopping.
“Mrs. Bigelow is here for her eye,” she announced regally. “There’s nothing whatsoever wrong with her stomach.”
Sure enough, the flavorful stew gave Bertie strength. After a few mouthfuls, she began to feel much more like her usual self.
“Who’s your secret admirer?” Ellen said, pointing to the roses on Bertie’s bedside table.
“Mac brought them. He’s trying to get in touch with his feelings.”
“Really?” Ellen winked. “Judging from the cost of roses these days, I’d say the man’s got lots of feelings.”
“Guilty feelings, most likely. He yelled at me for investigating LaShawn’s murder. His wife yelled at me on general principle. Mac probably thinks he owes me an apology.”
“Two dozen roses’ worth? Face it, girlfriend. The man is sweet on you.”
“Mind your own business, Ellen. It’s really not funny anymore.”
Taken aback by Bertie’s uncharacteristic display of anger, Ellen bit her lip and remained silent.
“Sorry to yell at you like that,” Bertie said in a softer voice. “Mac’s not interested in me and never has been. The man is married with a capital ‘M.’ I don’t know why I ever thought things could be any different. I’m just a pathetic, l
onely widow, I guess.”
“Don’t be silly,” Ellen said. She leaned forward and squeezed Bertie’s hand. “Number one, you are not pathetic. You’re beautiful, you are talented, and, most important, you have a warm and caring heart. Any man would be lucky to have you. Number two, you don’t need Mac to make you happy. You can make your own happiness. Personally, I plan on giving up men for the foreseeable future.”
Bertie put down her fork and sat a little straighter in the bed.
“You don’t really mean that, do you?”
“The hell I don’t,” Ellen said. “They’re all dogs, each and every one. Do you know what Mervyn had the nerve to tell me last night?”
“The sexy FBI man?”
“The very same. He says he’s not going to see me anymore. Turns out he was just pretending to like me. All he really wanted was to get inside my apartment to look for evidence, to see if I was involved in Raquib’s ID scam.”
“That’s cold,” Bertie said. “The man must be part snake.”
“Yeah,” Ellen said, shaking her head. “Maya Angelou wrote this poem I used to teach in English 101. It’s all about the ways a man can shatter you—blow your mind till you never want to feel love again.”
“That’s probably not the best poem for you right now,” Bertie said gently. “Why don’t you go with Angelou’s ‘Phenomenal Woman’ instead? That’s much more your style.”
“I suppose I am pretty phenomenal when I stop to think about it,” Ellen said with a wan smile. “Your average woman would not even be capable of getting into a mess like this, let alone surviving it.”
“Now you’re talking,” Bertie said. “Somewhere in all this drama, there’s got to be a bright side.”
“I’ve been officially cleared of being involved with Raquib’s ID racket. I suppose that’s something.” Ellen shook her head sadly. “That brother is going down hard, Bertie. When the FBI raided Raquib’s place, they found stacks of fake social security cards, passports, and fifty thousand dollars in cash.”
Melody for Murder: A Bertie Bigelow Mystery Page 19
