by M. Z. Kelly
Amy and I spent the next hour at the salon. I had a conditioning treatment on my hair so that she would feel like we were in this together. After we finished, we went up the street for lunch.
After we settled in at Terry’s Diner, I told Amy about my morning just to get her mind off her hair. “It’s pretty obvious that I haven’t been missed. Corker as much as told me he wishes I’d never come back to work. Then there’s Laverne and Penny. They think I’m faking my injury so I won’t have to work Hunts Point.”
“Fuwk ‘em. You just need to take care of yourself and get back to work.” Amy had her compact mirror out and was studying her hair again.
“What do you think?” I asked, when she didn’t look up.
She glanced at me. “Is it my imagination, or is my hair turning purple?”
I looked at her hair. Even though the restaurant lighting was dim, it did look like her locks had a purple tinge. “Maybe it’s just the treatment Bella gave you, or the lighting in here.”
She put her compact away and sighed. “Shit. I’ll probably end up with three strands of purple hair, like some kid’s punk doll that’s had the hair yanked out of its head.”
“I think you should try to put it out of your mind for a while.”
Our food was delivered. As we ate, Amy mentioned Effie Blaze. “Christina’s mom called me and said she’s gonna hold off on going to the cops.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m not sure, but I got the impression something has changed with her.”
“Do you think she’s been in contact with Christina?”
Amy munched on a fry. “Not sure. Maybe her, or her kidnappers.”
“If that’s the case, we need to find out what’s going on.”
“I thought we could go by there on our way to Rikers.”
My phone chimed, and I saw that the number was unknown. I answered it, hearing Holmes’ voice. “Did you talk to Herman Evers?”
“Not yet. We’re hoping to go by the hospital today.”
“He’s gone missing.”
I put the call on speaker, so that Amy could hear what he said. “You think something bad has happened to him.”
“Maybe. I think there’s a cover-up going on, and anyone who knows what’s been happening at the hospital goes away.”
Amy spoke up. “This is Mads’ friend.”
“Amy.”
“Yeah, nice to meet you, Sherlock. You got any idea where this Evers guy lives?”
“I’ll text you an address. I think we need to move quickly on this, before others disappear.”
“Why don’t you show your face? Help us out on this?”
“As I’ve already explained to Detective Knox, that’s not possible. I’ll be in touch soon.”
The call ended, and I asked Amy for her thoughts. “I think we better go by Evers’ place on the way to see Effie. The way things are going, the bodies are jumping ship faster than the hairs on my head.”
THIRTY-SIX
Dr. Herman Evers, the psychologist for Mercy Hospital, lived in Jamaica Estates, an upper middle-class neighborhood in Queens. The area consisted of wide boulevards, a multitude of trees, and an enclave of million-dollar homes, some with historic designations.
“Being a hospital shrink must pay well,” Amy said, as we stopped in front of a craftsman that was probably built in the early part of the last century. “Maybe I should become a therapist.”
“Maybe...” I said, not completing my thought, when I saw a young boy on the porch of the residence. “Let’s go see if the doctor’s home.”
When we got to the porch, we were about to ask about the doctor when a woman appeared from the house and pulled the boy, who we assumed was her son, to her side. “May I help you?”
“We’re here to see Dr. Evers,” I said.
She lifted her head, motioning toward the driveway. “In the back, above the garage.”
After slipping, sliding, and Amy cursing our way down the icy driveway, we met with Evers in the apartment he rented above the carriage house. The psychologist was in his fifties, bald, with a thin, almost emaciated appearance. He’d agreed to meet with us only after I’d shown him my police credentials and told him we were investigating the death of a former hospital employee.
“I’m not sure how I can be of any help,” Evers said, after we took seats on his sofa. His cat, a Persian Longhair, sat on his lap after he pulled up a chair across from us.
I gave him some brief background on Jessie Walker, then said, “She worked in the oncology ward at the hospital. Her body was found in a landfill about a week ago. Did you know her?”
Evers took a moment, then said, “I’m assuming you spoke with Detective Holmes.”
I glanced at Amy, then looked back at him. “Yes. He suggested that we talk to you.”
Evers worked a hand through the cat’s fur, not looking at us. “I want this off the record. I’m worried this might affect my job.”
“If you agree never to mention that we were here, what we discuss goes no further than this room.”
He finally met my eyes and nodded. “I do counseling for families, sometimes working with cancer survivors. I’ve heard some things that are disturbing.”
“Does this have to do with the oncology ward?” Amy asked.
“Yes, but there may have been other patients on other wards.”
“Can you explain what you mean by ‘things that are disturbing’?”
“Some of the family members have told me their loved ones died unexpectedly. Sometimes it happens right after a diagnosis, other times it’s when they’re put on hospice care. All I know is that it’s happened enough that it’s raised some red flags for me.”
“Meaning that someone is killing patients at the hospital,” Amy said bluntly.
Evers drew in a breath and released it slowly. “Or, at the very least, assisting in expediting their passing.”
“How many patients are we talking about?” I asked.
“Four that I know of, but there could be more.”
“Do you know when this began?”
“About a year ago, around the same time Dr. Palmer took over as the oncology administrator.”
“Do you think Dr. Palmer is involved?”
He shook his head. “I have no idea, but he has to know something’s not right. There have been lots of rumors.”
“What about Jessie Walker?” I asked. “Did you know her?”
He nodded. “Jessie was upset about what was happening. She mentioned it to me on a couple of occasions.”
“Do you think what she knew got her killed?”
He shrugged. “I can’t really say.”
“Her boyfriend and roommate, a man named Grady Winston, was murdered a few days after Jessie,” Amy said. “He was an x-ray technician at the hospital.”
Evers sighed. “Oh, my. I had no idea.”
When he didn’t go on, I mentioned his concerns about his job. “Are you afraid that if you say something about what’s going on, you’ll get fired?”
He nodded. “The hospital isn’t what it seems.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a big emphasis on patient confidentiality. Apparently, it goes back a few years to when a famous patient was admitted, and his medical records were leaked to the press. They’ve made it clear they have zero tolerance for any breach of confidentiality.”
After Evers reluctantly gave us the names of the four patients who he thought had died under peculiar circumstances, I asked him, “Has anyone with the police department, other than Detective Holmes, talked to you about anything that we’ve discussed today?”
He shook his head. “No one seems to know what’s been happening. Or cares.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Amy and I left Evers and drove to Rikers Island. On the way, I asked for her thoughts on what the psychologist had said.
She didn’t mince words as she studied her hair with her compact mirror. “There’s a serial killer a
t work in the hospital, and it’s being covered up.”
“You think the administrator, Dr. Palmer, is involved?”
She shrugged. “Maybe the covering up part, but, if you ask me, the killer’s someone lower on the food chain.” She slammed her compact shut. “Goddamn it. Why me?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Take a look at me, tell me what you see.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a girl with purple hair. People might as well call me the fuwking Purple People Eater.”
I kept my eyes on the road and didn’t say anything.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“I got purple hair. Just come out and say it.”
“I’d call it mauve.”
“Mauve. FUWK! You don’t care.”
“I do care. I was just trying to lighten things up. Besides, purple hair is trendy.” I got a death stare. “Maybe we should stop by and see Bella again, after we go to Rikers.”
“Maybe I should just jump off the bridge into the goddamn East River.”
It went on like that, Amy threatening suicide, and me alternating between trying to brighten her spirits or commiserating with her, all the way to the prison. After checking in with the prison administration, moving through several checkpoints, and waiting almost an hour, we finally got a meeting with our inmate.
Harold “Harry” Washington was a short guy, around forty, who looked like he spent most of his spare time in the gym. Despite his intimidating physicality, he had a squeaky voice that reminded me of someone who’d inhaled helium.
“What the hell is this about?” he asked Amy and me, after we introduced ourselves, settled into the conference room, and sat across from him.
I looked at Amy, raising my brows, and suppressed a smile. I spoke quickly, afraid that Amy might ask him if he’d had a Munchkin voice transplant.
“We’re here because we know about Christina Blaze and you helping Jeremy Halsey blackmail her,” I said, getting right to the point.
The muscle-bound Munchkin didn’t give anything up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he squeaked.
Amy took over, displaying that thinning purple hair left you with no patience. “It means you’d better start talking unless you wanna go down for kidnapping, extortion, and maybe murder.”
Washington’s dark gaze bounced between Amy and me. “You’re crazy.”
“I can’t argue that one,” Amy said, “but, unless you wanna spend the rest of your nights cuddled up in here with Bubba, you’d better start talking.”
Sweat popped on Washington’s forehead. His Munchkin voice came down a notch. “Yeah, I sent some emails, but that’s all.”
“Tell us about that,” I said.
He mopped his brow, lowered his eyes. “Jere and me go way back. He came by here a few weeks ago and said he needed a favor. He told me what to say, and I sent the emails.”
“Did he tell you why he was blackmailing Blaze?”
“It had something to do with a kid who died in college. He said she was worth a fortune, and wanted a piece of the action.”
“What exactly did Jere tell you about the boy who died?”
“Just that Blaze had a hand in what happened. He said it was payback.”
“Did he tell you how the boy died?”
He shrugged. “He said he was pushed off a building.”
I looked at Amy, who raised her brows and took over. “Who did he say did the pushing?”
“He didn’t say exactly, but I thought it was the girl.”
“Christina?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Jere said something about the kid threatening to go to the police.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure, but Jere said he roughed the kid up and he wasn’t happy about it.”
“What did you get in return for sending the emails?” Amy asked.
Washington shrugged. “Nuthin’. It was a favor.”
Amy leaned forward. “You know what I hate worse than crooks? Liars. Tell me what you got.”
He sighed. “Just a promise of a few bucks when I get out of here.”
“How much is a few bucks?”
“Twenty grand.”
***
Amy and I stopped at a café in Woodside after leaving Rikers. After ordering sandwiches, Amy said, “Tell me something: Why does everybody play me for the fool?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Christina Blaze. She pushes Jimmy Mercer off the parking garage, gets blackmailed by her ex-boyfriend over it, and hires me to get the goods on him.”
I sipped my iced tea, set the glass down. “Maybe that’s not the way it went. We can’t be sure Halsey was telling Washington what really happened.”
“But why would Halsey lie and claim Christina shoved Mercer? We know he was bullying him, and the kid ended up...” Amy stopped in mid-sentence, apparently still trying to come to terms with the fact that her client might be a killer. “Geeze, you think Mercer’s death really wasn’t a suicide?”
“It’s hard to say. But, if Christina did it, what was her motive?”
“I’m just speculating, but we know that Washington said Mercer was gonna talk, go to the cops, maybe about Halsey threatening him. Maybe Christina wanted to protect her boyfriend, so she pushed him.”
The waitress delivered our sandwiches. We sat in silence for a couple minutes, each of us trying to make the pieces of the puzzle fit. I finally said, “I think we’re missing something. We should go back to Christina’s mom and find out what it is. If I had a mom, I would have confided in her what happened.”
Amy softened her tone. “You do have a mom, Mads. We just gotta find her.”
“Yeah. As soon as we find her serial killer boyfriend, I’ll ask her why she disowned me.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Maybe it was prescience, or just good timing, but Sam called me as Amy drove us to Effie Blaze’s house. After saying hello, he asked me how things were going.
“Things are good for someone who needs surgery.” I filled him in on what the MRI had shown, and what Dr. Charleston had told me. “I’m going to need physical therapy after the surgery. I’ll probably be off work for a couple months.”
Sam told me he was sorry, then mentioned that he’d heard Precinct Blue was moving to Manhattan. “According to rumors, the police commissioner wants to make the precinct part of his administration. I wouldn’t be surprised if he replaces the command staff.”
“That would be too good to be true,” I said, then told him about my conversation with Corker. “The lieutenant as much as told me he’d be happy if he never saw me again.”
“His loss. And, if you want my opinion, he’s an idiot.”
I chuckled. “I appreciate your impartiality in the matter.”
After telling me his objectivity had never been questioned, he said, “Just checking about dinner this weekend. I thought we could go to Maestro’s, maybe stop by my place for a drink afterward.”
Amy had been leaning over, hearing bits of our conversation. Her eyes grew wide, and she nodded after hearing his plans.
“That sounds good to me. I’ll touch base in a day or two, and firm things up for the weekend.” I hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose there’s anything new on Jeffers or my...Donna Wallace.”
“Sorry, nothing. The BOLO’s out, so maybe we’ll still catch a break.”
After I ended the call, Amy reached over and tried to slap me on the back, instead hitting my shoulder. “This is getting serious, Mads. I think Sam is gonna go code 143 on you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“143.”
“Huh?”
“It represents the number of digits in the letters in the phrase ‘I love you’. Sam’s going 143 and I gotta say I’m more than a little Jell-O.”
“You’re losing me again.”
She looked at me, shaking her head. “Jell-O...as in jealous. Duh
!”
“Sorry, I guess I’m a little behind on some things. But, I doubt Sam is ready to go 143.”
“Yeah, well, at least you’re not balding and purple. You’re hitting a homer, and I’m in the GuySwatter dugout, batting zero.”
“How are things with the dating site?”
“Fine, if you want to date guys that look like they could be related to Mojo.”
“That bad?”
“My life is a load of floaters swirling around the crapper.” She looked at the houses we were passing. “I think I’m gonna pull over and find a closet.”
“What for?”
“I need some alone time in a quiet place where I can unload some emotional baggage.”
I chuckled. “Like high school.”
“You remember?”
“As I recall, you spent twelve hours in a closet, thanks to Elvis Starkey cheating on you with Amanda Haney.”
“That bitch! What did she have that I didn’t?”
“Flexibility. And I’m not talking about her attitude.”
“Shit. It sucks having a friend that knows your history.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I saw the heaviness in her eyes as she sighed. “Yeah, you got a point.”
We met with Effie Blaze in her apartment at Parker Towers. She had an interior decorator in her living room, taking measurements, so we settled in at her kitchen table.
“I’ve decided to change everything,” Effie explained, after bringing over tea. “I need a change of scenery with everything that’s been going on.” She took a sip of her tea. “What’s the latest with Christina?”
“We were hoping you could help us with that,” Amy said.
Blaze set her cup down. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Amy gave her a hard stare, something I’d seen make bad guys sweat bullets. “I mean that it’s time you levelled with us. Tell us what really happened to Billy Mercer.”
Blaze stood, walked over to the pantry, and brought over some cookies. “Christina made me promise.”
“Promise what?”
