Likely to Die (20 page)

 Pops was looking back and forth as everyone talked about him, scratching his midriff with one hand and nervously running his fingers over the desk with the other.

 I squatted and looked at Bailey’s ankles with the medic.

 “I know my grandmother had ‘em, Juan,” said Peterson, “but what the hell are varicose veins, anyway?”

 “Keep a watch, Lieutenant,” the young EMS worker told him, “they’re usually hereditary. Dilated or twisted veins, most often in the legs and thighs, develop a weakness.

 “The valves in the vein that circulate the blood back up to the heart, they can’t do the job. Could be old injuries from drug use or just—”

 Wallace pointed at the lines of old needle marks on Bailey’s arms and thighs. “Damn, he’s got more tracks than the B and O Railroad.”

 “But there’s not a new mark there that I can see. Not a scratch, not a scar, not a blemish, except for those dried-up old areas,” I said.

 Guerra continued. “Miss Cooper, I’ve seen ‘em spurt like an oil well. Heart keeps pumping, the vein opens up, and the blood’s got nowhere to go. Last week, my partner and I responded to a call on Thirty-sixth Street. Old guy’s shoes just filled up with blood and flooded over.

 “I put my finger right on the vein—that big one next to the ankle bone—applied pressure for a minute, and stopped it right up. Go to look at it half an hour later and there’s nothin‘ to see. Comes out of a hole the size of a pinprick. You either stop it pretty quick or the patient can bleed to death.”

 “Well, why the hell didn’t he just tell us it was hisown blood?” Mercer asked of no one in particular.

 Pops reached for my hand as I pulled away from the table. “Told you it was a bucket of paint. Told you I was sorry about hurting that lady.”

 It was clear that Bailey didn’t know which end was up and probably wasn’t even aware of what was staining his own clothes.

 “Let the guy get dressed,” I said, leaving the room. “When you deliver him to Bellevue, make sure they give him a complete physical. He might as well get something for himself out of all this aggravation.”

 The squad room was quiet. Peterson and the others followed me inside while the pair of medics packed up their bags to leave.

 I fished through my pocketbook to dig out my Filofax and look up Chet Kirschner’s home telephone. The Chief Medical Examiner listened to me repeat Juan Guerra’s story about a burst varicose vein and assured me that it was a logical explanation to account for the blood that had made Pops Bailey such an outstanding suspect.

 When I hung up, I could hear Peterson talking to Bill Dietrich. He wanted the hospital administration to know as soon as possible that the murder had not been solved and the probability remained that staff and patients were still at risk.

 “Anybody checking on Maureen?” I asked.

 “Charles agreed to go along with the plan so he’s spending the evening with her.” Maureen’s husband had retired from the Police Department to run the investigations division of a major corporation. “Everything was smooth today. The men who went into her room to hook up her television service were actually our tech guys. They installed a microcamera and recorder behind a duct in the ceiling linked up to a monitor in their truck. They’re parked right behind Minuit Medical College. So she can get a good night’s sleep, Alex—she’s covered.”

 “You want to tell me what we do now?”

 “I vote we knock off for the night,” Wallace said. “We come in fresh tomorrow morning and begin right back over at the hospital. Underground and above-ground.

 “Start looking real close at Gemma Dogen. Once we focused on Pops, we were all thinking this was a random thing, he just hit on whoever was around. Now we got everyone telling us how aloof she was and how strong her dislikes were, gotta go back to thinking somebody was trying to get rid ofher in particular.”

 “I can’t believe we lost twenty-four hours on this red herring.”

 “Where’s Chapman?” Peterson asked, looking at his watch, already more than twelve hours into his working day.

 Mercer and I exchanged looks, bringing a smile to my face for the first time since Schaeffer beeped me with the blood results. Mike was undoubtedly taking a fifteen-minute break in a bar somewhere between Mid-Manhattan and the station house, enjoying a beer while he matched wits with Alex Trebek.

 “I’m getting out of here before he shows up, otherwise I’ll get stuck for the rest of the evening.

 “I’ll be around home all weekend, Loo. Call if you need me for anything, will you?” I said, picking up my case folder and readying myself for the short trip to my apartment.

 “Sure thing. Get some rest. I have a feeling we’ll be coasting the ups and downs of this thing ‘til we get back on track. Need a ride?”

 “The sergeant on the desk will stick me in a patrol car. I’m just over the precinct line. G’night, Mercer. ‘Night, Loo. Speak to you guys tomorrow.”

 I sat in the rear seat of an RMP with two young uniformed officers who dropped me in front of my building. The doorman told me I had packages in the back room so I waited until he returned with a bundle of mail and magazines and a load of clothes from the dry cleaner.

 When I opened the door to my apartment, Prozac was splayed in the middle of the entryway on my needlepoint rug. Her stubby tail was wagging before she lifted her head and I was delighted to have her company for the weekend.

 David Mitchell’s housekeeper had brought Zac into my apartment with a note she left on the table next to the lamp, underneath the dog’s leash. “I fed her dinner before I left at six o’clock. She just needs another walk before you go to bed.”

 I put my things away, changed into leggings and an oversized man-tailored shirt, and splashed some Calèche behind my ears and on my pulse points. I’d been off my favored Chanel since my last romance had soured.

 I walked into the kitchen to study the freezer contents. The bottom shelves held a few containers of ice cream—assorted flavors with the common denominator of chocolate as an ingredient—several stacks of Lean Cuisine above the desserts, and a plastic holder full of cubes from the automatic ice maker. More than enough supplies for a perfect evening at home.

 I decided on a 143-calorie lasagna dinner, removed its cellophane wrap, and popped it into the microwave. While it started on its six-minute route from rock solid to well done, I filled a Baccarat glass with cubes. It always made me feel better to use crystal and china when I dined alone, as if I were having a real meal.

 The Scotch decanter was in the den, and Zac followed my footsteps as I poured a drink. I set one place at the table, with a matching linen napkin and placemat, facing out my window toward the spectacular view of midtown. When I turned on the CD player and heard Smokey telling his girl how he lost her when his heart went out to play, I assisted the backup singers with some “Oooh, baby, baby”s ‘til the buzzer told me my entrée was ready.

 TheTimes was too unwieldy for the dinner table, the tabloids were too full of crime stories to let me escape the events of the day, and the misfortunes of Trollope’s Lady Eustace were too convoluted to accompany my modest repast and were better left until bedtime. I plucked the April issue ofIn Style from the unread magazine stack in the den and hoped that the elegant spring fashions would uplift my spirits.

 After dinner, I lounged in the den and called some of my friends. I didn’t expect to find many at home at this hour on a Friday night so I tried Nina Baum, figuring that the three-hour time difference to the Coast might make her available for a chat. The answering machine took my message, asking her to call back over the weekend.

 At ten o’clock, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I pulled my ski jacket out of the closet and hooked Zac’s leash on to take her for a walk. I headed out the north end of the driveway and turned left. The wind had died down and the night air was comfortable, so I led her to Third Avenue, across Lexington, and squared the block on to Park.

 I stopped in the bodega just off the corner of Lex to buy orange juice and some Colombian cinnamon beans for the morning.

 The sidewalks were fairly empty, except for some other dog owners and a couple of joggers and bladers. Zac and I walked the last block, past town houses and a private school that was darkened and empty. I waited for the light to change on Third Avenue and stepped off the curb as the rectangular sign invited me toWALK.

 A little man with a muffler wrapped around his neck and a Boston terrier heeling at his side was approaching from the middle of the next street. Zac pulled on the leash, straining to reach the sidewalk, while I was still on the blacktop of the roadway. “Easy, girl,” I said, trying to pull her back.

 Over my right shoulder I could hear the sound of a car braking as though to make a sharp turn. My attention had been on the dog but my head whipped to the side to see what was happening. The car was coming toward me as it took the corner at a ridiculous speed, two wheels seeming to lift off the ground, racing directly at me.

 Zac lurched forward to sniff at the terrier and I let go of her leash, throwing myself against the last car parked at the curb before the corner.

 The terrier’s master grabbed Zac by the collar and called out to me from the sidewalk. “Are you all right? Did he hit you?”

 I caught my breath and ran to embrace Zac, kneeling beside her as I held on to make sure she hadn’t been hurt. My hands were shaking uncontrollably.

 “Don’t worry, Miss,” the man, who most resembled the nearsighted Mister Magoo, went on. “The dog wasn’t in any danger. It was onlyyou. Are you okay?”

 “I’m fine.” I answered, standing up and brushing myself off. “Whoever was driving must have been out of control, drinking or—”

 “Whoever was driving looked like he was out to get you, if you ask me. Seemed deliberately to be heading for you.” He tugged at his dog to try to separate him from Zac, chuckling as he asked, “Want me to call the police? You got any enemies?”

 “Too many to tell you about. Why? Did you notice the plate on the car?” I tried to tell myself that it was ridiculous to think someone had been aiming for me with that car; at the same time it struck me as a distinct possibility.

 “No. Fool turned his headlights off as he went through the light. Couldn’t see anything except that it was large and dark colored.”

 I thanked him for his concern and stroked Zac’s smooth cocoa coat, holding her close against me—on the side away from the street—as we walked the short distance to my apartment.

 I took my weekend charge upstairs with me and I undressed, carrying a nightcap into the bedroom in an effort to calm my nerves before trying to sleep. I wanted to believe the speeding car had just been an accidental swipe yet couldn’t help but wonder who wanted me dead.

 15

 SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH MY BEDROOMwindow for the first time in days. Last night’s episode seemed like a bad dream. Surely my imagination had overtaken reality.

 Zac and I walked around the block the opposite way from the night before, avoiding the avenue where the speeding car had given me such a fright. I kept her back from the street traffic and walked toward the direction from which cars were coming so I could see them as they approached.

 Upstairs again, I changed into my leotard and tights, then went down to the garage to retrieve the Jeep and drive it to the West Side. I parked in front of the building that housed my ballet teacher’s studio.

 Five or six of the regulars had already assembled and were doing stretches on the smooth wooden floor. William came in and we took our places at the barres that ringed three walls of the room.

 The music was Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B Minor. William seemed to adore thePathétique, and he held his shoulders back and his head majestically erect as he led us in a first position plié and relevé from the center of the room.

 As always, it felt wonderful to lose myself in the music, straining to concentrate on the steps he called out to us over the crescendos of the rich orchestral arrangement. My mother had introduced me to ballet class when I was four years old and it still remained my favorite sort of exercise.

 William danced with the American Ballet Theater for years before retiring to teach. The discipline and demands of the art form allowed me to escape whatever unpleasant matter I was working on for the hour that I remained under his spell.

 He walked down the line of dancers, each of us holding our left hands on the lower barre, and studied our positions. “Tuck in your tummy, tuck in your tail, Judith,” he admonished the slender young woman behind me. “Shoulders back, Alex. Let’s see a nice line with those long legs, young lady.” I arched my foot and extended my toe as far as the soft white leather slipper would take me.

 William paced us through second, fourth, and fifth positions, then we swept into a turn to repeat the same movements, holding on with our right hands. I glanced in the mirror as I shifted sides, picking out the professionals from among this troupe of frustrated ballerinas and fairy-tale princes. As a child, I used to get to the studio for the first class every Saturday morning with the girls my own age, then stay on through most of the sessions of the day watching the older ones perform the more complicated routines and mimicking their steps. I dreamed of the day that I could be Odette and Odile, Giselle or Coppelia, never expecting to make my stage in front of a jury box.

 William directed us to the center of the floor, where we practiced pirouettes and fouettés until sweat dripped down the small of my back and ringlets formed at the base of my ponytail. I didn’t want the hour to end and be ejected from this fantasy world back to real life and time. But when theadagio lamentoso concluded, William bowed to the class and we returned the gesture, applauding lightly toward him in the tradition of students of the old-style masters.

 I showered in the changing room and dressed in my weekend uniform of leggings and long shirt. Next stop was a parking garage on the East Side, as I hurried to Louis’ Salon on Fifty-seventh Street for a haircut and a few streaks to lighten the blond hair I had inherited through my mother’s Finnish genes. I hitched my beeper onto my waistband as I sat in Elsa’s chair while she wrapped the strands in tinfoil. “With any luck, this thing won’t go off ‘til my head’s out of the sink,” I said, patting the little black box that had become my lifeline to the police department.