Likely to Die (40 page)

 “You’re a lousy drunk, Coop. Harmless but lousy.”

 I must have fallen asleep immediately because I didn’t remember anything else until the front desk rang for our eight o’clock wake-up call. I could hear a noise coming from the floor at the foot of Mike’s bed. I sat up and looked, but the only thing there was the pair of pants to his suit, wriggling and buzzing as if a giant bumblebee was trapped in its pocket and trying to escape. “Good morning. At the risk of being told it’s none of my business, may I ask you what you’ve got in your pants?”

 “Whaddya mean?” He didn’t look much better than I felt as he rolled over to face me.

 “Something’s jumping around in your trousers.” I pointed at the moving pile on the floor.

 “That’s my Skypager,” he laughed. “I had it in my pocket last night. But it’s set on the vibrating mode so it wouldn’t beep in the middle of dinner and make any noise. That’s why it’s so frisky.”

 Mike got out of bed, picked up the writhing pants, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the little machine. “It’s John Creavey’s number.” He called the desk and asked them to dial it for him.

 A short conversation with the commander and then he turned back to me. “Mercer called Creavey ‘cause the Skypager doesn’t work this far away and the reception desk here wouldn’t put his call through during the night.

 “John DuPre is on the run. Skipped town some time within the last twenty-four hours. Mercer seized some stuff from his office and they’ve got his house staked out, too. But the wife is hysterical. Claims she’s left there on her own with two kids and no idea where her husband is. Let’s get packing. Mercer’ll tell us the rest of the story when he picks us up at the airport.”

 “Well, is the guy a neurologist or not?”

 “Are you kidding? Mercer doesn’t even know his real name. He’s not John DuPre, he’s not a doctor, and it seems he never went to medical school. He’s a con artist and a scammer. And when they figure outwho he is, maybe we’ll figure out how to find him.”

 26

 IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK WHEN THEannouncement came that our flight was ready to depart after hours of delay caused by a mechanical problem. We were both bored and squirming as we were marched onto the plane with three hundred other disgruntled travelers and found our way to our seats two-thirds of the way to the back of the coach section. Our upgrade didn’t work on this side of the pond.

 Once airborne, the trip was unremarkable. We ate and read and watched Mel Gibson shoot up half the population of Los Angeles in the fifth sequel to whatever action series was on the screen. I finally came to life about twenty minutes east of JFK as we descended to twelve thousand feet and I could point out to Chapman a crystal clear view of Martha’s Vineyard off the right wingtip of the plane. We were flying just to the south of the island and from the air the bareness of the trees in the early spring made it possible to pick out the distinct towns and bodies of water as well as some of the actual farms and houses that I knew so well.

 Mike leaned across me and looked down through the window. “Can you see the Bite? I’m ready for a second portion of those incredible fried clams.”

 I tried to point out where Menemsha was, orienting him by the large red-and-black roof of the Coast Guard building.

 “Have you been back to your house since last—?”

 I interrupted his question before he could complete it. “Not yet.”

 “You know you’ve really gotta go—”

 I didn’t want to snap at him again, and I knew I had been avoiding a difficult situation for too long, but I hadn’t been able to face a weekend alone in my lovely old farmhouse since I had returned there with Mike during the investigation of Isabella Lascar’s murder last fall. “The caretaker closed it up for me for the winter. It’ll just be easier to deal with the whole thing in a few weeks when it’s springtime. The inside is being painted now and I’ll wait ‘til Ann or Louise are going up to their places. I have been avoiding it but I’m about ready to go back.”

 The flight attendant was directing us to fasten our seat belts for our initial approach to the airport. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky as we circled out over the ocean and I tried to urge Mike to relax his grip on the arms of his seat before he broke them in half.

 Mercer was standing on the ramp of the gateway as we deplaned through the front door. A sergeant from the Port Authority Police had taken him past security to meet us, and we were able to clear Customs and Immigration before the luggage even landed on the carousel.

 We picked up our bags and went out to his car, which was parked directly in front of the terminal. The highway was jammed with the Saturday night bridge-and-tunnel crowd on their way into the city for dinner or theater or sports events. We crawled along with them, Mercer saving his stories until we could sit quietly at dinner and catch up on his news.

 When we reached the Triboro Bridge, I used his car phone to call Giuliano at Primola. It was almost seven and I told him we could be at the restaurant in twenty minutes. “Got a corner table of Adolfo’s that you can give three of us?”

 We ordered quickly so we could get down to business. For me, stracciatelli soup and a small bowl of pasta that could just slide down my throat with barely any effort on my part. Mike and Mercer both went for veal chops. Adolfo brought over the first round of drinks as Mercer started to talk.

 “Here’s what we know so far. Our fugitive started life in a parish outside of New Orleans. Name was Jean DuPuy—Cajun, I guess. Graduated high school, then got a bachelor’s degree in pharmacology. That’s the closest his formal training ever came to medicine.

 “But he’s been impersonating doctors for almost ten years. Somehow he found out about the real DuPre, who’s a bit of a hermit at this point. Ninety-four years old. Most folks just assume he’s dead.

 “You know part of his scam. Writes to Tulane and claims his diploma was destroyed in a fire. Sends ‘em ten bucks for a new one along with his name and a post office box address. They’re happy to give one of their favorite sons whatever he asks for. Next, our impostor starts with that one priceless piece of paper—Xeroxed a few times—and some phony letterhead, which he uses to mail off to medical societies and journals. And before you can say Jefferson Davis, he’s got an entire portfolio establishing his credentials as Dr. John DuPre.”

 “D’you talk to anyone who knew him before he got to New York?”

 “Just this afternoon. Once he had his papers, he applied for jobs in clinics in the South, working his way up—with experience, of course—to better positions at medical centers.”

 “What did they say about him?”

 “Two of the neurologists he worked with said he acted like a real pro. They’re among the many who gave him glowing references when DuPre started to make plans to move to New York. All the patients raved about his bedside manner.”

 Just ask Maureen about that, I thought to myself. At least, that’s what she said the first few days.

 “Looks like he started doing this when he lost his pharmacist’s license for a Medicaid fraud. The prosecutor from the Louisiana Attorney General’s Office said when they investigated him for that offense in the early eighties, all the local physicians were shocked. They used to call him Doc ‘cause he seemed so knowledgeable about the profession. A real charmer. That’s when he moved to Georgia and started life all over again—as DuPre.”

 “Get any word back on the lawsuit he told us about?” I asked between spoonfuls of steaming hot soup.

 “Yeah, the malpractice case. Poor patient was a thirty-year-old guy. Came to see DuP—well, whoever he is. Described his symptoms, which were—” Mercer flipped open his steno pad and looked at the notes he had written. “Complained of sudden weight loss, insatiable thirst, dry lips and mouth, and dizziness.

 “This quack orders some blood tests, fills a beaker of urine, but simply told him to stay home and rest. The medication he ordered was for vertigo. Forty-eight hours later, lady friend finds the guy in his house—dead.”

 “How come?”

 “His symptoms, Dr. Chapman, are the classic markers of an uncontrolled case of diabetes. Any first-year med student should have picked it up. Our clown missed it completely and his trusting patient left the office and went into a diabetic coma. A completely avoidable death.”

 “So that drives him out of some small town near Atlanta and where better to go than the naked city? Eight million stories here and nobody’d even ask what his used to be.”

 “Now we got to figure out if he really left New York yesterday or if he’s still lurking around here somewhere.”

 “Update on that, too.” Mercer was sliding his knife through the largest, most tender chop I think I’ve ever seen. “Checked with the squad while I was at the airport. American Express and Visa are helping us track a flight route, which looks like it’s headed right on back to the bayou.

 “Somebody’s using the cards of an eighty-eight-year-old man, Tyrone Perkins. Car rental in the Bronx, gas on the Jersey Turnpike, motel in South Carolina last night.”

 “When were they reported stolen?” I asked.

 “Haven’t been—yet.”

 “Then I don’t see—”

 “The companies each called up the guy’s house ‘cause the cards are showing a flurry of recent activity after a very long dormant period. Problem is, Tyrone’s niece says he’s been in the hospital on life support for about seven months so he has definitely not been leaving home or anywhere else with his American Express card.”

 Mike was pointing his fork at Mercer. “And if I had to guess, I’d bet ol‘ Tyrone is hooked up to some machines over at Mid-Manhattan.”

 “The lieutenant sent someone there this afternoon to check the lockup where they store the valuables of the patients in the intensive care unit. Mr. Perkins’s personal things seemed to have been ‘misplaced’ sometime during the past few days. So we got a trace going nationally on ATMs, restaurants, and stores ‘til we find that scumbag.”

 “Anything else going on at the hospital while we were out of town?”

 “Well, I was over there yesterday afternoon. I say starting Monday morning we gotta bring every one of these guys down to the D.A.‘s Office and reinterview them. Whoever left that note under your door—the one about black and white—was trying to point a finger at DuPre if that’s what it was a reference to. Now, would they be doin’ that because they knew he was guilty of murder? Or just because they knew he was a fraud? Or was it simply because they wanted to divert attention from themselves?”

 “I’m with Mercer. Enough of trying to give ‘em special treatment and meet them on their own turf. They’re regular witnesses, like in any other case. Who’d you see there yesterday?”

 “I wanted to bypass administration and go right to Spector’s office. But somebody got on the horn when I walked into the lobby because Dietrich was on my back the minute I got to the reception area on the sixth floor.”

 I reminded Mike that we had to bring Mercer up to speed on Geoffrey Dogen’s thoughts about the missing key chain.

 “We’re going to have to talk to Dietrich about exactly when Gemma gave him the one he carries with him.”

 “Yeah, and how many other people walking around that hospital got them from her as gifts. I’m not sure that’s gonna be a very fruitful avenue to explore. We have no idea the last time that key ring was hanging from her bookshelf. D’you talk with Spector at all?”

 “Sure. The whole bunch of ‘em greet me like I’m a prospect for brain surgery when I walk into Minuit, kinda rubbing their hands together and acting like they’re pleased to have me there. He was in his office with Coleman Harper and Banswar Desai.

 “Desai still mopes around like he lost his best friend and Harper’s got his nose so far up the boss’s ass that it’s gonna be a shade darker than mine is any day now.”

 “Cooperative?”

 “Yeah. No problem with that. I was just trying to see if anybody had any ideas about DuPre. None of them seemed to know he had hit the road so I didn’t tell them. Spector’s real busy trying to do his own work and be anointed to take over Gemma’s place, too. Real humble, now, like it’s a big surprise he’ll get the job.”

 The owner came over to offer us an after-dinner drink on the house as soon as we had taken care of the check with Adolfo.

 Mike was already on his feet, pulling out my chair. “You know, Giuliano, just once I’d like you to buy me a drinkbefore dinner. You’re always quick to suggest one when Blondie’s dragging me out the door. Next time, okay?”

 “Buona notte.Nice to see you—Miss Cooper, gentlemen.”

 “Ciao, Giuliano.”

 We got in Mercer’s car for the short ride to my apartment. “What’s the plan, guys?”

 “I’m off tomorrow,” Mercer answered. “Unless we get word from one of those out-of-town departments that they’ve picked up Jean DuPuy. The lieutenant will give me a call if that happens. He’s trying to encourage me to stay home because of all the overtime we’re racking up on this case already.”

 “I promised my mother I’d stop by and take her to Mass in the morning.”

 “Then why don’t we meet in my office on Monday?” I said. “I’ll go over all the reports again tomorrow and set up a schedule for doing interviews. We can plan it out around your tours for the week, okay?”

 The doorman came out to meet the car and help me into the elevator with my luggage.

 “Want me to go up with you and make sure no one’s hiding under your bed, Goldilocks?”

 “No, thank you. Be sure you tell your mother about your conquest of the duchess. She’ll be very proud of you.”

 “Hey, if DuPuy rings your doorbell tonight and wants to make a house call to take your blood pressure, don’t let him in, y’hear?

 27

 I WAS RELISHING THE SOLITUDE OF MYown apartment on a rainy Sunday morning, reading theTimes and filling in the answers to the puzzle. My telephone tape had been loaded with messages from friends but I didn’t intend to start returning any of them until later in the afternoon. I had unpacked my suitcase and had nothing that needed doing other than to organize my notes and police reports for the week ahead.