Overdose (2 page)

But the photos on David Borovsky’s desk were facing Gorton. He looked into the face of a middle-aged, slightly heavyset woman. Even though he was seeing her face for the first time in his life, the smile on that face looked familiar. Very familiar. He knew that smile—the kind of smile where the eyes stay non-smiling, cold and almost grim—all too well. The young twenty-something woman in the second picture smiled more warmly. He looked at the face that seemed like a fresher version of the face on the left, trying to decide whether it was warmth or just a combination of a younger age and better posing skills.

Skills
, he decided at the end. Not that it mattered though.

He pulled the drawer open.

Not much. Last year’s football almanac. A notepad—unfortunately empty. A pack of tissues. More pens and pencils. A brand new
The Ultimate Guide to Fishing
with a lucky smiling fisherman on the cover in the company of his not-so-lucky catch. A stapler. That’s all. No, here’s a business card in the corner.
David Borovsky
. That’s hardly useful. Although there’s a handwritten number on the back. No name. Now,
that
is worth checking out. Suppose—

“Lieutenant?”

“Yes,” Gorton replied, without turning towards the sound of the jovial voice bursting with energy. He wasn’t sure whether his tolerance of Kelly’s theories had been fully restored.

“We found no fingerprints.”

Now he’ll say they used gloves . . .

“No doubt, they worked in gloves.”

So they must have been professionals . . .

“We’re dealing with pros.”

It pays to have the mayor for an uncle . . .

“I’m going to tell our men to check with people living in the nearby apartments.”

“Are there any apartments nearby? It’s downtown.”

“Hmm . . . we’ll check. If there are some we’ll go door to door.”

“Good plan.” Gorton finally decided to swing round in his chair and face Kelly. “Keep me posted. And find Borovsky’s wife—I need to speak with her.”

Once Kelly’s steps had traveled far enough, Gorton arranged all the pens and pencils flat on the desk. David Borovsky clearly liked to collect items—and that wasn’t limited to sports. Gorton had high hopes for this particular collection.

Three pens marked with the bank’s logo. Of course.
Prudential Financial
. That must be a souvenir from Mrs. Borovsky.
Dr. Mitchell: Your Smile is Our Priority.
You don’t say.
Days Inn
. Hmm . . . The address? Yes, that’s a
local
Days Inn. Now why would you need a hotel in your own town, where you have a house and a caring wife? There could be a few reasons, but let’s not rush to conclusions. Another
Prudential.
A bank. Not just any bank—a competitor just a couple of blocks away. So you work for a local bank, but prefer to keep your own money in a national chain? Smart. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. And what do we have here?
Golden Skydiving Inc.
Now, why would Mr. Borovsky need a parachute? To land on Days Inn’s roof? Or is this a new fishing technique? What a nice quiet family man . . .

What else have we got here? We’ve got a catch. The kind of catch even
The Ultimate Guide to Fishing
would be proud to feature on its cover. Dr. Moore.
This
doctor isn’t a dentist. He is a PsyD. He doesn’t peer into your mouth—it’s your mind he’s interested in. And apparently Dr. Moore has taken some interest in Mr. Borovsky’s mind. Unless he came here looking for a loan and left his pen as a security deposit. Anything else?

Yes, as a matter of fact there’s one more pen.
Speak Easy: Spanish Immersion Programs
. Good choice, Mr. Borovsky! Good choice. Travel is so good for your health. After all, it must be so tiring to sit in this office day after day, week after week, month after month for nineteen years. Just sit and talk about loans, deposits and down payments. And there’s no change in sight, short of retirement, which is not yet exactly around the corner. And every day you go back to your football collection and the woman with the grim smile. So yes, seeing some new places sounds like a perfect idea. Especially if you can speak the language. Way to go, Mr. Borovsky!

Well, that’s not so bad for a single drawer. Not bad at all. Plus there is that number.

Gorton reached for the phone.

“Jeb’s Guns and Gun Range,” said a flat voice in the receiver.

“This is David Borovsky,” Gorton said.

“Mr. Borovsky!” the voice livened up. “How are you, sir? Calling for another personal lesson?”

“Absolutely,” Gorton replied. “How about . . . you know what, let me call you back. I need to check my schedule.”

“Any time,” said the voice. “The guys would be happy to see you whenever you can make it.”

Gorton slowly returned the receiver into the cradle.

So the guys at Jeb’s Guns would be happy to see Mr. Borovsky at any time for another private lesson. How nice of them.

The pieces of the puzzle were snapping together perfectly to form a crisp picture. There was just one problem: they had been snapping together a tad too easily.

Linda Borovsky looked just like her picture. Only her smile was different—polite and uneasy. Gorton was used to smiles like that. When you show up uninvited at people’s doors flashing your badge, this is the best kind of smile you can expect—that is if you get any smile at all.

But as soon as Mrs. Borovsky learned the reason for the visit, anxiety on her face gave way to cheerful skepticism.

“David?” she asked, as if trying to confirm that Gorton had come to the right place. “You’re suspecting
my
David? My David robbed his own bank?”

“No,” Gorton explained patiently. “We do not suspect your husband. We just want to ask him a few questions. We would have talked to him in the office, just like to everyone else, but he is not at work today. Do you know where I can find him?”

When Mrs. Borovsky was finally satisfied with the explanations, it turned out that, despite her willingness to help with the investigation, there wasn’t much she could offer. Her husband, who in the last couple of months had turned into a devoted fisherman, had left the day before for a two-day fishing trip. Why did he go on Sunday instead of Saturday? The place gets too packed during the weekend. Mondays are much better. Plus he always ends up with unused vacation days. Where is this fishing place? No idea. It’s about an hour’s drive. Somewhere up North. Or maybe it’s West? Not sure. Must be at the lake. In any case it must be somewhere in the woods—there’s no cell phone reception.

Who did he go with? Alone. Yes, he likes going on his fishing trips alone. He’s an outgoing man who likes good company, but these fishing trips have been an exception. I tried once to send my cousin with him, but that didn’t fly—David said that he didn’t like sharing his catch with anyone. Said he takes fishing very seriously and doesn’t want amateurs around. So yes, he’s been going alone. Well, sometimes a man needs his quiet time, doesn’t he?

Does he catch a lot? Oh yes. He’s been bringing back some impressive catch. You should’ve seen them—these large, fresh, cold fish. He sure knows how to catch them. But quite often he goes to those catch-and-release places, you know, where they have to put the fish back into water. So on those days he obviously comes back empty-handed.

How often does he go? Every weekend, actually. He used to spend weekends at home, you know, some small repairs, TV, his collection, that sort of thing. But now he’s often out before sunrise. Why not? It’s been good for him—he’s lost weight, got tanned, you know. He’s been happier recently. His health? Oh, he’s been all right. Well, he’s forty-six, you know. But for his age, he’s all right. Yes, mental health too. Why do you ask? Five minutes ago you said he was a robber, now you’re saying he’s a nutcase. Are you
really
sure you got the right David?

How long has he been fishing? Just like I said, two months. No wait. Maybe three. Or four? Three or four, something like that. Time flies, you know. Did he tell his manager that he will be out on Monday? Of course, he did! No, I never asked him, but I know David. He would not have left for a trip on Monday without giving them any notice. He is
very
responsible. You know how much they appreciate him at the bank? They all love him. His clients love him, the manager loves him, even his peers love him. You know what it takes to make your peers love you? And that’s all because he always thinks about work. About what’s right. He doesn’t play office politics, he’s never backstabbed anyone—he’s just a great employee. So if he is not there today, he must have told them. And by the way, you don’t have to come back to speak with him. He’ll call you as soon as he’s back from the trip. I’ll make sure he knows you’ve been looking for him.

Golden Skydiving
? No, that doesn’t ring a bell. Why do you ask?
What
? David skydiving?
My
David
skydiving
? You certainly got a wrong David. Mine is afraid of heights. Yes, afraid of heights. And he’s just not the kind who jumps from a flying plane. He is very . . . how can I say it . . . he’s not the adventurous type. His idea of fun is spending time in his home office with his collection. Well, he’s got this fishing thing going, but that’s as far as he would go. So no, skydiving doesn’t sound like something he would even consider doing. Plus, like I said, he’s forty-six. You don’t start jumping off planes at that age.

Where do we keep our money? What do you mean, where? In the bank. Of course, in David’s bank. Where else? You know you’re asking some very odd questions.

The office? What do you mean,
take a look
? As in search? Ah, just to take a look. Sure, you can take a look I guess—why not? It’s this way. Yes, that door to the right.

Gorton quietly sighed with relief. Good. She could have declined. She certainly didn’t have to cooperate on this one. Not without a warrant. Dealing with close relatives of a suspect is always a tricky business. You never know what’s really on their minds. They’re often very willing to talk—but what they tell you may not exactly
be the truth. As for a search warrant, it takes time and effort and, under circumstances like these, it’s hardly guaranteed. Intuition alone is not a sufficient reason for getting that signature. So a polite matter-of-fact question serves a dual purpose: it gives you at least some indication of what they really know and—when your host has nothing to hide—lets you in.

There was indeed nothing to hide in David Borovsky’s office. If there had been anything suspicious, it likely had already been well hidden by the office’s primary occupant. Nothing in this room
even remotely called to mind guns and skydives. Instead, the office was a battlefield. The old hobby was clashing here for domination with the new one—and clearly was losing the fight.

Autographed photos, framed jerseys and footballs on dust-covered stands were being outnumbered and outmaneuvered by fishing equipment. Reels, lures, fishing flies and colorful books featuring proud fisherman were attacking the football memorabilia everywhere. They covered the desk, peeked from the half-closed drawers, hung on the walls and lived in every corner. The football collection, while still struggling meekly, was doomed.

While Gorton, doing a passable job of keeping an interested expression on his face, was looking around the room, Mrs. Borovsky told him a sad story of the doomed collection. The collector, who had been diligently gathering it for years, had had an almost instantaneous change of heart. One day he came home with a fishing rod—and that was the end of his longtime passion for football. Next, he began bringing home books and more gear, and then—

A phone ring halted Mrs. Borovsky’s tale. She excused herself and went back into the living room.

As she was explaining to someone why she could not talk at the moment (“They thought David was involved in that robbery! Imagine
that
!”), Gorton studied an object that had caught his attention the moment he entered the room: a small and thin clear-plastic bottle with small white pills inside. It lay between a thick fishing guide and a box holding scary-looking fishing lures. The drug name on the bottle looked unfamiliar:
Arbidium XT, 500 mg.
The doctor’s name, however, was not completely new: Dr. James Moore, PsyD.