Bitter Medicine (31 page)

“Shut up, Peter,” Humphries said sharply. “You’re out of your head.”

“If I am, it’s a good place to be, Alan. You know, money isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Or maybe you don’t know that. When Tregiere showed up at the hospital, I knew the game was over. He took in everything we’d done—and hadn’t done. He was too polite to say anything, just pitched in, did his best with the baby and the girl. But it was too late, of course.”

He was speaking in a dreamy voice. I glanced at Rawlings, but he was far too shrewd a cop to interrupt the flow of a confession.

“I knew he’d be reporting back to Dr. Herschel, so I went to Alan to tell him we’d better get ready to face the music. But Alan didn’t want to do that, did you, old boy? Oh, no, not to interrupt the future flow of capital, or whatever the shit the financial garbage says. So he stayed late at the hospital, trying to figure it out. That was before we lost the girl, Consuelo, of course, but she had gone under once because of the magnesium sulfate
and her condition was pretty shaky. Critical, we say in the medical-industrial business.”

He held the gun level at Humphries the whole time he spoke. At first the administrator tried to interrupt him, tried to signal to us to disarm Peter, but when he saw we weren’t responding, he lapsed into silence.

“Then Alan had a little luck, didn’t you, Alan? The girl’s husband showed up late that night. Alan’s always been good at sizing people up, judging their strengths and weaknesses. He did a real fine job with mine, for instance. I mean, once I’d swallowed the Friendship financial bait, it was easy to push me each step of the rest of the way, wasn’t it?

“Anyway, the girl’s husband showed up. And Alan gave him five thousand dollars to keep him happy. And learned that he had some pals back in Chicago who were into some rather antisocial activities, who might do anything for a price. Like break into Malcolm Tregiere’s apartment and steal his notes. And maybe bash his brains in. You said you’d told them to wait until he wasn’t home—but that wouldn’t have done you much good, would it? Because he could always reconstruct his dictation. No, you needed him dead.”

“You’re raving, Burgoyne,” Humphries said loudly, his own face pale. “Can’t you see, Officer, that he’s out of his mind? If you’d get that gun away from him, we could talk sensibly. Peter gets carried away, but you look like an intelligent man, Rawlings. I’m sure we could work something out.”

“Knock it off, Humphries,” I said. “We know you have Sergio Rodriguez’s phone number in your office. I could get the detective here to send an officer over right now and lay hands on it.”

He sucked in his breath sharply, the first chink in his defenses.

Peter went on speaking as if there had been no interruption. “So Tregiere was dead. But we knew Warshawski was a detective. And her reputation was pretty good, so I stepped in to keep an eye on her. Young good-looking doctor, lots of money—plenty of women would fall for that, and maybe she would, too. Besides, Alan still didn’t have the dictation. Perhaps Tregiere had given it to her when they were out at Friendship together. Easy enough to search her apartment while she was asleep.”

He turned eyes that were dark holes of despair to me. “I liked you, Vic. I might have fallen in love with you if I hadn’t been carrying the burden of death on my shoulders. I could tell you were getting suspicious and I’m not very good at hiding things, so I backed away from you. And besides, there was the whole business of those IckPiff files… .”

His voice trailed off. I took a deep breath to ease the tension in my throat. “It’s okay, Peter. I know about those. Alan got in touch with Monkfish and convinced him to stage an anti-abortion rally outside Lotty’s clinic. He had someone in the crowd to get Lotty’s file on Consuelo. You couldn’t know that Friendship’s
counsel, Dick Yarborough, was my ex-husband. I knew Monkfish couldn’t afford Dick and I wanted to know who was paying him to get off the hook for destroying Lotty’s clinic.”

Humphries, seeing Peter’s attention distracted, made a move to get out of his chair.

Rawlings pulled out his police revolver and waved him back. “Let the doctor finish, man. So you got Sergio to break into Warshawski’s place to get the files, huh? And the old man who lives downstairs got his head bashed in, but fortunately didn’t die. We can read that part. But what about Fabiano? How’d he come to die?”

“Oh, that.” Peter looked down at the gun in his hand. “Alan had paid him to shut him up. We figured five thousand was more money than he’d ever get together and it wouldn’t occur to him to sue. But then he got sick of being harassed by his dead wife’s brothers, and by Vic here. Everyone knows how tight she is with Dr. Herschel, and Dr. Herschel’s nurse is the dead girl’s sister. So anyone who wanted to get back at Vic or the Alvarado family would do it through Dr. Herschel, right?”

Rawlings and I nodded without speaking.

“So Fabiano brought suit against Dr. Herschel for negligence in treating his wife while she was pregnant. He meant to keep his word and leave Friendship out of it—slime that he was, he had that much honor—but once you start a process like that, you don’t have much
control over it. Of course the lawyer he found soon saw where the deep pockets were. Out at Friendship.

“So we got our summonses. And Alan kind of lost his head. He got me to give him the model number of Vic’s gun and went out and bought one just like it. Then he met Fabiano at his bar in the city for a friendly, fatherly chat. I came along for the ride. And the incrimination, right, Alan? So he put his arm around the boy and shot him in the head. Of course, he kept the bullet case. He figured the police knew Vic here would spring to Dr. Herschel’s defense, and if they found Fabiano’d been killed with a bullet from her gun, why, they’d arrest her.

“He gave me the gun to keep. After all, he’s got a wife and children at home. You can’t keep a gun around the home—it isn’t safe, is it, Alan?” He waved the pistol at Humphries and laughed a little.

Rawlings cleared his throat, started to say something about forensic evidence, then thought better of it. “Okay, Doc. You didn’t mean Warshawski any harm. You’d have brought her flowers in prison and got her a good lawyer. Maybe her old moneybags lawyer husband. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to give me the gun. It’s evidence in a murder case, you see, and I need to take it back to Chicago with me.”

He spoke in a quiet, persuasive voice and Peter turned his dreamy gaze to him.

“Oh, yes, the gun, Detective.” He held it up and looked at it. Before I realized what he was doing, he held it to his temple and fired.

The whine from the gun vibrated in the room. The smell filled the place, burnt gunpowder and blood. Maybe our noses are too blunted to smell blood anymore. But we could see it. See it. A bright crimson splash against the desktop. The white shards are bone. And the darker soft mass seeping out beyond the hair is the brain.

“You can’t faint now, Ms. W. We got work to do.”

A strong black hand seized my head and forced me to bend over, to tuck my head between my legs. The buzzing faded from my ears. The nausea rising in my throat receded. I stood up slowly, avoiding the desk. Murray had gone to the window where he stood with his back to the room, his big shoulders hunched over. Humphries got uncertainly to his feet.

“Poor Peter. He couldn’t forgive himself for not saving that poor girl’s life. He’s been talking wildly for some time now—we’ve been very concerned about
him. No offense to you, Miss Warshawski, but I didn’t think it was sensible for him to see so much of you—it kept him brooding about the girl and the baby and Dr. Herschel’s problems in a very unhealthy way.”

He looked at his wrist. “I don’t want to seem callous, but I’d better get back to the hospital—see what I can do to break the news to the staff, see if we can get someone to cover Peter’s patients for the next few weeks.”

Rawlings moved to the door, blocking the exit. “Seems to me you’re the one talking a little wildly, Mr. Humphries. We need to go into Chicago together for a chat.”

Humphries’s brown eyebrows went up to his carefully combed hairline. “If you need a statement from me, Officer, I’ll dictate one this afternoon and send it to my attorney. With Peter killing himself, we’re going to be under tremendous pressure. I need to talk to my secretary—the two of us will probably have to work the weekend.”

Rawlings sighed softly and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. “You don’t understand, Mr. Humphries. I’m arresting you for conspiring to murder Malcolm Tregiere and for the murder of Fabiano Hernandez. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions and to have him with you during questioning. You have the right—”

Humphries, who’d been struggling while Rawlings cuffed his hands behind him, bellowed, “You’ll regret this, Officer. I’ll have your commander bust you out of the force.”

Rawlings looked at Murray. “You taking notes, Ryerson? I’d like a verbatim record of everything Mr. Humphries has to say. I think the charges are now going to include threatening a police officer in the discharge of his duty.

“I guess we’d better notify the local people that there’s a dead man out here, let them come and talk to us before we go back to town.”

Humphries continued to rail for a few minutes. Rawlings ignored him, going over to the desk to phone his watch commander in Chicago. When the administrator tried to walk out while Rawlings was at the desk, Murray and I blocked the door.

“I just want to find another phone,” Humphries said haughtily. “I presume I’m allowed to call my lawyer?”

“Wait until the detective is through,” I said. “And by the way, he’ll probably be happier if you start calling him ‘Detective’ or ‘Sergeant’ instead of ‘Officer.’ Insulting the man isn’t going to help your case.”

“Look, Miss Warshawski,” Humphries said urgently, “you saw a lot of Burgoyne the last few weeks. You know he wasn’t himself—”

“I don’t know,” I interrupted. “I don’t know what you think he was supposed to be like.”

“But all of this crap he was spewing—about me and
some Mexican—what did he call him? Sergio?—it’d be worth a great deal to me if you’d be willing to testify to his delusional state. It’s a pity I never got around to asking our psychiatric guy to do a formal evaluation. Although he probably observed some changes at staff meetings. But think about it seriously, Miss Warshawski. After all, you’re the person who probably saw the most of him the last few weeks.”

“Gee, I don’t know, Mr. Humphries. I wonder what a great deal means to you—the V. I. Warshawski wing out here at Friendship? Or Peter’s profit sharing for the year? What do you think, Murray?”

“Think about what?” That was Rawlings, very sharp.

“Oh, Mr. Humphries is going to dedicate a wing at the hospital to me if I testify that Dr. Burgoyne was off his head the last few weeks.”

“That so? Pity you’re only a private eye, Ms. W., or we’d be able to add attempted bribery to the charge sheet.”

We moved into the living room to wait for the local people. Rawlings told Humphries he could call his lawyer when he’d been booked in Chicago. The administrator took that with good humor, keeping up a steady stream of cajolery. He’d decided, apparently, that sweet-talking would work better than threats, but Rawlings was impervious to both.

The local force showed up with three cars all flashing red, sirens howling. Five officers came running up
the drive. Peppy took exception to the alarms and the uniforms; she chased them to the house, barking madly. I opened the door and held her collar while they came in.

“Good girl,” I murmured into her soft ear after they’d gone inside. “You’re a good dog. But what are you going to do now? Your boy is dead, you know. Who’s going to feed you and play fetch with you?”

I sat outside with her, holding her against me, feeling the long, luxurious hair with my fingers. Made nervous by the flashing lights and uniformed men, she moved uneasily against me.

After about ten minutes an ambulance came squealing up. I directed the attendants into the house, remaining with the dog. A short time later they came out with Peter’s body in a black bag. As soon as they reappeared, Peppy began trembling and whimpering. She strained against my hands, finally breaking free as the ambulance pulled away. She charged after it, barking frantically, a high, pained bark. She followed them down the drive and up the road. When they were out of sight, she came back slowly, her head and tail lowered, her sides heaving. She plopped herself in the driveway where it met the road, her head against the ground.

When Rawlings finally came out with Humphries and the local men, she lifted her head hopefully, but dropped it again when she saw Peter wasn’t with them. We all got into cars—Murray and me together to go back to the hospital for Max and Lotty, one of the local
men with Rawlings to escort Humphries to Chicago. We drove carefully around the dog. As we turned a bend in the road I could see her still lying there, her head against the blacktop.

Murray barely stopped long enough for me to get out of the car at Friendship before racing off to the city. Max and Lotty were waiting in the cafeteria. Lotty, annoyed at being left to cool her heels for two hours, switched rapidly to sympathy after a look at my face.

I told them briefly what had happened. “Let me drive you home now. I need to get over to the Sixth Area to make my statement.”

Lotty took my arm and guided me gently to my car. We didn’t talk much during the drive. At one point Max asked if I thought they’d be able to make charges against Humphries stick.

“I don’t know,” I said wearily. “His current line is that Peter was mad, that all the stuff about hiring Sergio to kill Malcolm was a delusion. It all depends, I suppose, on which way Sergio decides to jump.”

I left them both at Lotty’s apartment and drove on to the Sixth Area Headquarters. Before getting out of the car I locked my gun in the glove compartment—the police don’t like outsiders carrying weapons into their stations. As I started up the station steps, a Mercedes sports car pulled up to the curb with a squeal of brakes. I turned and waited. My ex-husband came flying up the walk.