Dante's Poison (18 page)

“Where is Dr. Goldman now?”

“He's with a patient. I'll buzz him when he's through and tell him you're up. Can I get you anything to drink?” Yelena asked.

I wondered what had prompted this outpouring of solicitude from her. “Some water. And if you would, a bite from the cafeteria.” I hadn't eaten in more than twenty-four hours, and my empty stomach was doing cartwheels under my rib cage. I would have liked a shower too, but it could wait. Hallie's surgeon had promised to call me midday with an update. “Are there any messages for me?”

“Just this. Danielle found it lying on the reception desk when she came back from lunch. It doesn't say who it's from.” She handed me a letter-sized envelope. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

If this kept up much longer we'd be announcing our engagement. “You're in a swell mood today,” I said, handing the envelope back. “Is there something I'm missing out on?”

“It's a secret,” Yelena said, almost purring. “I promised I wouldn't tell you until it's been announced.”

“OK, then. What's behind Door Number Two?”

Yelena removed the envelope's contents and shook out a sheet of paper. “This is weird,” she said immediately.

“What is?”

“It's like something you read about in spy novels—letters from the newspaper all cut up and pasted together.”

“Go on,” I said, thinking it was just an office prank. “What's it say?”

Yelena began reading:

 

T
WO PLUS TWO USUALLY EQUALS FOUR
.
I
F YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO BRAINED YOUR GIRLFRIEND
,
THINK BACK TO WHAT SHE DID THIS WEEK
.
B
UT SSSSHH!
D
ON'T TELL THE POLICE
.
I
F YOU DO, WORSE THINGS COULD BE AROUND THE CORNER
.

“Who do you think sent it?” Josh said.

“I haven't a clue.” We were in our suite's coffee room, where I was fortifying myself with chicken soup and crackers. “But someone out there isn't too happy about us getting Jane released.”

“So you think they went after Hallie to get her off the case?”

“Possibly. But why? It's not like Jane can't afford another lawyer. And there are plenty of them out there who'd be thrilled to take on such a high-profile matter.” I picked up one of the crackers and nibbled on the end. It tasted like sawdust, and I put it back on the wrapper.

Josh said, “Here, pass those to me. If you're not going to enjoy your food you might as well give it to someone who will. So what's your theory then?”

“For one thing, whoever wrote that note knows something about Gallagher's death that no one else does. Something they're anxious to see unearthed, if you'll excuse the poor pun.”

“Fair enough. But then why haven't they just come forward and told the police?”

“That's the part I don't get. Unless the note writer has some reason to fear being identified.”

“Or is in fact the murderer,” Josh said, munching. “The note could be a taunt—come and get me if you can—like the ones sent by the Zodiac killer or the Unabomber. Has it occurred to you there could be a psychopath at work here?”

I forced myself to take another spoonful of the soup. “It's certainly a possibility. But there haven't been any other poisonings like Gallagher's reported in the press. Usually serial killers don't limit themselves to one victim.”

“True. But Gallagher's death wouldn't have been discovered except for the exhumation order. For all you know, the killer's already knocked off dozens of folks and is getting frustrated that no one's noticed.”

“Then why pick a substance that's so hard to identify? Even the Tylenol killer was smart enough to use cyanide, which can be smelled on the victim's lips. Excuse me a sec.” It was time for another of my pills. I went over to the water dispenser and poured myself a cup, downing the tablet before returning to my seat.

“How's that going, by the way?” Josh asked, full of concern. “You notice any changes?”

I shook my head. “But Melissa said it would take time for the drug to build up in my system.”

“Didn't she also say you should be getting plenty of rest?”

“Hey, I didn't ask to get bludgeoned into unconsciousness, did I?”

“Which raises another point. You shouldn't be by yourself for the next twenty-four hours. Why don't you spend the night at my place? Debbie can make up the spare room, and I can drive you back here in the morning. In the meantime, the police can start tearing that note apart.”

My face must have betrayed my intentions.

“Don't tell me,” Josh groaned. “You're planning on keeping this to yourself.”

“I have to. I can't run the risk of anything else happening to Hallie.”

“She's in the ICU, man. What could possibly happen to her there?”

“I don't know. But after last night I'm not taking any chances. Besides, how seriously are the police going to take it anyway? They already think they have Gallagher's killer. If I know them, they'll say the note's just a prank.”

“So that's it, then?” Josh said in exasperation. “You're going to go out there and play Daredevil again? God help me for saying this, but you're a forty-eight-year-old desk jockey who can't see past his nose, is probably concussed, and doesn't weigh much more than your average long-distance runner, none of which is likely to present a material challenge to the next thug who comes after you with a club—or, heaven forbid, a gun.”

“Don't worry,” I reassured him. “Present appearances to the contrary, I'm not that stupid. I know I need help, and I have someone in mind for it.”

“So you'll take this to O'Leary?”

“No, but how would you feel about James Bond?”

When I left Josh, the back of my head was throbbing again, but after checking in with Hallie's surgeon—there was no change—I forced myself downstairs and into a cab, stopping only long enough to look up an address and make a photocopy of the note. I put the original inside an old textbook from my shelf, stuck the book inside a manila envelope, and placed both at the back of a drawer full of files, which I then locked with a key. The key went across the room, underneath a flowerpot on the windowsill with a cast iron plant that had long since died. I'd selected it because the variety was supposed to be impervious to neglect, but even the hardiest species needs to be watered from time to time.

Twenty minutes later, the cab dropped me off on West Randolph Street at the offices of Jane Barrett and Associates, LLP. Her ground-floor suite was guarded by a male receptionist of indeterminate age who lifted my business card from my fingers as though it were carrying a nasty strain of bird flu. Ms. Barrett, he informed me in a highborn tone, did not entertain visitors without an appointment.

“Does that policy extend to matters of life and death?” I inquired.

“All of Ms. Barrett's cases are matters of life and death,” he sniffed. “Especially to her valued clients.”

“How do you know I'm not one of them?”

He didn't reply right away, apparently looking me up and down. I'd changed into the clean shirt Josh had brought me, but was still in the suit I'd been wearing the night before, which, if not spattered with blood, was undoubtedly filthy. That along with the wad of bandage above my ear apparently disqualified me from Ms. Barrett's exalted attention. “I'm afraid Ms. Barrett does not involve herself in plaintiffs' work, let alone charity cases,” he said. “Now if you'll excuse me . . .” I heard him turn back to his keyboard.

I considered my options. Raining down blows on him with my cane might satisfy a certain primitive urge but was likely to succeed only in my being arrested and forcibly removed. Instead, I stepped away from his desk, extracted my phone from its holder, and pretended to enter a telephone number. I held it up to my ear and waited a second or two before commencing a loud soliloquy. “Hello? Is this the Disability Advocate at the Attorney General's office? . . . Yes, thank you, I can hold. . . . Yes, hello? I'm calling to lodge a complaint against a licensed member of the bar. You see, I'm blind and I came here to . . . that's right, she won't even speak to me. Yes, I'm at her office now. Oh, you say I should be calling the Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Committee hotline? Right. If you'll just give me that number. . . .”

A few minutes later, I was in a private elevator going up to the building's penthouse, where Jane apparently kept her living quarters so as to be instantly available to clients—at least those wise enough to have called ahead. The car ride took all of thirty seconds, whereupon I was deposited in a small anteroom whose carpeting molded itself to my shoes like a Tempur-Pedic mattress. From my tactile inspection the door a few yards ahead had probably wiped out an entire grove of ancient oaks.

I located the bell at its side and rang. Nothing happened. After a while I put my ear to the door, listening for some indication of life inside, but there was none. I rang again, holding my finger to the button for a full minute in the hope of getting someone's attention. At last a set of footsteps approached. With a click of the latch the mammoth door swung inward. I caught the scent of a rich, exotic perfume I couldn't identify, along with something I would have sworn was glue.

“Doctor, how delightful of you to come,” Jane said.

“That's not the way your winged monkey downstairs put it,” I said.

“Yes, Gregory is sometimes overzealous in the performance of his duties. But you can hardly blame him. As you might imagine, we've been overrun with curiosity seekers recently. Please accept my apologies for his behavior. And for the delay in coming to the door. I was lighting some logs in the outdoor fireplace when you rang.” It sounded as phony as one of Graham Young's drug sales pitches.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Certainly,” Jane said. “I was merely wondering how best to help you.”

“Just tell me where to go and I'll be fine.”

I followed her instructions to a sofa in the center of a spacious, sunlit room. A door was open somewhere beyond it, bringing the marine odor of the nearby river and the sweet scent of wood smoke. I collapsed my cane and settled myself down on a silk-covered sofa no bigger than a houseboat. I hoped I wouldn't soil it with my clothes. On second thought, maybe I did.

“Would you like some tea?” Jane asked. “I order it specially from Mariage Frères in Paris. I'm particularly fond of their Eros infusion. And perhaps some
macarons
to go with it? I just picked them up at Vanille this morning.”

“Never mind that,” I said testily. “Have you heard what happened to Hallie?”

“Yes,” she replied. “A colleague called with the news this morning. Poor darling. And by the appearance of things, poor you. You look like you're still in shock. And shivering. I can shut the door to the terrace if it's too cold. Why don't you just get comfortable and I'll bring that tea. Unless you'd prefer something stronger . . .”

“Look,” I said. “I didn't come here for
petit fours
. I need to ask you some questions.”

“But you are my guest and I insist upon it. Now relax and I'll get us some refreshments.”

I decided I wasn't in any position to argue. Jane moved off to what sounded like an open kitchen area and began bustling around while I sat back and listened. The couch was soft and I must have dozed off briefly because the next thing I knew she was perched beside me holding a steaming towel. From the smell, there was also something strong and aromatic brewing nearby.

“Here,” she said. “You still have dried blood on your face.” She moved in closer. I was too taken aback to do anything but sit still while she dabbed at my cheek and chin. “There. That's much better.” The warmth was soothing, and I admit it felt good to be nursed.

She removed the towel and sat back within inches of me, not saying anything. This close, her perfume was stronger and I could detect her low, rhythmic breathing. Once again I had the unnerving sense I was being examined under a microscope by a patient and disinterested scientist. I couldn't remove her gaze by returning it, which only intensified my feeling of being on the wrong end of a powerful lens. And there was something else too about her silent and unhurried inspection. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was being sized up for something. I shifted in my seat to put more distance between us.