DIVA (22 page)

“Okay. I’m more interested in the COD. Ziegler wasn’t that old.”

“True. He was thirty-six. I cannot tell you the cause of death because I don’t know. He was barely conscious on arrival. The triage nurse took his vital signs and sent him straight to the Trauma Center.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes. We were concerned about his heart rate. It was very slow and irregular. Also, he complained about blurred vision and stomach pain.”

“Could it have been a heart attack?”

“It is possible. We had no time to do an EKG. His condition deteriorated and then his heart stopped. We tried to save him.” The doctor’s expression grew pained. “We did what we could.”

“But the patient died,” Frank said, and cursed himself for the unthinking remark.

Clearly irritated, the doctor said, “Yes. Sometimes the patient dies.”

“Forgive me, Doctor Perez, I’m not criticizing. I assume you’ve never met Ziegler, but I have. And I have information, which I’m not allowed to divulge . . .” Bullshitting the man now, anything to get information. “I believe his death might involve foul play.”

Perez gazed at him, his eyes large and dark behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “I see. Back in my country—” He gave a tight smile. “I grew up in Panama but took my advanced medical training in the United States. Back in Panama I recall a similar case. Mr. Ziegler’s partner said he came home from work feeling nauseated and—”

“Hold on,” Frank said. “His partner? You mean Ms. Scully?”

“No. His
partner
. Mr. Ziegler was gay. His partner brought him to the hospital.”

That stopped him. He’d figured Ziegler was gay but hadn’t considered that he might have a partner. He had assumed Belinda brought him to the hospital. “What’s the partner’s name?”

“Dean Silva.” The doctor checked his watch and stifled a yawn. “Excuse me, but I must get back to work.”

“Before you go, could you elaborate on that case you had in Panama?”

“Ah. Yes. When I interned at a hospital in Panama City, I saw an interesting case. People think poisoning involves arsenic or cyanide or strychnine, but there are many toxic substances. Each year in the United States, seven hundred people die of poisoning. Most of them are adults. Many of those deaths are not accidental.”

“What happened to the person you treated in Panama?”

“He died. From the autopsy and toxicology tests we concluded that he had eaten pokeweed. It’s a plant. Some of the poor people eat the berries and leaves, but they must be thoroughly cooked.” Perez smiled faintly. “Perhaps his wife was not a culinary expert.”

Amused, Frank said, “Food for thought, huh?”

The doctor’s professional demeanor reappeared as he rose to his feet. “I have ordered a full toxicology exam, including screens for alcohol, narcotics, sedatives, amphetamines, cocaine and marijuana. And a detailed report on the contents of Mr. Ziegler’s stomach. Perhaps that will tell us something.”

“Thank you, Doctor. And thanks for the poison lecture.”

He headed back to the Family Room, thinking: Who would want Ziegler dead badly enough to poison him? And why?

_____

By the time they left the hospital it was two in the morning. Judging by Kelly’s eye-roll when he returned to the Family Center, her comment—W
e’ll be fine
—had been wishful thinking, a notion reinforced by the aversive body language as they walked Belinda to her car.

She seemed calmer now, holding herself rigid as though she was fighting for control. When they reached her blue Infiniti coup, he said, “I can drive you home and bring you back tomorrow to get your car.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Belinda said.

He gave his car keys to Kelly. “Can you wait in my car? I’ll be there in a minute.” Without a word, Kelly took the keys and left.

Belinda opened her car door and looked at him. Her eyes had a glazed, dull look. Lifeless, no spark in them at all. She was still in shock.

“What’s your schedule this week? Any concerts?”

“I have one in Baton Rouge on Sunday afternoon, but I’m going to cancel. I can’t think about performing right now.”

“So you’ll be here? No out of town trips?”

She regarded him warily. No flirting tonight. “Why do you ask?”

“Once we get the autopsy report I might have questions.”

Her eyes glistened with tears, a rare glimpse of vulnerability trumping her usual iron-willed demeanor. He felt bad for her, but he still thought she was hiding something.

“I have to call Jake’s parents. They live on Long Island. They’ll want to hold the funeral there, and I intend to go.” Her mouth twisted in anguish. “What shall I tell them? I don’t understand how Jake could get sick and . . . .”

“The doctor ordered an autopsy and full toxicology screens. That may tell us something. Why didn’t you tell me Jake was gay?”

Her eyes flashed, remnants of the old fire. “I didn’t think it was relevant. Jake was a very private person. His parents . . .” She trailed off and shrugged.

“They didn’t know Jake was gay.”

“No. Jake didn’t feel he could tell them. Poor Dean.”

“His partner, right? Can you give me his address and phone number?”

She reached in her purse, handed him a business card and said curtly, “I’m tired. I need to rest.”

“Of course. Go home and get some sleep. Call me if you need me.”

After giving him an odd look, she got in her car and slammed the door.

He watched her drive off, processing what she’d said. Jake’s parents lived on Long Island and didn’t know their son was gay. Jake had a partner. Did they have a spat? It wouldn’t be the first time a gay man killed his partner. Tomorrow would be a busy day. He needed to talk to Dean Silva. And Belinda. And Barry Silverman.

When he got to his car, Kelly was sitting in the passenger seat. She handed him the keys. “How’s the grieving celebrity?”

“Still in shock, but she’ll survive. She’s tough.”

He cranked the car and drove out of the parking lot, wondering if Kelly was a wired as he was. “I take it you two didn’t become bosom buddies while I was talking to the doctor.”

She gave him a droll smile. “The Master Detective scores a bull’s eye.”

“What did she say?”

“She put on her Prima-Donna hat and listed her credentials. You know, flute soloist extraordinaire, protégé of Guy St. Cyr, whoever the hell he is—”

“Big time flute soloist.”

“Whatever. When it comes to classical music, I never got beyond
Peter and the Wolf
.”

The comment struck him funny and he cracked up. “If you’d stuck with the nuns . . .”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving a hand. “I mean, I feel for her, you know? Having someone she cared about die unexpectedly. But it’s not like he was her husband.”

“And he wasn’t her boyfriend either. Ziegler’s gay.”

“Really? Did you know he was gay?”

“I figured it out a while ago, but I didn’t know he had a partner.”

“Are you going to talk to him?”

“Tomorrow I hope. Belinda too, once she’s over the shock.”

Five minutes later he pulled into Kelly’s driveway, shut off the engine and draped his arm over the seat.

“What’s your impression of Belinda? Other than prima-donna flutist.”

“She’s into image management. When we walked into that room, she was on the verge of hysteria, but the minute you left she got it together fast, no more tears, no hand wringing. To me, it felt like a performance. That’s about it. Well, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Her lips widened in a grin.

“What?”

“Belinda Scully is infatuated with Frank Renzi.”

“Yeah?” He ran his fingers down her forearm.

“Yeah, and you know it.”

He leaned over the console to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

“Not so fast. Her infatuation with you was my first observation. Here’s another one.”

He knew better than to interrupt, knew better than to make any wise-ass remarks, too.

“She knows we were making out before we came here.”

“Get out. How could she?”

Kelly shook her head. “Men are so clueless. Women know these things, Frank. She probably smelled my perfume on you.”

He loved the way she analyzed it, loved the way she said it so matter-of-factly. She was probably right and he didn’t care. He wanted to take her inside and take her to bed. Would have if work hadn’t been a scant five hours away.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

“I’ll tell you what I know, Kelly O’Neil. You’re a terrific woman and a savvy detective and I can’t wait to make love to you.”

CHAPTER 22

Thursday 9 November

Oz woke him at dawn. When the first rays of sunlight filtered into the room, his bunny had begun hopping around his cage, tossing his water dish in a frenzy of joy. The woman at the animal shelter had warned him that rabbits were sun-greeters, and Oz was no exception.

Now, bleary eyed and exhausted, he’d been awake for hours, a crucial question festering in his mind. What happened to Ziegler?

The man who loved chocolate. The man who’d fired him.

Rage clogged his throat. His plan had seemed foolproof, but now, in the cold light of day, he wasn’t so sure.

He strode to the file cabinet. The photos he’d stolen lay on top, Belinda with her mouth open, lips moist, as though she’d licked them in anticipation of his kiss. He unzipped his fly and stroked his cock. Soon they would be together. Soon he would touch the silky skin of her breasts and stroke her nipples, erect with desire. For him. He pumped his hand faster, his breathing ragged, his erection a fierce ache. Felt the wondrous glow . . .

His cell phone chimed. Fuck-all! Who was calling when he was about to climax with his beloved? Then he thought:
It’s Belinda calling me!

Euphoric, he grabbed his cell phone, punched on and answered.

“Mr. Nickerson? This is Greg from Collections Unlimited. According to our records, you’re three months behind on your American Express Card payments. We need to talk about a payment plan.”

“Fuck you and your payment plan!” He snapped the phone shut.

To hell with Collections Unlimited. His glorious dream was about to come true. When he moved in with Belinda, he would have no rent to pay, and his new salary—one commensurate with his new duties—would allow him to pay off his debts.

He returned to the file cabinet and turned his Belinda photos over. He never fantasized about his beloved when he was angry. For that he used his bitch sister, visualizing her and Pa fucking like dogs all those years, picturing Rachel’s dark hair draped over Pa’s hairy chest, hearing their ugly grunts and cries. He stroked harder. Imagined his cock pounding into Rachel. Enjoying the terror in her eyes. Hearing her scream.

He tried to climax. Impossible. Not knowing what happened to Ziegler was driving him crazy. Shaking with rage, he punched Belinda’s number into his cell phone and waited. Five rings . . . six . . .

He gripped the phone. Why didn’t she answer?

“Hello.”

Her soft voice made the hairs on his forearms stand at attention.

“Did I wake you, Belinda?” He slapped his forehead. How stupid! From his frequent observations, he knew Belinda rose at six-thirty every day to do a five mile run, followed by an hour of scales, arpeggios and finger exercises on her flute, then breakfast. When she didn’t respond, he said, “It’s Barry Silverman. Is something wrong?”

“Yes, Mr. Silverman, something is very wrong.”

He did a festive dance beside the futon.

“Jake,” she said in a dull voice. “It’s Jake.”

“What’s wrong with Jake?” Hoping his ingenious plan had worked.

“Jake is dead.”

His heart sang a Beethovian whoop of joy. He heard her faint breathing and realized he had to say something. “How terrible! What happened?”

“He went home sick yesterday and then he went to the hospital and they tried to save him, but—” A choked sob. “They couldn’t.”

Part of him resented the fact that she had such deep feelings for that asshole. But he couldn’t ignore her distress.

“I’m shocked, Belinda. Jake was . . .”
Jake was an asshole and he deserved to die.
“You must be terribly upset. I’ll come over right now and help you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Silverman, you’re very kind, but—”

“No buts, Belinda. I’ll come over straightaway.”

C
ome over and fuck your brains out.

“No, please, I don’t—”

“This is no time to be stoic, Belinda. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

A faint sigh. “All right.” A soft click told him she’d hung up.

“Yahoo!” he screamed. “That asshole is dead, Oz! Belinda wants me to come over and console her.” He glanced at Oz, cowering in the corner of his cage. Oz hated loud noises. Rabbits were prey, always watchful, ever fearful.

He sniffed his armpit. Disgusting. He couldn’t go to his beloved smelling like a pig. He ran to the bathroom and got in the shower. As the steamy water beat against his body, his mind spun like a gerbil in a cage.

Belinda would need him to drive her to her concert in Baton Rouge on Sunday. She had another concert next weekend in Lexington, Kentucky.
For that he would need money. But he was short of cash and his one remaining credit card was almost maxed-out. He couldn’t use the cash in the storage locker he’d rented. That was for dire emergencies.

He soaped his groin and smiled. What was he thinking? Now that Ziegler was dead, Belinda was certain to rehire him.

Then his money problems would be over.

______

On the way to the house Ziegler had shared with his partner Frank drove past NOCCA. He couldn’t stop thinking about Antoine Carter. Last Wednesday at the meeting with Vobitch, he’d voiced his suspicion that Antoine might have been the getaway driver for the Lakeview robbery. Vobitch had told him to lean on the kid. On Friday he had, but the kid had stonewalled him again. Antoine was scared.

You’re gonna get me killed
, he’d said. Twice.