Blindsight (24 page)

Chester shook his head.
"Can you think of any reason your wife and Steven Vivonetto should have been killed during the same night, possibly by the same person?"
"No," Chester said. "I can't think of any reason why anyone would have wanted to kill Janice. Everyone loved Janice. She was the warmest, nicest person in the world. And on top of that, she was ill." "What was wrong with her?" Lou asked.
"Cancer. Unfortunately it had spread before they found it. She never liked to go to the doctor. If only she'd gone sooner, they might have been able to do more. As it was, she only had chemotherapy. She seemed okay for a while, but then she got this awful rash on her face. Herpes zoster they call it. It even got into one of her eyes and blinded it so that she needed to have an operation." "Did the doctors hold out much hope for her?" Lou asked. "I'm afraid not," Chester said. "They told me that they couldn't say for sure, but they thought that it might be only a year or so, and shorter if the cancer came back quicker." "I'm so sorry to hear all this," Lou said. "Well, maybe what happened was just as well. Maybe it saved her a lot of suffering. But I miss her so. We were married for thirty-one years."
After offering additional condolences and his business card, Lou bade farewell to Mr. Singleton. Driving back to Manhattan, he reviewed what little he'd learned. The organized-crime connection to either case was at best tenuous. He'd been surprised to learn that both victims were terminally ill. He wondered if their killers had known.
By reflex he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a cigarette. He pushed in the lighter. Then he thought about Laurie. Rolling down the window, he tossed the unlit cigarette into the street just as the lighter popped out. He sighed, wondering where that pompous Jordan Scheffield was taking her for dinner.

Vinnie Dominick came into the locker room at St. Mary's and sat wearily on the bench. He was perspiring heavily. He was bleeding slightly from a small scratch on his cheek. "You're bleeding, boss," Freddie Capuso said. "Get out of my face," Vinnie snapped. "I know I'm bleeding. But you know what bugs me? That bum Jeff Young said he never touched me and whined for ten minutes when I called a foul." Vinnie had just finished an hour's worth of pickup three-on-three basketball. His team had lost and he was in a foul mood. His mood got even worse when his most trusted lieutenant, Franco Ponti, came in with a long face.
"Don't tell me it's true?" Vinnie asked.

Franco came over to the bench. He put one foot on it and leaned on his knee. His nickname since high
school had been "falcon," mostly because of his face. With a narrow hooked nose, thin lips, and beady eyes he resembled a bird of prey.
"It's true," Franco said. He spoke in a monotone. "Jimmy Lanso got whacked last night in his cousin's funeral home."
Vinnie bolted off the bench and hammered one of the metal lockers. The crashing noise reverberated around the small locker room like a clap of thunder. Everyone winced except Franco. "Christ!" Vinnie cried. He began pacing. Freddie Capuso got out of his way. "What am I going to tell my wife?" Vinnie cried. "What am I going to tell my wife?" he repeated, raising his voice. "I promised her I'd take care of it." He pounded one of the lockers again. Perspiration flew off his face.
"Tell her that you made a mistake trusting Cerino," Franco suggested. Vinnie stopped in his tracks. "It's true," he snarled. "I thought Cerino was a civilized man. But now I know otherwise."
"And there's more," Franco said. "Cerino's men have been busy whacking all sorts of people besides Jimmy Lanso. Last night they hit two in Kew Gardens and two in Forest Hills." "I saw that on the news." Vinnie was astounded. "That was Cerino's people?" "Yup," Franco said.
"Why?" Vinnie asked. "I didn't recognize any of the names." "Nobody knows." Franco shrugged his shoulders. "There must be some reason."
"For sure," Franco said. "I just don't know what it is." "Well, find out!" Vinnie ordered. "It's one thing putting up with Cerino and his bums as business rivals, but it's quite another to sit around watching them ruin things for everyone." "There are cops crawling all over Queens," Franco agreed. "That's just what we don't need," Vinnie said. "With the authorities up in arms, we'll have to suspend a significant part of our operations. You have to find out what Cerino is up to. Franco, I'm depending on you."
Franco nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

"You're not eating much," Jordan said.

Laurie looked up from her plate. They were dining at a restaurant called Palio. Although the food was
Italian, the decor was a relaxing meld of oriental and modern. Before her was a delicious seafood risotto. Her wineglass was filled with a crisp Pinot Grigio. But Jordan was right; she wasn't eating much. Although she hadn't eaten much that day, she just wasn't hungry. "You don't like the food?" Jordan asked. "I thought you said you liked Italian." His dress was as casually elegant as ever; he had on a black velvet blazer with a silk shirt open at the neck. He was not wearing a tie.
The logistics had worked much better this evening. As Jordan had promised, he'd called just before nine when he was leaving surgery, saying that Thomas was on his way to pick her up while he went back to his apartment to change. By the time Thomas and Laurie got back to the Trump Tower, Jordan was waiting curbside. From there it had been a short ride over to West Fifty-first Street. "I love the food," Laurie said. "I guess I'm just not that hungry. It's been a long day." "I've been avoiding talking about the day," Jordan admitted. "I thought it better to get a bit of wine under our belts. As I mentioned on the phone, my day was atrocious. That's the only word for it, starting from your phone call about poor Marsha Schulman. Every time I think about her, I get this sick feeling. I even feel guilty about being so angry with her for not showing up to work, and here she was a headless corpse floating in the East River. Oh, God!" Jordan couldn't continue. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head slowly. Laurie reached across the table and put a hand on Jordan's arm. She felt for him but was also relieved to see this display of emotion. Up until this moment she'd felt he'd been incapable of such demonstrativeness and rather dispassionate about his secretary's murder. He suddenly seemed a lot more human.
Jordan pulled himself together. "And there's more," he said sadly. "I lost a patient today. Part of the reason I went into ophthalmology was because I knew I'd have a hard time dealing with death, yet I still wanted to do surgery. Ophthalmology seemed an ideal compromise, until today. I lost a preop by the name of Mary O'Connor."
"I'm sorry," Laurie said. "I understand how you feel. Dealing with dying patients was hard for me too. I suppose it's one of the reasons I went into pathology, especially forensics. My patients are already dead."
Jordan smiled weakly. "Mary was a wonderful woman and such an appreciative patient," he said. "I'd already operated on one eye and was about to do the other this afternoon. She was a healthy lady with no known heart trouble, yet she was found dead in her bed. She'd died watching television." "What a terrible experience for you," Laurie sympathized. "But you have to remember that occult medical problems are always found in such cases. I imagine we'll be seeing Mrs. O'Connor tomorrow, and I'll be sure to let you know what it was. Sometimes knowing the pathology makes it easier to deal with the death."
"I'd appreciate that," Jordan said.
"I suppose my day wasn't as bad as yours," Laurie said. "But I'm beginning to understand how Cassandra felt when Apollo made sure that she was not to be heeded." Laurie told Jordan all about her overdose series and that she was sure there would be more cases if no appropriate warnings were issued. She told him how upsetting it had been that she'd been unable to

convince the chief medical examiner to go public with the story. Then she told him she'd gone to the
police, and even they refused to help.
"Sounds frustrating," Jordan said. "There was one good thing about my day," he said, changing the subject. "I did a lot of surgery, and that makes me and my accountant very happy. Over the last couple of weeks I've been doing double my normal number of cases." "I'm glad," Laurie said. She couldn't help but notice Jordan's propensity for turning the conversation to himself.
"I just hope it keeps up," he said. "There are always fluctuations. I can accept that. But I'm getting spoiled at the current rate."
Once they had finished their meal and their places were cleared, the waiter rolled a tempting dessert trolley to their table. Jordan selected a chocolate cake. Laurie chose berries. Jordan had an espresso, Laurie a decaf. As she stirred her coffee, she discreetly glanced at her watch. "I saw that," Jordan said. "I know it's getting late. I also know it's a "school night.' I'll get you home in a half hour if we can make the same deal we made last night. Let's have dinner again tomorrow night." "Again?" Laurie asked. "Jordan, you're sure to get sick of me." "Nonsense," Jordan said. "I'm enjoying every minute. I just wish it weren't so rushed, and tomorrow is Friday. It's the weekend. Maybe you'll even have some news about Mary O'Connor. Please, Laurie." Laurie couldn't believe she was being asked to dinner for a third night in a row. It was certainly flattering. "All right," she said at last. "You have yourself a date." "Wonderful," Jordan said. "Have any suggestions for a restaurant?" "I think you have a lot more experience," Laurie said. "You pick." "Okay, I will. Shall we say nine o'clock again?" Laurie nodded as she sipped her decaf. Looking into Jordan's clear eyes, she thought of Lou's negative description of the man. For a second Laurie was tempted to ask how the meeting with the detective lieutenant had gone, but decided against it. Some things were better left unsaid.
9
11:50 p.m., Thursday
Manhattan
"Not bad," Tony said. He and Angelo were just leaving an all-night pizza joint on Forty-second Street near Times Square. "I was surprised. The place looked like such a dump." Angelo didn't answer. His mind was already on the job that lay ahead.

When they arrived at the parking garage, Angelo nodded toward his Town Car. The garage owner,
Lenny Helman, paid money to Cerino. Since Angelo usually collected it, he parked for free. "Better not have scratched the car," Angelo said after the attendant drove the car up to the curb. Once he was satisfied there wasn't a mark on its highly polished surface, Angelo got in. Tony did the same. They pulled out onto Forty-second Street. "What's next?" Tony asked, sitting sideways so he could look directly at Angelo. The light from the glittering neon marquees of the neighborhood movie theaters played over Angelo's gaunt face, making him look like an unraveled mummy in a museum. "We're going to switch to the "demand' list," Angelo told him. "Great," Tony said with enthusiasm. "I'm getting tired of the other. Where to?" "Eighty-sixth," Angelo said. "Near the Metropolitan Museum." "Good neighborhood," Tony said. "I'll bet there'll be souvenirs for the taking." "I don't feel good about it," Angelo said. "Wealthy neighborhood means fancy alarms." "You handle all that stuff like a breeze," Tony said. "Things have been going a little too well," Angelo said. "I'm starting to get concerned." "You worry too much," Tony said with a laugh. "The reason things have been going so well is because we know what we're doing. And the more we do it, the better we get. It's the same thing with everything."
"Screw-ups happen," Angelo said. "No matter how much you prepare. We have to expect it. And be able to handle it when it does."
"Ah, you're just a pessimist," Tony said. Engrossed in their banter, neither Tony nor Angelo took note of a black Cadillac cruising two cars behind them. At the wheel, a relaxed Franco Ponti was enjoying a tape of
Aida.
Thanks to a tip from a contact in the Times Square area, Franco had been tailing Angelo and Tony since their stop at the pizza place.
"Which one are we doing?" Tony asked.
"The woman," Angelo said.
"Whose turn?" Tony asked. He knew Angelo was due but hoped he might have forgotten. "I don't give a damn," Angelo said. "You can do her. I'll watch the man." Angelo drove by the brownstone several times before parking. It was five stories tall with a double door at the top of a short flight of granite steps. Beneath the stoop at the ground level was another door.

"The service entrance is probably the way to go," Angelo said. "We'll be a little shielded by the stoop. I
can see there's an alarm, but if it's the kind I think it is, it won't be a problem." "You're the boss," Tony said. He took his gun out and attached the silencer. They parked almost a block away and walked back. Angelo carried a small flight bag full of tools. When they got to the house, Angelo told Tony to wait on the sidewalk and let him know if anyone was coming. Angelo descended the few steps to the service entrance door. Tony kept an eye out, but the street was quiet. No one was in sight. What Tony didn't see was Franco Ponti parked only a few doors down, blocking a driveway. "All right," Angelo whispered from the shadows of the service entrance. "Come on." They entered a long hallway, moving quickly to the stairs. There was an elevator but they knew better than to use it. Taking two steps at a time, they climbed to the first floor and listened. Save for a large antique clock ticking loudly in the dark, the house was quiet. "Can you imagine living in a place like this?" Tony whispered. "It's like a palace." "Shut up," Angelo snapped.
They continued upstairs, climbing a curving, double staircase that circled a chandelier Tony guessed was six feet across. On the second floor they peered into a series of sitting rooms, a library, and a den. On the third floor they hit pay dirt: the master bedroom. Angelo stood to one side of the double doors that no doubt led to the master suite. Tony took the other side. Both men had their guns drawn. Their silencers were attached. Angelo slowly turned the door handle and pushed the door in. The room was larger than any bedroom either of them had ever seen. On the far wall--which seemed very far to Angelo--stood a massive canopied bed.
Angelo stepped into the room, motioning for Tony to follow. He went to the right side of the bed, where the man was sleeping. Tony went to the other side. Angelo nodded. Tony extended his gun while Angelo did the same.
Tony's gun went off with its familiar hissing thump and the woman recoiled. The man must have been a light sleeper. No sooner had the shot gone off than he sat bolt upright, eyes wide. Angelo shot him before he had a chance to say a word. He toppled over toward his wife. "Oh, no!" Angelo said out loud.
"What's the matter?" Tony questioned.
Using the tip of the silencer, Angelo reached over and separated the fingers of the dying man. Clutched in his hand was a small plastic device with a button. "He had a goddamn alarm," Angelo said.
"What does that mean?" Tony asked.