Jumping to her feet, she joined the twosome immediately, only to hear the M.E. tell Mike that a large amount of the latest designer drug that had hit the market had shown up in the tox screen that had been performed on Clancy.
Cause of death was being ascribed to a lethal overdose of the drug.
She caught Mike’s arm, making him look at her. “Clancy wouldn’t have taken them on his own, Detective. I
know
he wouldn’t. Someone had to have
made him take it.” A thought suddenly hit her. She looked at the M.E. “Was the drug ingested or injected?”
The M.E. glanced at Mike before answering. Mike nodded.
“Injected. There was a small puncture wound in his forearm.”
She threw up one hand, vindicated. “There, that clinches it,” she announced. Both men looked at her skeptically. There was something akin to pity in the M.E.’s eyes. She explained further, “Clancy was pathologically afraid of needles. A couple of years ago, he came down with something and was running a dangerously high fever. The doctor wanted to inject antibiotics to lower it and Clancy categorically refused. It wasn’t until he passed out that the doctor managed to give him the shot.” She looked at Mike. “Clancy was murdered.”
He had just one question for her. “Why?”
Natalya blew out a breath, frustrated. If she knew why, she might know who. “I don’t know, Detective. That’s your job.”
The M.E. shifted from one foot to another. Mike nodded at the man and the latter happily withdrew from what was gearing up to be the field of battle.
“What was his job?” Mike wanted to know. Maybe that had something to do with the way the man had wound up.
“He worked at a mortuary. Ellis Brothers.” Except
that the brothers had long since sold the business. The funeral parlor was now owned by a chain that in turn had hired Walter Tolliver to run it. “He was the one who brought the bodies in from the hospital.” She raised her eyes to look at the closed door. A door Clancy was now behind. “Or the morgue.” She saw Mike shaking his head. She couldn’t make out his expression. “What?”
“I don’t get it,” he told her honestly.
“Don’t get what?” she asked. “Why Clancy was murdered?”
“No, what you and he had in common. You’re a bright, outgoing, intelligent, professional woman with a good practice and he was an irritating loser with a dead-end job and no friends. I don’t see the connection.”
For the first time, he saw anger enter her eyes. It occurred to him that she could be a formidable force when stirred.
“Clancy wasn’t a loser. People didn’t get him. He was irritating because that was what he used as a defense mechanism. So many people made fun of him, he blocked them out, turned them away before they could say something hurtful. Under all that barbed wire was a funny, smart, warm person who just wanted to be liked.” Even as she defended him, her heart ached because now Clancy would never find any happiness. Because now there were no more tomorrows for him.
Lowering her voice Natalya continued. “He wanted to be a doctor, you know, but he’d spent so much time skipping school—keeping away from bullies,” she added before the detective could say something cryptic, “that he didn’t have the grades to get into medical school.”
He supposed, in some odd way, there was a connection between the two. “So he worked with dead bodies instead.”
“It wasn’t going to be permanent,” she informed him tersely. Even dead, she was still defending him. “But he had bills to pay, so he took a job. He didn’t like it, but it was a living. For the time being,” she emphasized. She saw what looked like a smile descend over the detective’s face. Was he laughing at her? At Clancy? “What?”
“He was lucky to have you.” And he meant it. Few people had friends that would have stood by them the way she had.
“It wasn’t just one-sided,” she told him. “He would have done anything for me.” Once he was certain that she wasn’t going to tease him herself, Clancy couldn’t do enough to show her his gratitude for their friendship. “Loyalty is a very rare thing, Detective. Clancy knew how to be loyal. And I wasn’t his only friend,” she added with feeling. “My family liked him.”
He nodded. “The five doctors.”
“And my parents,” she added. Taking a breath,
she braced her shoulders. Since she’d convinced him, in a manner, that Clancy had been murdered, maybe it was time to go home. For now. “When can I claim the body?”
“Not for at least another twenty-four hours. If we determined that it’s a homicide—”
Obviously the battle wasn’t quite won. “When,” she corrected tersely.
“When,” he allowed. “We might have to keep the body a little longer. In either case, I’ll let you know. Now, why don’t you go home and get some rest?” He took out his cell phone and flipped it open. “I’ll get an officer to drive you.”
She could only interpret that one way. “You’re staying here?”
“No, but I didn’t think you’d want to go home on the back of a motorcycle at this time of night.” He’d have one of the officers bring his motorcycle to the station. “The temperature’s dropped down,” he pointed out. At fifty miles an hour, the cold air would sting.
She shook her head and smiled. It had to be one of the saddest smiles he’d ever seen. “I don’t mind. Unless you’d rather not.”
He had no idea why, but he couldn’t think of anything else he would have wanted to do more.
In a gesture intended purely to be comforting rather than intimate, Mike slipped his arm around her shoulders.
“C’mon.” He began to guide her down the long, darkened corridor to the elevator.
Natalya fell into step beside him, glad not to be alone at a time like this.
T
he party for his one-year-old nephew wasn’t until the late afternoon. That gave Mike a little leeway time-wise. Instead of sleeping in, the way he did on most Saturdays, he decided to do a little investigating into the case fate had pushed him into last night.
Whether or not Clancy Donovan’s death could be ruled as accidental or a homicide was still up in the air but he supposed that it didn’t hurt to cross all his
t
’s and dot a few
i’s.
At least he could tell that knockout of a doctor he’d looked into the matter the way he’d promised.
It also gave him a reason to give her a call. He was going to drop by Donovan’s place of work and then
swing by the man’s apartment to nose around. That way, his conscience, professionally and otherwise, would be clear.
As he left his apartment, he thought about calling his partner to let him know what was up. He discarded the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. This was the weekend. Louis used weekends to play catch-up at being the husband and father his wife wanted him to be. The guy had enough problems. There was no point in dragging him in for what could ultimately be ruled an accidental drug overdose despite what Clancy’s very steadfast, very sexy friend maintained.
As a rule, Mike hated mortuaries, hated being anywhere near them. Mortuaries meant funerals. The only funerals he attended were for people who meant something to him, either personally, or symbolically, like a fellow officer. He didn’t like thinking about death if he didn’t have to.
Mike smiled cynically to himself as he pulled up in the parking lot behind Ellis Brothers Mortuary. The way he felt made the business he was in rather odd. But he was what he was and he was good at it. He liked to think that in the grand scheme of things he sometimes made a difference. He concentrated on the lives he saved by putting killers away. It was what kept him going.
Walter Tolliver had been brought in by the corpo
ration that had bought the Ellis Brothers out several years ago. Tall, thin and courtly looking in an old-world sort of way, to the people who worked for him he was a tough, no-nonsense boss whose main concern was making money. He treated the bereaved with polite, sympathetic kindness, his employees with something a great deal less.
The rehearsed smile on the man’s lips faded the moment Tolliver realized that he wasn’t about to make a sale, but was being asked about Clancy. It was immediately apparent from his manner that Clancy had not been his favorite employee.
Eyes as gray as the suits he favored narrowed. “Clancy leaves a lot to be desired. As a matter of fact—” he tugged on his cuffs one at a time, utilizing a dramatic pause “—I’m thinking of letting him go.”
“Why?” Mike asked mildly.
A cynical smile had found its way to the funeral director’s lips. “Are you thinking of hiring him?”
Mike took out his badge and held it up. Nothing got his ire up faster than a smart mouth. “I’m thinking of getting some answers to my questions. Why would you let Mr. Donovan go?”
The sight of the badge caused Tolliver to sit back at his desk again. “Because he’s late, he’s rude and he’s lazy. Now why are you asking?”
Mike studied him closely, wondering if Tolliver was just a garden variety pompous ass, or if there was more to him. “Because he was found dead last night.”
“Oh.” Tolliver took in a breath and then released it. He took in another before asking, “What happened?”
Not a bad performance,
Mike mused. His job had made him cynical way before his time he decided. “We’re still piecing that together. What time did he leave here last night?”
Tolliver paused to think. “The usual time. As a matter of fact, I think he left a few minutes early. I was busy with the Wallace family at the time. Large family,” he commented. Rocking back in his chair, Tolliver stroked his pencil-thin mustache. “I’m sorry to hear about Donovan,” he finally said. “He wasn’t a good worker, but still, to die so young…” A spark of interest entered his gray eyes. “Do you know if the family has made any arrangements yet?”
You are a piece of work, mister.
Mike’s voice was devoid of any emotion as he replied, “Not that I know of.”
Tolliver nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less. “I’d be happy to make all the arrangements for them—at cost, of course.”
Of course.
“I’ll pass it along. Thanks for your time,” Mike mumbled as he walked out of his office. He couldn’t get out of the oppressive building fast enough.
“Damn,” Mike muttered, getting back onto his motorcycle. It hummed to life as he kicked away the stand. Expensive suits notwithstanding, the gray
haired, aristocratic-looking man was the closest thing to a vulture he’d encountered in quite a while.
His next stop was to see Clancy’s mother.
Lucille Donovan looked as if she could have been very pretty once. But time and bitterness had left their imprint, like muddied boots across a neglected garden. She’d long since let herself go, except for a slash of lipstick too red for her coloring. The woman’s mouth had a downward turn, making her appear to disapprove of everything she heard, everything she said.
At first, she didn’t want to open the door, even after he’d shown her his badge.
“Any kid with half a brain can get one of those. Think I’m stupid?”
“No, Mrs. Donovan, I don’t,” he told her patiently. “I’m here about your son. Clancy,” he said when she made no response.
“I know my son’s name,” Lucille snapped. She tugged up a bra strap that insisted on slipping from her shoulder. “What about him?”
The words never tasted any better. There was always the hint of bile in his mouth when he spoke them. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mrs. Donovan, but your son was found dead last night.”
The brown eyes widened instantly. “You shoot him? You kill my little boy?” Lucille demanded in a hysterical voice pumped with emotion that seemed to come out of nowhere.
“No, ma’am, I found him. We don’t know what the cause of death was yet.” It was a lie that he felt would buy him a little time. He watched as the woman’s bravado receded. He guessed that, for a moment, she’d seen dollar signs in her head, hoping to sue the city for the wrongful death of her son. Now that there was no profit to be made, the hardened look was back.
“Well, I don’t know what you’re coming to me for. I can’t afford to bury him.” She threw up her hands, as if to push away any lingering hint of responsibility. “I’m a poor woman. You’ll have to do whatever it is you do when you find those dead homeless people.” Still standing in the doorway, her square, plump body, encased in a vivid red housedress, blocked any access into the house. Lucille looked over her shoulder as someone stirred in the background. She started to shut the door again. “Okay, you told me. Now go.”
For now, he had no more questions, so he took his leave, walking down the cement steps back to the sidewalk. “You poor son of a bitch. I’m beginning to see why the doc felt so sorry for you,” he said to himself.
He got back on his motorcycle and made a mental note to give his mother a kiss when he saw her. The woman was underappreciated.
It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that no one was going to miss Clancy except for the woman who had declared him missing in the first place.
Natalya.
In his mind’s eye, he could visualize her face. Now there was someone he’d much rather be investigating than looking into the death of a man not even his mother seemed to like.
A traffic jam along Lexington nearly had him turning back. But just as he was about to turn down a side street, traffic began to trickle again, giving him enough of an opening to weave his bike in and out. It allowed him to make progress while cars of all sizes and shapes remained essentially hood to trunk. More than a couple of people cursed at him as he made his way to Clancy’s apartment.
By the time he reached the fourth-floor walk-up, Mike was in less than a stellar mood. Parking had been another challenge. Both sides of the street were filled with not even enough space left over for a regular two-wheeler, much less his motorcycle. He was forced to double park. He had a right to do it while going about police business, but he still didn’t like it.
The handwritten note on the superintendent’s door said: Out.
It was turning out to be that kind of day, Mike thought, annoyed.
He went up to the apartment anyway. In a pinch, there were ways other than using keys to get into a place. Life on the street had taught him a few things even before he’d joined the force.
But he found that he didn’t need to resort to an alternative method. The door to Clancy Donovan’s apartment was already unlocked. The knob turned obligingly beneath his hand as he automatically checked it.
He laughed softly under his breath. “This character wasn’t the brightest penny in the jar.”
Despite popular classic sitcoms, you just
didn’t
leave your door unlocked in New York. It was begging for trouble.
Unless trouble was already here, he thought. His fingertips against the door, he pushed it open slowly. Just as he did, he thought he heard what sounded like a drawer being closed in the next room.
In less time than it took to think of it, he had his service revolver in his hands. Scanning the area, he inched his way into the small, pristine living room.
If the dead man owned a great many possessions, they were packed away somewhere else. Mike found himself looking at living quarters that were only a little more furnished than a Jesuit priest’s cell.
White on white. Eerie, he thought.
The noise he’d heard had come from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
The next moment, Mike stepped on something that emitted a screeching wail. Every bone in his body tensed, braced for anything, as he moved back and looked down. There was a toy on the floor, the kind people bought for their pets. Even though he
was no longer on it, the damn thing was still wailing. He resisted the urge to shoot it.
Standing in Clancy’s miniscule kitchen, Natalya’s head jerked up when she heard the high-pitched wail. Without thinking, she dropped the small digital camera she was about to look at into her coat pocket.
Someone was here. The killer?
Her heart pounding, she looked around for something to use as a weapon. She had just enough time to grab a chef’s knife out of the wooden block when she heard someone call out, “Police. Come out with your hands up.”
She released a sigh. She recognized that voice.
“How high up?” Natalya wanted to know, stepping out of the kitchen and into the living room. She had both hands raised shoulder level.
Mike swallowed a curse as he holstered his gun. He nodded at the weapon she was holding. “You can put the knife down.”
Natalya looked at it as if she’d never seen it before. She hadn’t realized she was still holding it. Relief that she wasn’t going to be confronting Clancy’s killer had temporarily turned her mind into a blank.
“Sorry.” She took a step back into the kitchen and replaced the chef’s knife where it belonged, then dusted off her hands as she joined Mike.
“What are you doing here?” he wanted to know.
He was studying her again. Why? Was he back to
thinking she had something to do with Clancy’s death? “Looking for answers.” He didn’t look pleased. “I thought, since this wasn’t a crime scene, it would be all right.”
She didn’t look as if she’d gotten too much sleep. Tired or not, she still looked a hell of a lot better than two-thirds of the female population. He reminded himself that he was a detective first, a red-blooded male second, but the position was hard to maintain.
“How do you know it’s not the crime scene?”
She hated being put on the defensive. It wasn’t a place where she was very comfortable. “Well, Clancy was found in the parking lot behind the gallery, so I just thought—” She stopped abruptly. “You’re right, this could have been where whoever killed him injected Clancy with—what did you say it was?”
He hadn’t said. But he did now. “Ketamin.” She could admit when she was wrong, he noted. Apparently she had a lot more going for her than killer legs.
Mike glanced down at the toy he’d stepped on. It was a god-awful turquoise color. He vaguely recalled reading that animals were color-blind. The choice, then, was to please the animal’s owner. He stifled a shiver as he looked around the tiny apartment. “Your friend have a dog or cat?”
Natalya stooped down and picked up the toy. It was a cartoonish orangutan with extremely long arms. “Cat. Or at least he did. Thaddeus.” Her mouth
curved sadly. “I gave it to him. Thaddeus died three months ago. Someone poisoned him. Clancy had trouble getting over it.”
Poisoned. A prank? he wondered. Or a warning?
For now, Mike kept the thought to himself. “Okay, then I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder, waiting to be bitten or scratched.” He turned to look at her. “You have to go.”
“I don’t bite or scratch,” she volunteered, then added. “Unless provoked.”
The sadness had left her smile. It took him a moment to draw his eyes away. Longer to unclench his gut. “I’ll keep that in mind. But this
might
be a crime scene and you’ve probably disturbed enough as it is.”
“I watch all the crime shows, I was careful,” she assured him. But he was right, this could be a crime scene. So, with a shrug, Natalya placed the incredibly blue orangutan on the sofa where Clancy had kept it after Thaddeus had been laid to rest. She raised her eyes to Mike’s. The detective was watching her every move. The thought created a very warm shiver down her spine.
“You’ll call me if you find something?”
“I’ll call you,” he promised.
Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Okay.” With that, she made her way to the door. But before she could open it and cross the threshold into the dank hallway, she heard the detective call out her name.
“Well, that was a little sooner than I expected.” She looked at him over her shoulder, but he’d left the room. His voice sounded as if it was coming from the bedroom.
Retracing her steps, she found the detective standing before Clancy’s closet. The expression on his handsome face was barely contained frustration. He had put on plastic gloves and one hand was wrapped around the doorknob. From the looks of it, he had tried to open the closet. And failed.