Robin Cook - Blindsight

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.

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.