Robin Cook - Blindsight

“That’s the way I feel about my overdose cases,” Laurie said.

“By the way,” Lou said. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I was hoping to get some work done. But with my pulse still racing thanks to you, I’ll probably take the paperwork home and tackle it there.”

“What about dinner?” Lou asked. “How about coming with me down to Little Italy. You like pasta?”

“I love pasta.”

“How about it then?” Lou asked. “You already told me you aren’t going out with the good doctor, and that’s your favorite excuse.”

“You are persistent.”

“Hey, I’m Italian.”

Fifteen minutes later Laurie found herself in Lou’s Caprice heading downtown. She did not know if it was a good idea to have dinner with the man, but she really hadn’t been able to think of a reason not to go. And although he’d been somewhat rude on previous occasions, now he seemed nothing but charming as he regaled her with stories of growing up in Queens.

Although Laurie had grown up in Manhattan, she’d never been to Little Italy. As they drove up Mulberry Street she was delighted by the ambience. There was a multitude of restaurants and throngs of people strolling the streets. Just like Italy itself, the place seemed to be throbbing with life.

“It’s definitely Italian,” Laurie said.

“It looks it, doesn’t it?” Lou said. “But I’ll tell you a little secret. Most of the real estate here is owned by Chinese.”

“That’s strange,” Laurie said, a bit disappointed although she didn’t know why.

“Used to be an Italian neighborhood,” Lou said, “but the Italians for the most part moved out to the suburbs, like Queens. And the Chinese with a nose for business came in and bought up the properties.”

They pulled into a restricted parking zone. Laurie pointed to the sign.

“Please!” Lou said. He positioned a little card on the dash by the steering wheel. “Once in a while I’m entitled to take advantage of being one of New York’s finest.”

Lou led her down a narrow street to one of the less obvious restaurants.

“It doesn’t have a name,” Laurie said as they entered.

“It doesn’t need one.”

The interior was a kitschy blend of red and white checked tablecloths and trellis interlaced with artificial ivy and plastic grapes. A candle stuck in a jug with wax drippings coating the sides served as each table’s light fixture. A few black velvet paintings of Venice hung on the walls. There were about thirty tables packed tightly in the narrow room; all seemed to be occupied. Harried waiters dashed about attending to the customers. Everyone seemed to know each other by their first names. Over the whole scene hung a babble of voices and a rich, savory, herbed aroma of spicy food.

Laurie suddenly realized how hungry she was. “Looks like we should have made a reservation,” she said.

Lou motioned for her to be patient. In a few minutes a very large and very Italian woman appeared and gave Lou an enveloping hug. She was introduced to Laurie. Her name was Marie.

As if by magic, an available table materialized and Marie seated Laurie and Lou.

“I have a feeling you’re pretty well known here,” Laurie said.

“With as many times as I’ve eaten here I’d better be. I’ve put one of their kids through college.”

To Laurie’s chagrin there were no menus. She had to listen to the choices as they were recited by a waiter with a heavy Italian accent. But no sooner had he finished his impressive litany than Lou leaned over and encouraged her to choose the ravioli or the manicotti. Laurie quickly settled on the ravioli.

With dinner ordered and a bottle of white wine on the table, Lou disappointed Laurie by lighting a cigarette.

“Maybe we could compromise,” Laurie said. “How about you having only one.”

“Fine by me.”

After a glass of wine, Laurie began to revel in the chaotic atmosphere. When their entrées arrived, Giuseppe, the owner-chef, appeared to pay his respects.

Laurie thought the dinner was wonderful. After the last few nights in such formal settings, this lively spot was a welcome relief. Everyone seemed to know-and love-Lou. He received much good-natured kidding for having brought Laurie along. Apparently he usually dined solo.

For dessert Lou insisted they take a walk up the street to an Italian-style coffee bar that served decaf espresso and gelato.

With their espressos and ice creams before them, Laurie looked up at Lou. “Lou,” she said, “there’s something I want to ask you.”

“Uh-oh,” Lou said. “I was hoping we could avoid any potentially troublesome subjects. Please don’t ask me to go to the narc boys again.”

“I only want your opinion,” Laurie said.

“OK,” Lou said. “That’s not so scary. Shoot.”

“I don’t want you to laugh at me, OK,” Laurie said.

“This is starting to sound interesting,” Lou said.

“I have no definitive reason why I’ve been thinking this,” Laurie said. “Just some little facts that bother me.”

“It’s going to take you all night to get this out at this rate,” Lou said.

“It’s about my overdose series,” Laurie said. “I want to know what your opinion would be if I suggested that they were homicides, not accidental overdoses.”

“Keep talking,” Lou said. Absently he took out a cigarette and lit it.

“A case came in where a woman died suddenly in the hospital,” Laurie said. “She has lots of cardiac disease. But when you looked at her and you examined her carefully, you couldn’t help but think that she could have been smothered. The case is being signed out as “natural’ mainly because of the other details-where she was, the fact that she was overweight, and had a history of heart disease. But if the lady had been found someplace else, it might have been considered a homicide.”

“How does this relate to your overdoses?” Lou asked. He leaned forward, the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were squinting from the smoke.

“I started thinking about my overdoses in the same light. Take away the fact that these people were found alone in their apartments with syringes by their sides. It’s hard not to view murders in context. But what if the cocaine wasn’t self-administered?”

“Wow-that would be a twist,” Lou said. He sat back and took the cigarette from his mouth. “It’s true; homicides have been committed with drugs. There’s no doubt about that. But the motive is usually more apparent: robbery, sex, retribution, inheritance. A lot of small-time pushers get killed by their disgruntled clients that way. The cases in your series don’t fit that mold. I thought the whole reason these cases are so striking is the fact that in each case the deceased was apparently such a solid citizen with no history of drug abuse or run-ins with the law.”

“That’s true,” Laurie admitted.

“Do you mean to say you think these yuppies were forcibly administered the cocaine? Laurie, get real. With users willing to pay big bucks for the stuff, why would anyone go on a personal crusade to rid the city of some of its best and brightest? What would they have to gain? Isn’t it likelier that these people were really into drugs on the sly, maybe even dealing?”

“I don’t think so,” Laurie said.

“Besides,” Lou said, “didn’t you say that these people were shooting the coke rather than sniffing it?”

“That’s right,” Laurie said.

“Well, how is someone going to stick a needle in someone who isn’t cooperating? I mean, don’t nurses in hospitals have a hard enough time sticking patients? Now you’re telling me some struggling victim who’s trying to just say no can get shot up against his will? Give me a break.”