book-marked. Most were fashion designer home pages, the sites of competitors’ magazines, or news pages. One address jumped out at me: Rxglobal.
I hit the button, and the computer connected to the Rxglobal home page. There were lists of vitamins for sale, along with dietary additives, herbal supplements, and homeopathic remedies—in short, nothing Monica or anyone else would require a prescription to purchase. I cruised the site a bit to make certain I wasn’t missing something and came up empty.
Someone touched my shoulder, and I jumped in the chair. Mike was frowning down at me. “This is a crime scene, Clare. You shouldn’t be here.”
“How’s Monica?”
“Ms. Purcell is dead.” His tone was suddenly cold. “It’s not official, but that’s only because the medical examiner isn’t here yet. I’ve seen enough overdoses to know she’s gone.”
“Look at this.” I pointed to the bottles on the desk.
Mike snapped on a latex glove and read one of the labels. “Amphetamines.”
“There are at least nine vials here, Mike. She must have been abusing speed for months, probably to control her weight.”
He placed the bottle on top of the desk, examined several others. “A cocktail of these other drugs with the speed may have caused her death. We won’t know for sure until the toxicology report comes in. But I know one thing.”
“What?”
“These prescriptions are counterfeit. There’s a doctor name, sure—probably also bogus. But there’s no DEA number. Every legit prescription sold has a valid DEA number that consists of two letters, six numbers, and one check digit that’s too complicated to explain right now. There should also be a pharmacy name and address on the label, but all we’ve got is—”
“Rxglobal. I know. I was looking at their Web site.”
Mike peered over my shoulder at the terminal. “Yeah, that might be their site. Or they might have another site that can only be accessed with a special password. We’re going to have to look into this.”
“You said there were other developments. That’s why you were late, remember?”
Mike nodded. “This morning I traced that unlisted number you got from Monica’s cell phone. The call was made to a man named Stuart Allerton Winslow, a chemist who lives on the West Side, not too far from Monica’s apartment. This guy once owned a small pharmaceutical research company that went out of business because of multimillion-dollar law-suits filed against it in civil court.”
“Why would this Winslow be interested in Breanne’s wedding rings? What’s he going to do? Break down their chemical composition? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Things always make sense, Clare, once all the facts are in.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright-orange color coming toward us, a cheerful hue, like freshly peeled carrots. A wiry man, attached to the conspicuous shade, entered the room. He was a head shorter than Quinn, his perfectly pitched tenor trumped by a heavy Queens accent.
“Is this the office of the deceased?”
Quinn turned to me. “Clare, meet one of the detectives I’m working with, Sergeant Sullivan. That’s
Sullivan’s face was open and friendly. I met his eyes and smiled. “I think Finbar is a perfectly fine name. Very Celtic.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not so hot when you’re growing up in Ozone Park. That’s John Gotti country, land of Tonys and Vinnies. But thanks,” he said, then leaned toward me and cupped a hand over his mouth. “I can see why the big guy here’s fallen for you. You say the sweetest things.”
“Don’t flirt with my girl, Sully.”
Sully threw me a wink anyway, then turned to Quinn. “I saw the victim, Mike. She was thin.
“Drunk-a-what-ia?” I asked.
Quinn glanced at me. “It’s not an official medical term, just shorthand for a relatively new condition: a combination of addiction like binge drinking, and eating disorders like anorexia. We usually see it in younger women, college age. The girls starve themselves to be thin, often abuse drugs, and consume alcohol as pretty much their only sustenance. Once they start, they have a life expectancy of about five years.”
“It’s crazy, all right.” Sully shook his head. “These girls won’t put an olive in their mouth, but they got no problem sucking down the martini it came with.” He turned to his partner. “You want me to secure the scene. Right, Mike?”
“Bag up Ms. Purcell’s personal effects and all the prescription bottles you can find. We’ll check them for residue. Prints. I’ll get back to you soon. I’m going to get Ms. Cosi out of here and swing by the Sixth for notification.”
“I hate that part.” Sully’s light mood suddenly vanished. “Okay, Mike, I’ll cover things here.”
As we left Monica’s office and walked down the hall, I touched Quinn’s arm. “What’s notification?”
Quinn stared straight ahead. “When I tell the next of kin what happened to their loved one, that’s notification.”
“Oh.”
The reception room was nearly empty now and eerily still. Two uniformed police officers stood at the front desk. The magazine’s art director was sitting behind it. The tall East Indian woman with long dark hair was sobbing into a handkerchief.
As we moved to exit through the glass doors, one of the uniforms called out, “Lieutenant? A word.”
Quinn looked at me. “I need a few minutes.”
“Go. I’ll wait.”
The glass doors opened a moment later, and Matt walked in. “Hey! Clare! What a morning I had! You won’t believe it!”
I blinked.
“Just look at me,” he said. “I’m dripping wet.”
Dark stains marred his white cotton button-down.
“It happened right outside, at Columbus Circle.” Matt threw up his hands. “Thea Van Harben walked up to me and assaulted me with her Starbucks—insult to injury, huh? I’m lucky I didn’t get second-degree burns.”
I closed my eyes. “What did you do
“Nothing! I swear! Thea just said, ‘You threw your wedding plans in my face, so I’m throwing this into yours.’ And she let me have it. But, Clare, I swear I never mentioned my wedding plans to her. I haven’t even seen the woman since...” he shrugged. “You know? I can’t even remember.”
“Matt, something’s happened here—”
Before I could finish, he’d already looked past me and seen the policemen. His face went from perplexed amusement to stricken in less than a second.
“What’s going on? Why is Petra crying? Is Breanne all right?”
He moved to get around me, but I caught his arm. “It’s Monica Purcell, Breanne’s former assistant. She overdosed on prescription medication, Matt. She’s dead.”
“My God, what about Bree? Is she okay? Where is she?”
“She’s not here. She’s working at home this morning. Didn’t she tell you?”
“No. She told me she had a dermatology appointment.”
“I’ve got to find Breanne,” Matt said.
I noticed Quinn walking toward us. He nodded stiffly. “Allegro.”
Matt’s greeting was about as warm. “Quinn.”
“Matt,” I said, “before you bolt to find your bride, we all need to talk.”
“About what?”
I gestured to the uniformed police and the sobbing Petra. “Not out here.”
Matt nodded. “There’s a conference room we can use. I know where it is. Come on...”
