speak.”
“I know that. I have Jewish patients,” said Bernard. “Was Marianna Jewish?” She gathered up her purse and some folders from her desk. “I’d prefer to sign the death certificate myself. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“You know Dr. Hutchison?”
“Yes. He’s a good doctor. He’s certainly got all his marbles in spite of his age. He is past eighty, you know. But Lionel’s problems are with his ideas. I am fond of him, though.”
“But you’d still rather sign the death certificate yourself?”
“We disagree on certain things.”
I thought about the euthanasia book. “Ethical things?” She nodded. “But you trust Lionel Hutchison? In spite of the ethical issues?”
“Yes, of course.” She hesitated. “I’d just like to see Marianna. You’re a cop. Is there something about this that bothers you? Is that why you’re really here?”
“Could I have a glass of water?” I was stalling for time.
She couldn’t refuse the water, especially since I faked a hacking cough. And while she was in the kitchen getting it, I managed to glance at her desk. I had seen her scribble a name while we were talking.
“You were stalling for time?” Bernard had a portable phone in one hand. In the other was the glass of water, which she gave me, and I drank it while she sat down on a chair opposite mine and crossed her legs.
In the long black boots, her legs were spectacular, and I had to force myself not to stare. Sometimes I think I must be sick, looking at a woman’s legs at the same time I was inquiring about dead people. Maybe all guys are like me. I don’t know.
I put the glass on the desk. “Thank you.”
“I’ve just spoken to Lionel Hutchison,” said Bernard. “We went through everything together. He assures me that it was Marianna’s lungs, that it was the disease that killed her. He said she had been in pain the past few days. But I told him not to do anything until I got there.”
“Like what? What can you do now that Simonova is dead?”
“I want to see her. That’s all. I’ll make my way over this afternoon, as soon as I can.”
While I was putting on my jacket, it hit me: Lionel Hutchison really had known Marianna Simonova was dead all along. He had entered the apartment through the terrace, or he had a set of keys Lily didn’t know about. Or Lily had told him.
“I have to go.”
“I must get back to the hospital,” said Bernard.
“You were close, you and Dr. Hutchison?”
“Once. Yes. He was my teacher, but I’m a Roman Catholic. Lionel has views, as I’ve told you-he has his reasons, but I can’t condone them,” she said. “I’ll see you out. I have patients this afternoon, then I’ll make my way over.” She took a card from the desk. “All my numbers are here.”
She got up, went to the front of the house, put her camel-colored coat on, fastened the belt.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Amahl Washington. You were his doctor, too?”
“I was his doctor, but how is that your business?”
“I’m interested.”
“Be that as it may, I can’t talk to you about Mr. Washington,” said Bernard. “And by the way, detective, you didn’t have to read my memo pad; you could simply ask. You saw something that interested you?”
“Carver Lennox.”
“He’s my husband,” she said. “But anyone could have told you that.”
“You don’t live together?”
“We’re separated. I don’t believe in divorce.” She opened the front door. We went outside.
“He lives at the Armstrong.”
“Yes,” Bernard took her keys out of her bag. “Last I heard he was trying to transform the building. Buying up the apartments, making the place grand again. That bloody building. Carver was obsessed. How he loves money and all it can buy. Eventually all he talked about was money. Maybe it makes him feel that white men will let him into their playground,” she said softly, locked her door, went to the curb, got in her dark blue Audi, and drove away.
Lily had lied to me about calling Dr. Bernard. How was she involved in Simonova’s death? I killed her, Lily had said. Had she really screwed up the meds? If Simonova’s death became a case, would it count as involuntary manslaughter? Could they indict Lily if she had been negligent? Is that what Radcliff thought and wouldn’t tell me?
Leaning against Lucille Bernard’s front door, I got out my phone. “Where are you?” I said when Lily answered.
“Doing some errands,” she said. “I told you.”
“What kind? You’ve been out a long time just doing errands.”
“I’m just at the drugstore, for chrissake, Artie. Please.”
“Which drugstore? I’ll come meet you.”
“Don’t do that, Artie. I’m just getting lady stuff, you know, makeup, things,” she said. “I’m going back to the apartment as soon as I’m done,” she added. “Please, Artie, just do whatever you’re doing and meet me up at my place, right? OK? I love that you worry about me, but I’m fine now.”
“Which drugstore?”
“Stop being a pain in the ass. I’m getting you a little Christmas present, OK? So stop bothering me right now.” Her words ran on, her voice was stilted. I didn’t believe her.
“I love you,” I said without meaning to.
“I’ll see you in an hour or so?”
“Sooner.”
“Fine. I’ll be back soon. It’s just Christmas shopping,” she said lightly. “And her pills.”
“What?”
“Marianna’s pills. I wanted to make sure her prescription was filled, you know?”
“What are you talking about?” I said, but the line cut out, or Lily hung up. What was she talking about? My car was parked by the curb. I got in. I was shivering.
This was what terror felt like. I’d worked cases where they’d killed and frozen babies in food lockers, cases where a man was poisoned with radioactive shit he had been carrying around in his own suitcase. I’d seen things done to women that gave me an ulcer. I’d been beaten up. This was worse.
Watching Lily, listening to her, feeling she might be cracking up, losing her mind. I was terrified. Literally. I didn’t know if I could help her. If she had lost her mind, I’d stay. I told myself I’d always stay. But what was she doing getting meds for a dead woman?
CHAPTER 15
Diaz, cigarette hanging from his lips, was out back of the Armstrong, talking to a man in a black winter jacket, hood over his head. As soon as Diaz saw me pull up in my car, he said something to the man, who nodded, then jogged away. I realized it could have been the guy from the station house, the Russian Jimmy Wagner said was named Ivan Ivanov.
What was he doing here? Had he been following me? Was it even him, after all? Lot of guys wear black North Face jackets with hoods. I got out of my car, and crossed the bleak backyard to where Diaz stood.
“Who was that?” I said.
“Some guy.” Diaz sucked on his cigarette.
“You looked pretty cozy.”
“Whatever.”
“He was asking about me?”
