“Didn’t waste any time, did they?”
“They needed the operating room. I talked to the trauma doc. Fellow by the name of O’Reilly. Any relation?”
“My brother. Was he the one who worked on Bianchi?”
“Yeah. He didn’t bother cracking the chest. Like I said, DOA.”
“If Sean couldn’t save him, he couldn’t be saved.” Sean O’Reilly, Junior, was an experienced ER surgeon.
“I told him we might need to talk to him,” Webb said. “Get a statement. He told me to put my statement where only my proctologist would be able to read it.”
Erin smiled. “Sounds like Sean. I guess he was busy.”
“Yeah, a couple GSWs came in while I was talking to him. Two punks who caught rounds in some stupid gang turf-fight. I think he was trying to get rid of me.”
“And Bianchi’s family?”
“I told them to wait. They’ve got some paperwork coming, the receipt for what he had on him and the medical certificate.”
“Where’s Vic?”
“He said he was halfway through his third vodka when I called him. I didn’t want to have to slap him with a DUI when he showed up, so I told him to stay home. It’s not a homicide, at least not yet. Just inconvenient.”
“Do you want to talk to the family first, or check the body?” she asked, choosing not to mention the whiskey and two glasses of Guinness she’d drunk that evening.
“The corpse will keep,” Webb said. “Besides, I want Levine to check him. We’ll talk to the family while we wait for her.”
“So, you don’t think it was just a heart attack,” Erin said, looking closely at her CO.
“I’m just covering all the bases.”
* * *
Nina and Paulie Bianchi were in one of the chapels set upstairs from the emergency room. Paulie was dressed in street clothes, a leather jacket with metal chains, but at the moment, he looked more like a scared little boy than a tough punk. Nina looked a little less shell-shocked. Her jaw was firm and she was holding Paulie’s hand in a tight grip.
“Mrs. Bianchi?” Webb said quietly.
“What the hell are you doin’ here?” she snapped, recognizing him immediately. “Mary, mother of God, you even brought the dog with you. Don’t you got anything better to do than keep harassing us? He’s outta your jurisdiction now, with the good Lord, I hope.”
“I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this,” he said. “I just need to know if Lorenzo was acting unusual in any way, or if there was any sign of anything being wrong.”
“I’ll say!” she retorted. Her Brooklyn accent was growing even more pronounced with her growing outrage. “Sure, he was upset. The cops come round knockin’ on his door, accusin’ his son of God knows what. You probably set him off, poor guy. He was outta the life, you believe that? Course you don’t. You lousy cops never believe in second chances. You’re probably one of them goddamn Lutherans, don’t even believe in confession. I tell you, Lorenzo died in a state of grace, and he’s singin’ with the angels right this minute.” She pointed up at the ceiling. “God rest his soul.”
“Did he complain about chest pains, numbness, anything like that?” Webb asked, ignoring most of what Nina had said.
“He was always complainin’ about somethin.’ He said he had heartburn.”
“But he was eating spaghetti?” Erin said, remembering what Webb had told her. “With red sauce?”
“And sausage and peppers,” Nina said. “What can I say? The man liked his food.”
“Were you there, Paulie?” Webb asked, shifting his attention to the kid.
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Paulie said. He seemed only half-aware of what was going on.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“I haven’t been home for dinner much,” he muttered, staring at his shoes. “Mom said we were gonna have a family dinner, for once, and I should be there. Dad was eating, and then he got this weird look on his face, he grabbed his arm, and said something about getting his pills. His face went this funny color, almost gray, like. I got up and ran to the medicine cabinet.”
“What meds are we talking about?” Erin asked gently.
“His heart medicine,” Nina said. “Nitroglycerin. He’s on propranolol for his blood pressure, too.”
“I couldn’t find it,” Paulie said miserably. “He must’ve moved it somewhere, or maybe the prescription ran out. All I found was an empty bottle of his blood meds in the trash, and no nitro pills at all. I looked everywhere I could think of, but I couldn’t find it. I just… couldn’t.” He looked up at the two detectives with tears shining in his eyes, and Erin found herself feeling sorry for this mobster wannabe. He was a kid who’d just lost his dad, and felt like he’d let him down.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” Erin said.
“I called 911,” Paulie went on, almost choking on the words. “By the time the cops got there, he was already… I mean, he wasn’t breathin’ or nothing.’ I wanted to do that thing they do in the movies, you know, where they pound on your chest, but I didn’t know how. One of the cops did that, and the other one called an ambulance, and they brought him here. That’s what happened.”
Erin didn’t say anything. She’d responded to calls like that more than once. This wasn’t a Major Crimes issue, she thought; just an everyday, commonplace tragedy. Even mob guys could have heart attacks.
“Thank you for your time,” Webb said. “My condolences for your loss.” He tilted his head toward the stairs. Erin took the hint and followed him out of the chapel, Rolf trotting beside her.
Sarah Levine had arrived while they’d been talking to the family. By the time they got to the morgue, the ME had put on her gloves and was peering curiously at the late Lorenzo Bianchi. The ex-mobster lay on a slab, naked and pale. Despite his considerable bulk, there was something oddly pitiful and helpless about him.
“Evening, Doc,” Webb said. “What’ve we got here?”
“Male, Mediterranean