“It may not matter,” he said. “Maybe it was just a heart attack.”
“Well, we’ll never know now, will we!”
“Not right away,” Levine said.
Both detectives turned to look at her. They’d momentarily forgotten she was there.
“Bloodwork takes time,” she explained.
“With what blood, Doctor?” Webb asked.
“This blood.” She pulled her syringe out of her evidence kit. It was filled with a liquid so dark red it looked purple.
“You took it while he was talking to us,” Erin said, grinning.
“Of course,” Levine said. “I wasn’t involved in the conversation, so I was working.”
“If I hadn’t taken sensitivity training,” Webb said, “I just might kiss you.”
“Please don’t,” Levine said. “Secondhand smoke is a known carcinogen.”
“Get that sample back to the lab and get to work on it,” he said. “There’s something in it this Moreno character didn’t want us to find out about. I want to know what it is. O’Reilly, you and I have some investigating to do.”
“Doing what, sir?”
“Family reunion.”
“You want to talk to my brother,” she said.
“I do.”
* * *
“I can’t talk right now.”
Sean O’Reilly, Junior didn’t bother looking at Webb and Erin. He was scrubbing his hands, getting ready to go into the operating room.
“This will just take a moment,” Webb said.
“There’s a sixteen-year-old kid in there with a bullet lodged in his spleen,” Sean said, without pausing in his preparations. “They’ve just prepped him for surgery. He’s bleeding out internally as we speak, and the spleen’s a bitch to patch up. I don’t have a moment. And Erin, you know you can’t bring your dog into this place.”
“Junior,” Erin said. “C’mon. We just need to know one thing.”
“Make it quick,” he said on his way to the door. “And I’m serious. Don’t get that mutt anywhere near my OR.”
“Did you sign off on the medical certificate for Lorenzo Bianchi?” she asked.
That brought Sean up short. “What are you talking about? I haven’t had time for the paperwork on a stiff. I was gonna go down to the morgue after I close this kid up and take care of it.”
“Well, someone signed it,” Webb said.
“What was the name?” Sean asked.
“It looked like a P followed by a loop and some squiggles,” Webb said dryly. “The last letter might have been an ‘I.”“
“You sure it was a doc?”
“Pretty sure. All you guys’ handwriting looks the same.”
Sean snorted. “Sounds like it could be Petrucelli. But he’s a physical rehab guy. He wouldn’t be signing medical certificates.”
“Not in the normal course of things,” Webb agreed. “Petrucelli, you say?”
“Yeah. Two Ls, ends with an I,” Sean said. “Now I gotta get in there.”
“Thanks, big bro,” Erin said. “Go save a life.”
“Don’t end up on my table,” he replied, giving her a quick smile. Then he was gone.
“Petrucelli,” Erin said. “Italian name.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Webb said. “Not by itself. But the coincidences are really starting to pile up. Follow me.”
* * *
They found Doctor Petrucelli in his office, filling out paperwork. He was a little guy with wire-rimmed glasses and a reedy mustache that reminded Erin of Detective Spinelli, one of her old adversaries from her days working Patrol. He was scribbling what appeared to be complete gibberish on a hospital form.
“Doctor?” Webb said, knocking lightly on his door.
Petrucelli started in surprise, his pencil leaving a squiggle on the page. He adjusted his specs and blinked at them. “What’s that creature doing in here?”
“I’m Lieutenant Webb, NYPD Major Crimes,” Webb said. “This is Detective O’Reilly and her K-9.”
“I don’t know what I can do for the New York Police Department,” he said. “I’m really quite busy this evening.”
“I know,” Webb said. “I saw some of your work just a few minutes ago.” He’d gotten a copy of the medical certificate from the hospital files on the way up. Now he held up that piece of paper and leaned over Petrucelli’s desk, comparing signatures. “Yes, this definitely appears to be your handwriting.”
“Lieutenant, I really must ask you to leave,” Petrucelli said. “If you have a court order, or some other sort of documentation, I’m sure we can accommodate any reasonable request. But for now, please be about your business and let me be about mine.”
“Of course,” Webb said, stepping back. “Good evening, sir.”
Erin let them get a few yards down the hallway before asking, “What was the point of that? You just wanted to compare signatures?”
“And get a look at the guy,” Webb said. “Obviously, he wasn’t anywhere near the emergency room. He never saw Bianchi’s body.”
“And he filed a bogus report,” Erin said. “Don’t they take away your medical license for shit like that?”
Webb nodded. “I’m guessing Petrucelli’s got protection,” he said. “Unless we make a real stink, I don’t think they’ll follow through on any serious disciplinary action.”
“We’re pretty good at making a stink,” Erin said.
Webb chuckled. “We are at that. But before you go to war, it’s a good idea to know what your objectives are. Right now, Petrucelli doesn’t matter. He’s just a name on a piece of paper. But Moreno… that’s a guy worth looking into.”
“I’ll get on it, sir.”
He smiled wryly. “Okay. See what you can find out from your sources. Neshenko and I will check the files at the Eightball. This guy’s going to have a record, I’d bet my shield on it.”
So Erin found herself heading back to the Barley Corner after all, but with a different purpose in mind.
* * *
It was middle evening when Erin walked into the Corner for the second time that night. The place was even busier than before. The big-screen TVs were showing the Winter Olympics, and Erin knew a lot of money was changing hands on the outcome of the events. A crowd of raucous guys was cheering the women’s alpine skiers. She suspected the cheers had as much to do with the women as with the competition.
Carlyle was nowhere in sight. She paused, looking around the place. Rolf stuck
