Chapter Fifty-four
'Eddie Pepitone didn't kill himself,' Lee declared as he walked into Chuck Morton's office. It was just after eight o'clock the next morning, and Chuck was still on his first cup of coffee.
'Whoa there-back up a second. Who is Eddie Pepitone?' Chuck said, putting down his coffee.
'The guy on the subway yesterday. The 'accident' on the A train-held up the trains for hours. Did you hear about it?'
'Of course-everyone did. But no one saw him being pushed.'
'Well, I think he was pushed.'
Chuck's blond eyebrows shot upward in surprise. 'What do you mean? How do you know?'
Lee tossed the racing form onto his desk.
'He had just won five thousand dollars and was on his way to his bookie's place to get it.'
'I don't follow you.'
'Eddie was a friend of mine. We were at St. Vincent's together-he was my roommate.'
'Oh, Jeez, Lee, I'm really sorry. But what are you saying?'
'I think the Slasher got to him.'
'Why would he-'
'Because Eddie was helping me in the investigation.'
'Helping you? Why wasn't I in on this? Who was this guy?' Chuck Morton's face reddened, and the cords on his muscular neck stood out.
'Eddie is-was-a guy with some unusual friends. His help was strictly unofficial.'
'Unofficial or not, don't you think you should have let me in on it?'
Lee rubbed the back of his neck. The room suddenly seemed stuffy and overheated.
'Eddie wasn't always on the straight and narrow side of the law.'
'So what? You think all the cops on the force work with squeaky-clean informants? Come on, Lee, you know better than that!'
'He didn't like cops.'
'What about you?'
'We met under special circumstances. Look, do you want to hear what I think about his death or not?'
'Okay, okay!' Chuck sat in his chair and twisted the phone cord between his fingers, tapping his other hand on the desk irritably.
Lee told him the story of Eddie's involvement in the case.
'So he was the one who led you to that homeless guy?'
'Right.'
Chuck got up from his chair and came around to lean on the front of the desk. 'And you think he was pushed? Couldn't he have tripped and fallen? It happens, you know.'
'No,' Lee interrupted. 'Eddie was afraid of subway trains. He would never have been waiting so close to the tracks.'
'And suicide is out because he'd just won all this money.'
'Right. Not only that, but I think the name of the horse he bet on is a clue.'
'A clue to what?'
'To what he was going to tell me.'
'So what are we going to do about it?'
'Well, the first thing you can do is to add another name to your list of victims when we catch this son of a bitch.'
'Yeah-right.'
'Look, Chuck, I could be wrong, but I don't think so. And if we can find out what Eddie knew, we could be that much closer to catching this guy.'
Chuck rubbed his immaculately shaved chin. 'Maybe he didn't know anything. Maybe this guy was just trying to send you a message by killing your friend.'
'I thought of that, but I don't think so.'
'He's one sick bastard.' Chuck laid a hand on Lee's shoulder. 'You sleep last night?'
'Not much.'
'Look, I want to catch him just as much as you do,' Chuck said. 'Now, why don't you go home and get some rest? You look awful. Come back this afternoon, and we'll have a meeting with everyone. I'll call you if I find out anything-I promise.'
As usual, Chuck was right. Lee was too tired to function, having been up half the night trying to unravel the mystery of what Eddie might have known. He went home, took a Xanax, and fell into a dead sleep.
He awoke to the wail of a car alarm in the street outside. The sound pierced his head and jolted his entire body into a state of alert. His stomach ground and twisted, and he felt the old, familiar warning signs of an attack. His head began to swim, as his mind began to cloud up, and his breathing became rapid and shallow. For days now he had awakened with his stomach clenched hard as a fist, a tight knot of tension that dissipated only gradually as the day wore on. His head was pounding, and his neck was sore, oddly stiff, as if he had pulled a muscle or something.
Stop this, he told himself. He tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing as he opened he eyes and saw the calendar on the wall above his bed. March fifteenth. Beware the Ides of March. It was exactly five years since his sister had disappeared, slipping silently away from the world of the living like a drowning swimmer sinking into the recesses of the deep-blue ocean waves, leaving no trace behind.
She must have left some trace-they just hadn't been able to find it yet, he told himself, but they would, they had to-he needed to believe that. And yet, with every passing anniversary, the hope receded a little more.
The front door buzzer rang. Lee threw the covers off his body and sprang out of bed. His neck was so stiff he could hardly move his head. A wave of nausea rose up from his stomach as he headed for the door. Then he felt the blackness descend as he crossed the bedroom into the living room. He managed to call out, 'Who is it?'
He heard the response as if in a dream.
'It's Butts.'
But then the blackness draped itself over him, enveloping him like the wings of a great dark bird, bringing him to his knees. He struggled feebly toward consciousness, then surrendered to the pull of oblivion.
Chapter Fifty-five
He awoke to the sound of muffled, far-off voices. The air smelled of rubbing alcohol and lemon-scented disinfectant. He could hear the low whirr of machinery, and footsteps sounded in the hall outside-the faint sucking sound of rubber soles on polished floors, the sharper click of leather heels, mingling with the rattle of carts being rolled along, and the occasional burst of laughter. Further down the hall, a phone rang insistently.
Even with his eyes closed, Lee knew that he was in a hospital. He postponed the moment of returning fully to consciousness, knowing that when he did, he would have to interact with the people attached to the voices all around him.
Meanwhile, footsteps came and went. The jumble of voices and machinery hovered in the halls. Lying in a state of semi-consciousness, eyes closed, he could distinguish between the steps of the visitors-clipped, quick leather shoes-and the soft, rubber-soled sound of the nurses as they moved from room to room, checking charts, dispensing drugs, taking temperatures.
He had the odd sensation that something was sitting on his chest. A large animal-a bear, perhaps. Yes, that was it-a bear was sitting on his chest. He wanted to ask the bear to move, and moved his lips to form the words, but he couldn't make any sound come out.
Bits of conversation drifted down the hall: '…excellent dental plan…she's a nice girl…you want something
