“Maybe at first he was,” Scarelli said. “But not anymore.” He leaned forward, staring at Corman pointedly. “The woman’s just the bait now. It’s the old man they want to see dangling from the line. They need a villain for the piece. Some poor bastard they can wag their goddamn fingers at, say, ‘Hey, you. Fuckhead. You did it!’” He shrugged. “I’ve seen it a thousand times.” He laughed. “I’ve even pulled it off for them, you know, for a day’s wage.” He blew a column of smoke across the table. “Speaking of which, has money been brought up in all these heartfelt communications?”
“You mean, how much?”
“Well, I’m not talking about the denomination of the bills, Corman. Are we talking some little shit sum here? Fifty thousand, some little pissy thing like that?”
To Corman it sounded like a fortune. “I have no idea,” he said.
Scarelli sat back and stared at him. “That’s because you’re an amateur, Corman. But me, I’m a pro. Deadline Scarelli, just like they call me.” He balanced the tiparillo carefully on the glass edge of the ashtray. “Money talks, bullshit walks.”
“Does that mean you’re walking?” Corman asked.
“No, it means you are,” Scarelli said. “Because the way this is shaping up, I think I’ll pass, let you go it alone.” He shrugged. “You got nothing on the old man, precious little on the woman. it doesn’t add up to much, and that’s a problem. Especially when you start talking money.” His eyes drifted up. “Which, I take it, you don’t care much about.”
“I care about it.”
“But not enough,” Scarelli said. He smiled and rolled one shoulder. “Fucking rain, gives me an ache.” He massaged the side of his arm. “No offense, Corman. but I’ve saved myself a lot of time and money by being a good judge of character, and when I look at you, I see the type of guy that ought to have a board hanging over his chest, saying ‘No sale.’” He smiled. “Not ‘Loser.’ Not that. Just ‘No Sale.’”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Corman told him.
Scarelli laughed. “See what I mean?” he said as he stood up and headed for the door.
For a while Corman remained at the table studying the well-heeled habitues of the Inside Track as he calculated his next move. With Scarelli out, it was up to him now. If there was a mystery, he alone would have to find it.
Dr. Owen looked at him from behind his desk. “You’re a reporter, my secretary said.”
“Photographer,” Corman told him.
“But for one of the newspapers, is that right?”
“Yes,” Corman said. “I’m working on a story.”
“About obstetricians?” Owen said with a wry smile.
Corman shook his head. “Sarah Rosen.”
The name registered instantly in Owen’s mind. “I see.”
“You remember her?”
Owen nodded. “A bit, yes. She was my patient for a time.”
“During her pregnancy.”
“Brief as it was, yes,” Owen said. “She was about two months pregnant when I first saw her.”
“And you did an abortion not long after that?”
“Yes,” Owen said with sudden hesitation. “That was a long time ago.” He looked at Corman curiously. “There were no complications that I knew of. Why are you interested in Sarah?”
“She killed herself last week.”
“She was a friend of yours?”
“I never knew her,” Corman said. “I’m just trying to find out a few things.”
“Like the details of her abortion?”
“That, and how you felt about her. What you saw. Anything.”
“There’s such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality,” Owen said.
“I know,” Corman told him. “But I thought you might just answer a few questions. Sarah’s not alive anymore.”
Owen watched him cautiously. “I can only tell you this much. The abortion itself was therapeutic.” He stopped. “Well, maybe one other thing. I didn’t recommend it.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I didn’t think it was necessary. The risk was not great in her case.”
“What kind of risk?”
“I thought you only wanted a few details.”
“Just what the problem was,” Corman said quietly. “I’d like to know that.”
“She had a very slight heart problem,” Owen said offhandedly. “Nothing terribly serious at all. Millions of women have them and experience no difficulty in giving birth.” He shrugged slightly. “Still, it was my duty to make her aware of it. I didn’t advise the abortion, but Dr. Rosen insisted.”
“Dr. Rosen?” Corman asked. “How about Sarah?”
“She agreed to it,” Owen said. He thought a moment. “If we can talk, as they say, ‘off the record’?”
“Okay.”
“Well, the whole situation struck me as rather strange,” Owen said. “I called Sarah and asked her to drop by the office. I told her that there was something I wanted to talk to her about. I expected her to show up as most women do, either alone, or with the male party, husband, lover, whatever. But Sarah brought her father with her instead.”
“Had you ever met him?”
“No,” Owen said. “But he later said that he’d done some checking before directing Sarah to me. I don’t know what kind of checking that was. A few phone calls to the AMA, perhaps, something like that.”
“So he selected you for Sarah?”
“That’s what he told me, yes.”
“What happened at the meeting?”
“Well, I tried to tell them about the heart problem as casually as I could. It wasn’t something she needed to be alarmed about, really. Just notified, that’s all.”
“But she was concerned anyway?”
“Her father more than she. He was quite adamant. He didn’t want her to take the risk of having the baby, no matter how slight that risk might be.”
“How did she react?”
“She was very quiet. She seemed to have very little will of her own, if you know what I mean.”
“He dominated her?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“And he wanted the abortion?”
“Absolutely,” Owen said firmly. “There was never any question in his mind that that was the appropriate thing to do. Even though I told him several times that the birth would probably go just fine.”
“What did he say?”
“He was very sharp at that point,” Owen replied. “Even haughty. ‘Probably?’ he said in this very stiff way he has, ‘I don’t care for probablies, Doctor.’” He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “And that was the end of it. I scheduled the abortion for the following week, and when it was over, Sarah and Dr. Rosen walked out of my office. I never saw them again.”
“She never came for a follow-up appointment?”
“No,” Owen said. “I had my secretary call her several times. We left messages on her machine, but she never called back.” He stopped, and looked at Corman curiously. “You say she killed herself?”
Corman nodded. “She jumped out a tenement window down in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Owen did not look surprised. “Well,” he said dryly, “something in her was dead already.”
Corman left Owen’s office a few minutes later, glanced at his watch and realized that it would soon be time to pick Lucy up at PS 51. He tried not to think of her, the school, Lexie’s righteous cause, and so let his mind drift toward less threatening worlds. For a time, he thought of Lazar, but found that his mind continually returned to Lucy, circled awhile, then went on past her, finally settling on Sarah Rosen, her body sprawled across the wet
