Death by Chocolate Page 8

  “Are you doing anything later?” he asked as she mopped up the last of her stew with her roll.

  “I need to get Rolf home and fed,” she said. “I could come back, if you’re not too busy.”

  “The thing with Evan won’t take all evening,” he said. “Suppose you come calling at eight.”

  She smiled. “Grand,” she said, mimicking his Irish accent.

  At that moment, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “Damn it,” she muttered and pulled it out. “O’Reilly.”

  “Webb,” the Lieutenant said. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Bianchi’s dead.”

  “Dead?” she echoed, astonished. Carlyle, beside her, gave her a sharp look. She signaled to him to wait.

  “Yeah. I called Patrol right after you left and asked them to keep an eye on Bianchi’s place. I got uniforms doing drive-bys on Hayward and Nicoletti’s places, too, figuring maybe we’d get lucky if someone was gunning for them. They got a call a few minutes ago, 911 from the penthouse. Poor bastard was eating his dinner and went face-down in the spaghetti.”

  “You sure Paulie’s dead?”

  “I’m not talking about Paulie,” Webb said. “It’s his old man, Lorenzo. First responder said it looks like a heart attack. He called me as soon as the EMTs arrived and took over CPR for him. They took him to the hospital, but I’m betting he’s DOA.”

  Erin leaned against the bar. “Jesus,” she said.

  “Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” Webb asked.

  “We don’t believe in coincidence,” she said.

  “My point exactly. Meet me at Bellevue Hospital.”

  “Yes, sir.” Erin hung up.

  “Rain check?” Carlyle asked quietly.

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “You needn’t apologize. I take it Sewer Pipe Bianchi’s gone to the great dustheap in the sky?”

  She nodded.

  “Foul play?” he asked.

  “We’ll see,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”

  * * *

  Erin had spent too much time in emergency rooms while working night shifts as a Patrol officer. She was very familiar with all the ways city life maimed, sickened, and killed people. Bellevue’s ER was bustling with hospital staff, patients, and family members. She shot Webb a text from the First Avenue Atrium. He came out to meet her a few moments later.

  “They lose him?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Dead on arrival, like I thought. Cardiac arrest. Probably what’s going to get me in another five, ten years.” The Lieutenant absentmindedly patted his breast pocket, where he kept his smokes.

  “You could buy yourself another decade if you quit with the cancer sticks,” she said.

  Webb smiled. “Maybe, but it’d be ten years without nicotine. Not sure it’d be worth it. I’ll take my chances.”

  “Where’ve they got Bianchi?”

  “Basement. The morgue.”

  “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 pou
nd 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 extraction, age around sixty-five,” Levine said without looking up. “External indicators point to a cause of death of cardiac arrest, with underlying causes of obesity and habitual tobacco use.”

  “Get the bloodwork ASAP,” Webb said. “We need to know if this was a homicide.”

  “Was he on any medications?”

  “Pro… pro something or other,” Webb said. He looked at Erin for support.

  “Propranolol,” she said. Her dad took it for the same reason Bianchi had. A combination of a stressful career and a little more weight than he ought to carry had left Sean O’Reilly, Senior, with a whole lot of cardiovascular red flags. “It’s a beta blocker,” she explained to Webb. “Pretty commonly prescribed.”

  “Correct,” Levine said. “Anything else?”

  “Nitro pills,” Erin said.

  Levine nodded. She took out a syringe and got ready to draw the first blood sample.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice from the doorway. It was polite and pleasantly smooth. Erin and Webb turned to see who it was. Levine, with her usual lack of social awareness, ignored the newcomer completely.

  The man at the door was Italian, middle-aged, without a hint of gray in his slicked-back hair. He wore a very expensive suit, perfectly tailored. He smiled the most genuine fake smile Erin could remember seeing.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the deceased gentleman, please,” he said.

  “On whose authority?” Webb asked. His own tone was polite enough, but he shifted his feet just a little, angling his body, and eased his right hand back, brushing the flap of his trench coat to clear his access to his revolver. Erin, taking the hint, took two steps to the side, opening the angle between her and the other detective. She didn’t like the look of the guy. He was too polished, too deliberately polite. He was either a lawyer or a gangster, and in either case, she didn’t trust him one bit.

  “I have the medical certificate here,” the man said, drawing it out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “And I have the family’s request that the body be cremated. I’ll be taking custody, effective immediately.”

  “And who, exactly, are you?” Webb asked. His tone wasn’t so polite anymore.

  “Vincenzo Moreno,” he said, giving another of his full, earnest smiles. Erin reflected that he was very handsome in a dark, debonair way. It didn’t make her trust him more. “I assure you, I have all the proper documents here. Feel free to inspect them.” He handed the papers to Webb, who looked through them with a scowl.

  “This is an official NYPD investigation,” Erin said. “You can’t just come in here…”

  “Detective… O’Reilly, unless I’m mistaken?” Moreno said, turning to her with an elegantly raised eyebrow. “It is truly a pleasure, Detective. I’ve heard so very much about you. You’re quite the celebrity in our city.” He offered his hand.

  She didn’t shake it. Rolf interposed himself between his partner and the newcomer. His hackles rose on his neck. He could feel the tension between Erin and the stranger, and he was ready for trouble.

  “Mr. Moreno,” she said, “we’re engaged in a homicide investigation. I’m sure you’ll be able to claim Mr. Bianchi’s remains as soon as we’re done here. In the meantime, if you’d like to wait upstairs…”

  Moreno’s smile didn’t falter. “I suggest you confer with your senior colleague, Detective,” he said.

  Webb was still scowling at the paper, as if he could ignite it with his eyes. “He’s right,” he said softly.

  “What?” Erin demanded.

  “The medical certificate states cardiac arrest as the official cause of death,” Webb said. He met Moreno’s eyes. “I would love to know how you convinced a doctor to sign off on this before the Medical Examiner had even shown up.”

  “That’s not precisely the point, Detective,” Moreno said. “I suppose the real question before us is whether you’re prepared to honor the instructions in this lawfully-procured document. I’m sure you are. I’m certain none of us want any unpleasant confrontation. We’re gentlemen here. Begging your pardon, Detective O’Reilly, Doctor.”

  Levine was watching Moreno with detached curiosity. Erin was staring at him, outraged. Every instinct told her this guy was dirty, that he was up to something, but she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Webb drew in a slow, deep breath. His jaw worked as if he was chewing on his words before spitting them out.

  “Have it your way, Mr. Moreno,” he said. “Since the hospital’s released the body into your possession, he’s all yours. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of experience handling body removal.”

  “Excellent.” If Moreno was bothered by Webb’s obvious hostility, he gave no sign of it. He whistled sharply. Two burly guys immediately came into the room. They’d been waiting right outside. Their suits were cheaper than his, and they looked like they spent a lot of time at the gym. If they weren’t Mob muscle, Erin would eat her own dress blues. At Moreno’s direction, they wheeled in a gurney with an empty body bag. They shifted Lorenzo’s body into the bag, zipped it closed, and rolled it out of the morgue to the elevator.

  “Thank you, Detectives,” Moreno said. “And thank you, also, for the very fine work you do for our city. Good day.” He turned and followed his men out, his perfectly-shined shoes clicking on the hard floor.

  Chapter 9

  “Damn,” Webb said. He said it quietly, almost meditatively.

  “There goes our evidence,” Erin said. She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call Judge Ferris. If we get a court order, we can get the body back, at least for a little while.”

  “And we can see what we can distill from the ashes,” Webb said. “Forget it, O’Reilly. Did that seem like the kind of guy who goes off half-cocked? His ducks were lined up in a neat little row before he came down here. They had the gurney, the body bag, everything ready to go. Twenty bucks says they’ve already got a guy at the funeral home with the crematorium fired up. It doesn’t matter how fast we move, it won’t be fast enough.”

  “So that’s it?” Erin demanded.

  “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 th
is 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.”