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I was listening to Claire, looking at the victim’s heart, but my mind was roaming over the other so-called heart attack victims whose deaths we had investigated.
There were the first two victims that had aroused Claire’s suspicions. Lois Sprague, the female tourist who had been brought in with the Sci-Tron fatalities. Claire had connected Sprague’s death to that of a male cabdriver who actually did have heart disease—as well as a needle mark in his left buttock.
Conklin and I had checked into the third known victim, the homeless addict discovered by the landscaper. The landscaper had no information about the attacker, and the victim had no known relatives, which left us with no motive for his murder.
Last week a real estate broker named Robert Riccardo, thirty-six, had left his office for a breath of air when, without warning, he’d dropped dead on the sidewalk. His death would have been chalked up to cardiac arrest if Claire hadn’t gotten the word out to the pathologists in all the hospitals in the city. I was thinking of him as victim number four.
Homicide Central Station would be working the Riccardo case, but the lead investigator, Marty Freeman, had called to tell me that he had no idea what happened to the victim. The tox report was normal. The man’s heart was normal. The victim had no enemies, no nothing.
“Boxer, this man should not be dead,” he told me.
Claire had ruled the manner of death undetermined, knowing full well that she was looking at a murder victim and couldn’t prove it.
I was mired in what-the-hell, same as Claire, same as Marty Freeman. There was a pattern that didn’t form a picture. What could possibly be the motive for the deaths of these people who had nothing in common?
Cops like to say, “If you know the why, you can figure out the who.” The why was a mystery. But the killer—whoever, however, and for whatever reason—was stepping up his schedule.
The first four victims had been killed within several months. Now, with the death of Sarah Nugent, two victims had been murdered in the last week.
I shared these thoughts with Claire and asked her, “What’s your report going to say?”
“Manner of death: ‘Homicide.’ Cause: ‘Unknown substance injected into the right buttock.’ Mrs. Nugent’s blood just went to the lab,” she said. “Let’s hope for a clue.”
She wrote the husband’s contact information on her notepad, ripped off the top sheet, and handed it to me.
Carl Nugent, room 982, Admiral Dewey Hotel
“For whatever it’s worth,” she said.
Actually, Mrs. Nugent’s death was our first fresh lead into the needle sticker’s case. And that was priceless.
“I’ll call you later,” I said. I showed myself out.
CHAPTER 62
IT WAS JUST before ten in the morning when Conklin and I entered the open arms of the Admiral Dewey and found Carl Nugent in the nearly empty bar. He was white, mid-fifties, average height and weight, and looked as though he’d been wadded up and thrown against the back of the circular booth.
I introduced my partner and myself to Mr. Nugent and asked if we could join him, then we slid onto the leather seat, flanking him on both sides.
Conklin told Nugent that we were sorry for his loss.
Nugent’s words slurred together when he said, “Yeah, well, nowhere as sorry as I am … useless without Sarry … total mess without my Sarry.”
Then he folded his arms on the table, knocking over a largish glass of liquor without noticing, put his head down, and sobbed.
Conklin reached an arm across the man’s back and patted him. A waiter appeared with a dishcloth. He sopped up the alcohol and left a stack of paper napkins. Nugent blotted his face and made an attempt to collect himself, but it was clear that he was grieving his heart out. Finally I said, “Mr. Nugent, can you tell us what happened last night?”
“I wish to God I knew.”
The waiter returned with a refill for Nugent, asked if we would like anything. After we said no, we asked the widower to talk about the reasons for his trip to San Francisco.
Nugent told us that he and his wife were inventors and had come here to meet with department store buyers. He pulled a golf-ball-size globe with electric prongs out of his pocket, saying it was a night-light they called Smartlight. He explained briefly that Smartlight detected motion, was interactive, and had a wireless hookup to neighbors, the fire department, and the police.
“Sarry’s brainchild,” he said sadly. “It could save lives.”
I asked, “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt your wife?”
“Over our … gadget? Whoaaaa. What’re you …? Sarry had … a heart attack … didn’t she?”
