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“You guys expanded.”
“Yes. Dr. Dimatto was able to purchase the building that adjoined the original clinic.” Still beaming smiles he led them across the pass-through, into another hallway. “She expanded and updated the clinic and its services and added pediatrics. We have six doctors now, two full-time and four on rotation, and a fully equipped lab.”
He opened a door. “Doctor Dimatto is the angel of Canal Street. Please, help yourself to the AutoChef. She’ll be with you as soon as she can.”
Louise’s office hadn’t changed much, Eve noted. It was still small, still cramped, still crowded. And reminded Eve very much of her own space at Central.
“Jeez, she’s really done something here,” Peabody commented. “It had to run her a couple million.”
“I guess.” And since Eve had only donated—okay, bribed Louise with—a half a million for the clinic, she figured the angel of Canal Street had done some very intense, very successful fund-raising in a very short amount of time.
“This place is better equipped, and I bet better run, than my local health center.” Peabody pursed her lips. “I might switch.”
“Yeah, well.” To Eve’s mind one health facility was the same as another. They were all voids of hell. “You got an e-memo on you? We’ll just leave the doctor a message. I want to get back to Central.”
“Maybe. Somewhere.” And as Peabody dug into her pockets, Louise rushed in.
“Got five. Need coffee.” She made a beeline for the AutoChef. “Fill me in while I refuel.”
“Did you know Bryna Bankhead?”
“No.”
“Picture Peabody.” Eve took the ID photo Peabody took from her file bag, held it out. “Recognize her?”
Louise drank coffee with one hand, dragged her other through her hair as she frowned at the image. A stethoscope and a red lollipop peeked out of her lab coat pocket. “Yes. I’d ridden in the elevator with her now and again, seen her in the local markets where I shop. I suppose I might have spoken to her, the way you do with neighbors you don’t have time to know. Was she murdered?”
“Yeah.” Eve held out a copy of the suspect’s image. “Recognize him?”
“No.” Louise set down her coffee, took the photo for a closer look. “No, I’ve never seen him before. He killed her? Why?”
Eve handed the photos back to Peabody. “You ever treat anybody for sex-inducement drugs? Whore, Rabbit?”
“Yes. In my ER rotation we’d have somebody coming down off Rabbit a few times a month. Mostly Rabbit clones, or Exotica/Zeus combo, because the real’s so pricey. I never dealt with Whore, don’t know anybody who has. You study it, and its derivatives in illegals training, but it’s on the inactive list.”
“Not anymore.”
“Is that what he did to her? Doped her with Whore? Whore and Rabbit. Jesus Christ.” She rubbed her hands over her face. “Mixed with alcohol, I take it. Why didn’t he just blast her brains out with a laser?”
“Maybe you could poke around, ask some of your doctor friends if they’ve seen any re-emergence of Whore.”
“I can do that. You know, a man had to come up with the street name for that crap. You know how it started?”
“No, how?”
“As an experimental treatment for phobias and conditions like social anxiety disorder. It was a little too good at it.”
“Meaning?”
“It also had an affect on the hormones. It was discovered that it worked more effectively as an aid in sexual disorders. In diluted and carefully monitored doses, it could and did enhance sexual desire and function. From there, it went into use as an aide for training licensed companions. Though nonaddictive, it was soon found to be dangerously unstable. Which, naturally, meant it became desirable on the street, particularly among your more well-heeled college boys and junior execs who would slip a dose into their dream girl’s drink to loosen her up.” She washed the rising rage back down her throat with coffee.
“That’s how it got its name,” she continued, “as mixed with alcohol it tends to loosen the system up enough so the ingestor would be amenable to being fucked naked on the ice rink at Rockefeller Center. The ingestor wouldn’t necessarily have the motor coordination left to actively participate, and would unlikely remember doing so, but she’d be damn amenable to suggestion.”
“Add Rabbit?”
“Oh, she’d participate with the entire U.S. Marine Corps, until she passed out cold, until her heart rate went off the charts and her brain-wave pattern flattened.”
“A doctor would know that,” Eve prompted. “A chemist, pharmacist, nurse, med tech, anyone with a working knowledge of pharmaceuticals would know the combination was fatal?”
