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“Empathy on the rise?”
“Sympathy on the rise. It can’t have been easy growing up with someone like that.”
“Mommy dearest,” he said.
“All the notifications you’ve done,” I said, “have you ever seen that level of hostility toward a deceased? On top of that, she kept steering the topic away from Cordi and back to her and heramazingfamily. Wanting us to know she finally got it right.”
He said, “Guess that makes Cordi a throwaway. Yeah, my warm and fuzzy has definitely notched up.”
I said, “The pancake approach to parenthood. Toss the first batch.”
—
As he steered away from the curb, I said, “Clever the way you got access to the husband.”
He smiled. “You noticed, huh? I figured if I asked her straight out, she’d get protective.”
“When do you want to try to see him?”
“Now feels about right,” he said. “It’ll take ten minutes to get to Century City, just enough time for her to call him. Meaning I won’t have to doanothernotification.”
Gregory Blanding’s receptionist was prepared. “Doctor said to tell you he’d meet you in the coffee shop down in the lobby.”
“Thanks,” said Milo. “When?”
“Text when you get there.”
—
The black glass tower on Century Park East had once been a hospital. Now it housed the suites of several large medical groups, a couple of outpatient surgical facilities, and a rehabilitation center.
The building’s coffee shop was a two-table affair wedged into a hundred square feet, much of the space given over to a take-out counter. Coffee, tea, soda, candy bars, pre-packaged pastries and sandwiches. The tabletops were aluminum disks the size of manhole covers. Unsurprisingly, no one was using them.
Milo surveyed the contents behind the glass. “Getting close to lunchtime but don’t want to waste calories.”
I’d never known him to keep count. “Makes sense.”
“Also,” he said, pulling out his phone, “don’t want the eminent Dr. Blanding to spot crumbs on my shirt. Seeing as he’s such a perfect human being.”
He sent the text to Blanding’s office, ordered black coffee for both of us, and brought the cups over. Recycled cardboard the color of old wheat. Paper pulp yeastiness flavored the coffee and I put it aside.
Milo said, “I second the motion,” and did the same.
Two minutes later, Gregory Blanding entered wearing a long white coat over green scrubs and orange Crocs. Six-two and broad, with downcast eyes and a plodding gait. The weary lumber of a bull after stud season. Since the charity ball, he’d grown a full gray beard, addedsubstance to his waistline, trimmed the scant hair atop his cranium to a downy buzz.
“Lieutenant Sturgis?”
“Doctor. This is Alex Delaware.”
A pair of brisk, firm clasp-and-shakes. Blanding looked at the coffee, thought for an instant, and said, “Why not?”
He returned with his own dose of all-black, sat down and took a sip.
“You’re not drinking yours? Wise move, it stinks, but for me it’s medication. Had two tricky surgeries this morning, need the caffeine. Or maybe I shouldn’t since my nerves are already jangling.” He shook his head. “Poor Cordi. Horrible. I still can’t believe it.”
Milo said, “Your wife calls her Carrie.”
Greg Blanding said, “It’s the name Renni gave her. And when Renni’s around, that’s what I use. But soon after I met Cordi, she took me aside and asked me to call her Cordi so I respected her wishes.”
