If she performed like that in the polygraph then she could probably pass. Suddenly, I felt a lot better about this case. Sofia had a well of strength, deep inside. I just had to mine it, keep it there for the trial.
I offered to get her a cab home, but she declined. Said she felt better. Her arm had stopped bleeding and she wanted to jog back to her apartment.
Said the run would help clear her head.
The talk with Sofia had cleared my head, for sure. She was innocent. I could feel it. I knew it. And what’s more, I now realized what was wrong with the autopsy report on Frank Avellino.
It was Frank Avellino himself.
Frank was in great condition at the time of his murder. Apart from some signs of stress on the respiratory system, which could have been caused by the attack, he was in perfect shape. His heart, lungs, liver, brain, stomach, intestines – all pristine for a man of his age.
After Sofia left, I found the report at the bottom of the papers on my desk. I’d already made a few copies for Harper and Harry, but I wanted Harry to see it right away. I fed it into the fax machine and dialed Harry’s number. After ten minutes, and another shot of bourbon, my phone rang.
‘What am I looking for?’ said Harry.
‘Anything strike you as weird in that report?’ I asked.
‘Apart from the brutality, the bite, and the surgical skill, nothing.’
‘What if I told you Frank Avellino was displaying dementia symptoms for a few months before he died?’ I said.
I heard Harry flicking through pages. He paused. A small, weak bark sounded on the line.
‘You took that dog home, didn’t you?’
‘What dog?’
‘The dog that took you for a sucker on the street tonight.’
‘He’s my pal. He likes beef jerky and milk. I think we might be friends,’ said Harry.
I gave him some time to read.
Harry said, ‘His brain, aside from the injuries that occurred from the blade being rammed into the ocular cavity, was normal.’
‘Frank didn’t have dementia,’ I said.
‘Agreed,’ said Harry.
Between the two of us, we’d read more than our fair share of autopsy reports. Anyone with dementia, or some other type of degenerative disease of the brain, will have signs of that disease visible to the naked eye during autopsy. The brain would look different. The ME said Frank’s brain was entirely normal. That was what was bothering me. A dementia sufferer’s brain doesn’t appear normal – the disease ravages the brain. It’s obvious. Frank’s brain was not damaged by disease. Which meant he didn’t have dementia.
‘His lawyer, Mike Modine, told police Frank had called him to schedule an appointment to discuss changes to his will,’ I said.
‘What changes?’ said Harry.
‘We don’t know. Mike Modine has gone AWOL.’
Harry sighed, heavily, and I could hear the squeaking of the old chair in his study. Then I heard Harry whispering to the dog, calling him a good boy. I had visions of the dog curled at Harry’s feet, and I was glad. He needed a companion. And the mutt looked like it needed Harry.
‘You know I just retired, right? Two hours ago, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Come on, Harry. Did you notice there’s evidence of stress damage to the respiratory system? That’s a strong indicator. You’re thinking the same thing as me, right?’
‘There are a few possible suspects. We need the toxicology report.’
‘Okay, get some sleep, and say goodnight to the dog for me.’
He hung up.
Harry and I were on the same page. As far as I knew, the prosecutor hadn’t noticed this. If Dreyer had noticed, there would be more tests and an amendment to the cause of death conclusion on the death certificate. Alexandra’s lawyers might not have noticed it either. They had shown no signs of it anyway.
I knew now that Frank Avellino wasn’t just stabbed to death.
For some months prior to his murder, he was being systematically drugged. Something to dull his brain, keep him confused and compliant. The damage to his respiratory system meant the drugging probably had an endpoint. Eventually, Frank would be poisoned to death.
But who was poisoning him?
The answer to the first question had a narrow field of possible answers. To poison a man like Frank over a period of time you would need very close, regular access.
There were two suspects.
Sofia and Alexandra.
I had a feeling whoever had been poisoning him had decided to accelerate the process of Frank’s death with a twelve-inch kitchen knife, before he changed his will.
SIXTEEN
SHE
It was coming up on two a.m., the pavement a blur beneath her feet, the wind in her face, and her legs were burning with the effort.
Night running was one of her pleasures.
Tonight was not for pleasure. This was all business. The talk with her lawyer, earlier, had been a useful one. The lawyer was good and convinced that she was innocent. If the jury was as easily convinced as her lawyer, she would be just fine.
She reached East 33rd Street on 3rd Avenue and turned right at the corner. She increased her pace, feeling her heart rate jump, and now she had to concentrate on controlling her breathing. Her backpack was strapped tight so it wouldn’t bump at her back. She swung her arms, finding the rhythm with her breath. In and out. Pumping her legs. Focused.
The sign for the parking lot loomed ahead of her. She slowed her pace, stopped and bent over to catch her breath. Sweat dripped from her forehead. Looking around, no one on the street, she went inside and took the stairs to the fifth floor. At the back of the lot on this floor the lighting was out. It was dark in that corner, which suited her just fine. She walked past a row of cars on both sides. There were some empty spaces, but not many. She found her motorcycle in the dark corner. The overhead light was still busted above this parking space. She had stood on the bike and swiped her helmet through the bulb two weeks ago when she last parked. God bless cheap parking-lot owners.
She slung her backpack to the ground, unzipped it and unfolded a Kevlar fabric motorcycle suit. It had been much more expensive to buy than leathers, but she needed something that would fold easily into her pack. She slipped off her running shoes, put her legs through the suit and then hauled it on over her Lycra. Zipped it up to the neck then closed the Velcro straps on the collar. From her backpack she drew out slip-on riding boots. They had a hard sole, but were foldable Kevlar. She put them on, and the gloves. While the Kevlar suit was practical, it did not have the same aesthetic quality as real leather. It lacked that delicious odor. The smell and feel of real leather was as intoxicating to her as a good red wine.
Packing away her running shoes in the backpack, she closed it and slung it over her shoulders, pulling the straps tight. She released the helmet from the lock on the seat, then put it on. It was a tinted visor, which cut down her visibility in the dark corner of the lot, making everything almost pitch black. She swung her leg over the Honda, turned on the engine and the lights, then eased it out of the space, along the lot and down the ramps to the street.
Ten minutes later she was on the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. She took Queens Boulevard, Van Dam Street and Review Avenue before she started making random turns. She made lefts and rights, trying to keep to a general south-westerly direction. Eventually she came to Haberman.