“Maybe while we’re here, I should examine a couple of your patients. Come up with a diagnosis or two.”
“Ha ha.” Visibly tired, Louise sat on the edge of her desk. “You’re probably not going to be any happier when I tell you I talked to a few people I know who know or have worked with Ponti.”
“Jesus Christ, Louise.”
“Before you unload on me, understand medicals are more likely to speak frankly to another medical.”
“And if Ponti turns out to be a killer, and gets wind you’re asking about him? Killers are more likely to go after nosy civilians than cops.”
Louise only shrugged. “Maybe, if I’d come up with anything other than the opinion he’s an arrogant asshole with considerable skill, particularly in emergency medicine. He’s not well liked, doesn’t appear to care. He didn’t appreciate Kent’s setdown, or the fact Kent had him written up. He hit back with the claim Kent was a rich, entitled elitist who wouldn’t last a full shift in the ER. Bitched about it for a few days with anyone who’d listen, then moved on to the next drama.”
“He likes drama?”
“Word is he has a scene, an altercation, a disagreement—some sort of drama—every week or two. Which I have to say isn’t that unusual in an inner-city ER.”
Eve waited a beat. “How about his wife?”
“Surgical nurse. Cilla Roe. She’s more liked, supposedly rock steady in the OR and out of it, apparently the contrasting smooth to Ponti’s rough edges.”
“Fine. Now stay out of it. I mean it, Louise.”
“She does mean it,” Peabody added. “And I’m going to say exactly the same.”
“Could you do nothing if one of your friends was murdered?”
“You’re not doing nothing,” Peabody said before Eve could speak. “You’re trusting us to stand for your friend, to get justice for him. You need to trust us.”
“I do. Absolutely. There’s a section on the disc listing the names of people I spoke with about Ponti, what they said, how to contact them if you need or want to follow up.”
“Great. Now back off. All the way off. That goes for Charles, too. And stay away from Ponti.”
Louise pushed off the desk. “Do you think he killed Kent?”
“I don’t know who killed Kent at this point in the investigation, but I know Ponti’s an arrogant asshole, and one with a temper. So steer clear.”
“All right, all right. I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll tell the staff to rotate back here. Oh, and the others, including volunteers, are on the disc, too, with contact information.”
“See if you can find a spot, Peabody,” Eve said when Louise walked out. “Start with the staff and volunteers on the disc, and I’ll take the rest here. Let’s get through this.”
“I know a spot. How about the medicals she talked to about Ponti?”
“They’ll wait.”
Eve glanced at the AC, decided she could wait for real coffee, then took the chair behind Louise’s desk to deal with the rest of the interviews.
Because Louise was right. They weren’t going to get anything new or revelatory here. But they had to tie it off.
7
When Eve finally walked into the bullpen at Central, she went straight to her office and coffee.
Peabody could handle the rest of the interviews via ’link, note if any required a face-to-face follow-up. Eve needed to set up her board, her book, write up her report.
As always, the routine helped—the physical act of arranging the board, reviewing as she did the faces, the images, the data.
Creating the murder book, writing a report put it all down in a clear, cohesive manner.
Facts, statements, evidence.
Suspects.
She ran thin there, admittedly. Topping the short list, Ponti and Thane.
With another cup of coffee, she put her boots on the desk, studied the board. Those faces, images, the timeline, the alibis.
Ponti, a medical, had to have a better than basic knowledge of chemistry, would likely have access to a lab. So that gave him a leg up on Thane.
Still, wasn’t it possible Thane had a connection to someone with knowledge and access?
Both had grudges against the victim—and grudges could simmer for a long, long time.
And both had tempers—and that was a strike against. Something cold in the killing. Not a hot-temper hit, but a cold one, and a remote one. No satisfying strike, no physical altercation, no looking into the victim’s eyes as life drained.
She swiveled to study the lab report again.
Not just rudimentary or even average knowledge. A real skill necessary, and patience, precision. Every step and stage covered. Nothing impulsive or of the moment.
She heard the footsteps approaching—not Peabody’s familiar clomp, but strong, authoritative strides.
She swung her boots off the desk and rose as Commander Whitney came to her open door.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant.”
His stride suited the authority he carried on broad shoulders. An imposing man, he filled the room as he crossed over to study her board. He might ride a desk, but his eyes reflected the street cop he’d been. The gray threaded through his close-cropped hair added a kind of weighty dignity. The lines on his wide, dark face showed he carried that weight.
“I’m on my way to a meeting with Chief Tibble and the mayor now that I have your report.”
“I apologize for the delay, Commander. Detective Peabody and I have been in the field.”
Whitney waved that away with one finger as he stood at her board. “While procedure and policy demanded we report this death and its circumstance to Homeland, the lab results indicate this wasn’t an act of terrorism.”
“No, sir. Not only was this act very victim specific, the killer took steps to be certain the poison was contained to a very restricted area, and that it would dissipate quickly.”
“There are still concerns this single victim may have been a test case for a mass kill.”
“If that were the case, Commander, why go to the trouble of the additives that ensured the substance would dissipate, would kill only the specified target? The lab tech stated to control the substance to that limit of time and space took skill, effort, and resources.”
“Agreed. Which is why Homeland has passed on moving into the investigation. For now,” he added, as warning. “Their agent in charge will receive copies of all data, all reports.”
He turned back to face her. “You’re leaning toward the other doctor. Toward Ponti.”
“He checks some boxes. He has an alibi for the drop, but—”
“His wife is part of his alibi.”
“Yes, sir. And though she has a reputation for being less volatile than Ponti, she’s another medical, another who would have some knowledge of chemicals, have access to a lab. Who might harbor a grudge against Abner, for her husband.”
“You also have two ex-cons the victim helped put away.”
“Yes, sir. Ringwold’s alibi’s solid. He appears to have rehabilitated, made amends with his ex-wife and son, has built a stable business. He credits Abner with forcing him to begin to confront his addictions. He reads very believable. The second … He’s too damn stupid, sir. He’s a lazy drunk. Mean enough to kill, no question, but not smart enough for this.”