Read Online A Killing in Comics by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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closer to him, know?”
“Definitely. Donny gave himself up to four shots of insulin a day, Jack—and he kept supplies of insulin, refrigerated of course, at three locations. Can you guess what those locations were?”
“Sure. His home, his office, and his mistress’s. By refrigerated, do you mean . . . in the refrigerator?”
Chandler nodded. “A refrigerator at home, another in the break room at Americana headquarters and another in the kitchen at Miss Daily’s Waldorf suite.”
“And your theory is, a dosage of the insulin was fatally doctored?”
“Yes, or switched.” He stopped rocking and made an elaborate openhanded gesture. “We think the last dose he took was . . . the last dose he took.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. Then I asked, “Does the medical examiner say how long that pesticide mickey would take, before kicking in? In other words, did it have to be a dose he took at Miss Daily’s, minutes before he stabbed himself?”
Chandler shook his head. “It might have taken up to several hours to take full effect, I’m told. That puts all three locations of the insulin in play.”
Now I was shaking my head. “Christ, dozens of people had access. Scores. His wife and children and household staff, at home; his partners and employees at work; and all those guests at the birthday party at the Waldorf. Plus, at the latter, the Waldorf staffers he had in, to handle the party.”
“Actually,” Chandler said, “Miss Daily’s suite might have been the hardest location for somebody to make a switch or doctor a bottle. The kitchen was the staging area for the Waldorf catering crew. So we have plenty of potential witnesses at that site.”
I drew a deep breath and rolled my eyes. “Well, I wish you good luck and lots of patience. How many interviews does that bode?”
Chandler shrugged. “Eight Waldorf employees. Not so bad. But we have sixty-two at the party, and twenty-seven at Americana, and five at Harrison’s home.”
“Lucky you. You say, Harrison’s diabetes was well known by friends and associates?”
His brow tightened. “I wouldn’t say ‘well known’—you were in his life, to some extent anyway, Jack, and you weren’t aware . . . . Speaking of which, see if your stepmother knew about the condition, would you?”
“Glad to. But the people in Donny’s daily life were all cognizant of his medical problem?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, a Waldorf staffer wouldn’t be.”
“No, Jack, but someone who was could have hired one of them to do it.”
“A catered poisoning?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
I smirked. “Yeah, this is New York. Stranger things have probably happened since we sat down here. But where do I come in?”
He jabbed a forefinger my way. “You were the first to get to the body. You turned him over. Can you think of anything significant you might have noticed?”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting in my chair, “I noticed the sweaty slob had a big significant knife in his heart. I’m a trained investigator myself, Captain. I wasn’t about to miss that.”
He grunted a small laugh. “Okay, smart-ass comedy aside . . . was there anything unusual?”
How was I supposed to avoid smart-ass comedy when this captain of homicide was asking me if there was anything unusual about a fat guy in a Wonder Guy costume with a cake knife in his chest?
“Well, there were no famous last words.” I turned my hands palms up. “The guy was dead. Knife or poison, he was blue in the face and smiling up at God. Let’s just hope nobody upstairs ever had a look at the Americana ledgers.”
An eyebrow rose. “Speaking of which . . . among the guests were Harold Spiegel and Morris Shulman.”
The hairs at the back of my neck did a tingly little dance. “They’re the creators of Americana’s top property. Why shouldn’t they be there?”
He let out a short expulsion of air that was a sort of laugh. “Jack, I’ve been on this case exactly one morning . . .
“Definitely. Donny gave himself up to four shots of insulin a day, Jack—and he kept supplies of insulin, refrigerated of course, at three locations. Can you guess what those locations were?”
“Sure. His home, his office, and his mistress’s. By refrigerated, do you mean . . . in the refrigerator?”
Chandler nodded. “A refrigerator at home, another in the break room at Americana headquarters and another in the kitchen at Miss Daily’s Waldorf suite.”
“And your theory is, a dosage of the insulin was fatally doctored?”
“Yes, or switched.” He stopped rocking and made an elaborate openhanded gesture. “We think the last dose he took was . . . the last dose he took.”
I thought about that for a few seconds. Then I asked, “Does the medical examiner say how long that pesticide mickey would take, before kicking in? In other words, did it have to be a dose he took at Miss Daily’s, minutes before he stabbed himself?”
Chandler shook his head. “It might have taken up to several hours to take full effect, I’m told. That puts all three locations of the insulin in play.”
Now I was shaking my head. “Christ, dozens of people had access. Scores. His wife and children and household staff, at home; his partners and employees at work; and all those guests at the birthday party at the Waldorf. Plus, at the latter, the Waldorf staffers he had in, to handle the party.”
“Actually,” Chandler said, “Miss Daily’s suite might have been the hardest location for somebody to make a switch or doctor a bottle. The kitchen was the staging area for the Waldorf catering crew. So we have plenty of potential witnesses at that site.”
I drew a deep breath and rolled my eyes. “Well, I wish you good luck and lots of patience. How many interviews does that bode?”
Chandler shrugged. “Eight Waldorf employees. Not so bad. But we have sixty-two at the party, and twenty-seven at Americana, and five at Harrison’s home.”
“Lucky you. You say, Harrison’s diabetes was well known by friends and associates?”
His brow tightened. “I wouldn’t say ‘well known’—you were in his life, to some extent anyway, Jack, and you weren’t aware . . . . Speaking of which, see if your stepmother knew about the condition, would you?”
“Glad to. But the people in Donny’s daily life were all cognizant of his medical problem?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, a Waldorf staffer wouldn’t be.”
“No, Jack, but someone who was could have hired one of them to do it.”
“A catered poisoning?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
I smirked. “Yeah, this is New York. Stranger things have probably happened since we sat down here. But where do I come in?”
He jabbed a forefinger my way. “You were the first to get to the body. You turned him over. Can you think of anything significant you might have noticed?”
“Yeah,” I said, shifting in my chair, “I noticed the sweaty slob had a big significant knife in his heart. I’m a trained investigator myself, Captain. I wasn’t about to miss that.”
He grunted a small laugh. “Okay, smart-ass comedy aside . . . was there anything unusual?”
How was I supposed to avoid smart-ass comedy when this captain of homicide was asking me if there was anything unusual about a fat guy in a Wonder Guy costume with a cake knife in his chest?
“Well, there were no famous last words.” I turned my hands palms up. “The guy was dead. Knife or poison, he was blue in the face and smiling up at God. Let’s just hope nobody upstairs ever had a look at the Americana ledgers.”
An eyebrow rose. “Speaking of which . . . among the guests were Harold Spiegel and Morris Shulman.”
The hairs at the back of my neck did a tingly little dance. “They’re the creators of Americana’s top property. Why shouldn’t they be there?”
He let out a short expulsion of air that was a sort of laugh. “Jack, I’ve been on this case exactly one morning . . .
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