may have been stealing meds from his patients and selling them. Didn’t Hopper tell you that?”
“No, and that’s absurd. Paul would never do something like that. He was the most honest person I’ve ever known.”
“So no one—family members, drugstores, doctors—ever complained of drugs being missing or having to refill prescriptions too often?”
“I just told you, no. It’s offensive that you’d even suggest such a thing.”
“I’m not suggesting anything; the FBI’s the one who’s saying that. But what I can’t figure out is why he was at the Iwo Jima Memorial at one in the morning and got shot. And, as much as I hate to say it, dealing drugs is a possibility.”
“No. It’s. Not.”
“Then why do you think he was there at that time of night? I heard once that the park near the memorial was a gay pickup place. Do you think he could have been—I don’t know—sneaking around, trying to meet a lover there?”
“Paul wasn’t in the closet; he didn’t need to sneak around. He wouldn’t have snuck around.”
“Well, maybe he hooked up with some married gay guy and then decided to tell the guy’s wife, and the married guy whacked him to keep him from telling.”
“I think you should leave.”
“Hey, I was just thinking out loud,” DeMarco said defensively. “And I believe you when you say he was a good guy. So who would want to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said, “but something was bothering him last week. He was spending a lot of time with one particular patient and when I stopped by to see how things were going, he was … I don’t know. Different. Subdued. Nervous, like he was worried about something. He was always so upbeat I was surprised.”
“Did he tell you what was bothering him?”
“No.”
“Who was this patient he was taking care of?” DeMarco asked.
11
Claire stood in front of the mirror in the ladies’ room—and shook her head in dismay.
Her mother had an expression, some nonsensical thing she’d probably read in Ann Landers or heard on Oprah: You make the face you get. Silly, irrational saying—but maybe it was true.
Claire had been a pretty young woman: a nice slim body, long blonde hair, a perfect nose, light blue eyes. She once had that healthy All-American girl look you see in leggy models who advertise sportswear for upscale clothing stores. At thirty-eight, she still had the long blonde hair and the slim build—but in the last ten years she’d become downright gaunt . Her face had become narrow, almost predatory, her arms muscular yet stringy. She had the look of a person who burned calories standing still.
She was still undeniably feminine—it wasn’t as if she’d become mannish looking—but there wasn’t anything soft about her anymore. That day, the day it happened, the softness just began to fade away—and, along with it, any sense of playfulness she once had. She now looked like … well, like the person she was: driven, relentless, perpetually restless. Her eyes had become cold and lifeless; her lips thin and bloodless; and those lines etched into her cheeks, bracketing her mouth…. Where the hell had those come from?
She couldn’t help but wonder: Would she have this face if he had lived?
Enough, she said. You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. Get back to work.
Gilbert was not in his cubicle, so Claire had to walk all around the damn room until she spotted him, talking to Irwin, another one of her techs. As she walked up behind him, she heard Gilbert say, “Jessica Biel, man, she’s way fuckin’ finer than Jessica Simpson.”
That was just what she needed to hear.
She cleared her throat and both techs looked at her, deer-in-the-headlights expressions on their faces, embarrassed to have been caught bullshitting instead of working.
“Bring me what you have on Russo and Hopper,” she said to Gilbert, and walked away without waiting for an answer.
As Gilbert stood anxiously in front of her desk, eating
“No, and that’s absurd. Paul would never do something like that. He was the most honest person I’ve ever known.”
“So no one—family members, drugstores, doctors—ever complained of drugs being missing or having to refill prescriptions too often?”
“I just told you, no. It’s offensive that you’d even suggest such a thing.”
“I’m not suggesting anything; the FBI’s the one who’s saying that. But what I can’t figure out is why he was at the Iwo Jima Memorial at one in the morning and got shot. And, as much as I hate to say it, dealing drugs is a possibility.”
“No. It’s. Not.”
“Then why do you think he was there at that time of night? I heard once that the park near the memorial was a gay pickup place. Do you think he could have been—I don’t know—sneaking around, trying to meet a lover there?”
“Paul wasn’t in the closet; he didn’t need to sneak around. He wouldn’t have snuck around.”
“Well, maybe he hooked up with some married gay guy and then decided to tell the guy’s wife, and the married guy whacked him to keep him from telling.”
“I think you should leave.”
“Hey, I was just thinking out loud,” DeMarco said defensively. “And I believe you when you say he was a good guy. So who would want to kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said, “but something was bothering him last week. He was spending a lot of time with one particular patient and when I stopped by to see how things were going, he was … I don’t know. Different. Subdued. Nervous, like he was worried about something. He was always so upbeat I was surprised.”
“Did he tell you what was bothering him?”
“No.”
“Who was this patient he was taking care of?” DeMarco asked.
11
Claire stood in front of the mirror in the ladies’ room—and shook her head in dismay.
Her mother had an expression, some nonsensical thing she’d probably read in Ann Landers or heard on Oprah: You make the face you get. Silly, irrational saying—but maybe it was true.
Claire had been a pretty young woman: a nice slim body, long blonde hair, a perfect nose, light blue eyes. She once had that healthy All-American girl look you see in leggy models who advertise sportswear for upscale clothing stores. At thirty-eight, she still had the long blonde hair and the slim build—but in the last ten years she’d become downright gaunt . Her face had become narrow, almost predatory, her arms muscular yet stringy. She had the look of a person who burned calories standing still.
She was still undeniably feminine—it wasn’t as if she’d become mannish looking—but there wasn’t anything soft about her anymore. That day, the day it happened, the softness just began to fade away—and, along with it, any sense of playfulness she once had. She now looked like … well, like the person she was: driven, relentless, perpetually restless. Her eyes had become cold and lifeless; her lips thin and bloodless; and those lines etched into her cheeks, bracketing her mouth…. Where the hell had those come from?
She couldn’t help but wonder: Would she have this face if he had lived?
Enough, she said. You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. Get back to work.
Gilbert was not in his cubicle, so Claire had to walk all around the damn room until she spotted him, talking to Irwin, another one of her techs. As she walked up behind him, she heard Gilbert say, “Jessica Biel, man, she’s way fuckin’ finer than Jessica Simpson.”
That was just what she needed to hear.
She cleared her throat and both techs looked at her, deer-in-the-headlights expressions on their faces, embarrassed to have been caught bullshitting instead of working.
“Bring me what you have on Russo and Hopper,” she said to Gilbert, and walked away without waiting for an answer.
As Gilbert stood anxiously in front of her desk, eating
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