Then she faltered, dropped her head to her son's chest, and began to cry.
Mr. Biagi didn't say a word.
M. J. walked out of the ICU.
In her haste to leave behind that scene, she took a wrong turn in the hallway. Instead of heading to the elevators, she found herself in a different wing, a part of the hospital she hadn't seen before. White walls and gleaming linoleum told her this was a new addition, constructed only recently. Behind a glass case on the wall were displayed various mementoes of the wing's opening: photographs of hospital officials at the ribbon cutting. Shots of a celebrity black-tie dinner. A bronze plaque, engraved with The Georgina Quantrell Wing. And a newspaper article with the headline: "Cygnus president dedicates multimillion-dollar drug rehab addition." The accompanying photograph showed a sober-faced Adam Quantrell, posing beside the plaque.
For a long time, M. J. stood by that case, studying the photos, the news articles. Drug rehab? A surprising crusade for a man who made his fortune from drugs. Her gaze traveled the length of the case, paused at a teaching display of commonly abused drugs. Mounted on the board was a multicolored variety of capsules. And below it was the labeclass="underline" "Display courtesy of the Cygnus Company."
That's when it clicked in M. J.'s head. Dead junkies. A new drug on the street. Cygnus Pharmaceuticals.
And a matchbook with Adam Quantrell's phone number.
She immediately went to a pay phone and called Beamis in Homicide.
He was just leaving for home and did not seem particularly eager to prolong his work day.
"Let me put it this way, Novak," he said. "In the grand scheme of things, drug ODs are not high on my list of priorities."
"Think about it, Lou. What's an addict doing with Quantrell's personal phone number? Why was Quantrell so eager to look at the body? He's hiding something."
"No, he's not."
"I think he is."
"They were junkies, Novak. They lived on the edge, they fell off. It's not homicide. It's not suicide. It's stupidity. Social Darwinism, survival of the smartest."
"Maybe that's what you think. Maybe that's what Quantrell thinks. But I've still got two dead women."
"Forget Quantrell. The man's into drug rehab, not drug pushing."
"Lou, this is a new drug. I spoke to an ER doctor here who says he's never seen it before. To cook up a brand new drug, you need a biochemist. And a lab. And a factory. Cygnus has it all."
"It's a legitimate company."
"With maybe an illegitimate branch?"
"Christ, Novak. I'm not going to hassle Quantrell."
"I heard you did a favor for him. On the side."
There was a pause. "Yeah. So what?"
"So what were you doing for him out in South Lexington?"
"Look, you want to hear the details?" Beamis snapped. "Then you talk to him." He hung up.
M. J. stared at the dead receiver. Well, maybe she had pushed Lou too far on this one. My big mouth, she thought. One of these days it's going to get me into trouble.
She hung up. Turning away from the phone, she saw Mr. and Mrs. Biagi walk out of the ICU. They were leaning on each other, holding each other up, as though grief had sapped all their strength.
M. J. thought of their son Nicos, with the seven tubes in his body. She thought of Jane Doe and Xenia Vargas, both relegated to the approximate level of primordial muck in Beamis's scale of social Darwinism. Something was killing these people, something that had sunk its evil roots into the Projects.
Her old neighborhood.
On her way back to the freeway, she drove up South Lexington. In the last few years, nothing had changed. The seven Project buildings still looked like prison towers, the playground still had a bent basketball hoop, and teenagers still hung out on the corner of Franklin and South Lexington. But the faces were different. It wasn't just that these were different people. There was a new hardness to their gazes, a wariness, as they watched her drive by. Only then did the thought strike her.
To them she was an outsider. Someone to be watched, someone to be guarded against. Someone not to be trusted.
They don't know I'm one of them. Or I was.
She continued up South Lexington and took the freeway on-ramp.
Traffic was still heavy moving north. It was the evening exodus to the suburbs, a daily hemorrhage of white-collar types to Bellemeade, Parris, Clarendon, and Surry Heights. Those who could afford to flee, fled. Even M. J., a city girl born and bred, now called the suburbs home. Just last year, she'd bought a house in Bellemeade. It seemed a logical move, financially speaking, and she'd reached the point in life when she had to make a commitment-any commitment, even if it was only to a three-bedroom cape. Bellemeade was a hybrid neighborhood, close enough to town to make it feel like part of the city, yet far enough away to put it squarely in the safety of the suburbs.
On impulse, she bypassed the Bellemeade turnoff and stayed on the freeway. It took her a half hour to drive to Surry Heights.
Along the way, the traffic thinned out, the scenery changed. Cookie-cutter houses gave way to trees and rolling hills, newly green from those proverbial April showers. White fences and horses appeared-a sure harbinger of old money. She took the Surry Heights exit onto Fair Wind Drive.
Fair Wind sounded a bit yachtie, she thought, but it was a nice name for a road, and appropriate, as the owners of the mansions she drove past no doubt also owned major yachts.
Two miles down the road she came to the Quantrell residence. There was no mistaking the place. Two stone pillars flanked the driveway entrance; the name Quantrell was spelled out in wrought iron lettering mounted on one of the pillars. The gate hung open to visitors. M. J. drove through, and followed the curving driveway to the house.
There were three cars parked out front, a Jaguar and two Mercedes. She parked her five-year-old Subaru next to the Jag and climbed out. Nice paint job, she thought, eyeing the Jag's burgundy finish. The interior was spotless, with not a clue to its owner's personality in sight. No bumper stickers, either, though one that said Let them eat cake would have been appropriate.
She went to the front door and rang the bell. It pealed like a church chime in a cavern.
The door opened, and a man wearing a butler-type uniform gazed down at her. "Yes?" he said.
M. J. cleared her throat. "I'm Dr. Novak. Medical examiner's office. I wonder if I could speak to Mr. Adam Quantrell."
"Is Mr. Quantrell expecting you?"
"No. But I'm here on official business."
For a moment the man seemed to consider her request. Then he opened the door wider. "Come in."
Surprised at how easy that was, she stepped inside. In wonder, she gazed up at a crystal chandelier. It was just a modest little entry hall, she thought. Nothing you wouldn't find in a typical castle. The floor was gleaming terazzo, and a massive banister traced a staircase to a second-floor gallery. Paintings-mostly modern, vaguely disturbing, wild blots of color-hung in various places of honor.
"If you'll wait here," said the butler.
He disappeared through a side door. She heard the distant sound of a woman's laughter, the strains of classical music. Oh, great. He's got a party going, she thought. Terrific timing, Novak.
She turned as she heard footsteps. Adam Quantrell emerged from the side room, quietly shutting the door behind him. He was dressed formally, black tie, ruffled white shirt. He did not look pleased to see her.