“You thinking there’s a conspiracy here?” Ben asked. “Tell me — where do you stand on that grassy knoll thing?”
“Henry signing the death certificate, the consulate getting involved…I think there’s something we haven’t been told.”
“Ya wanna know what I think? I think the biggest troublemaker in your life watches you shave in the mirror every morning. That’s what I think.”
“That’ll be my thought for the day.”
“Ya know what else I think?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I think you got far too much time on your hands,” Ben added, “and I’m being made to suffer for it.”
Luke got up to leave. “Humor me.”
He was almost to the door when Ben said, “You hear about Kate Tartaglia getting shot in that robbery?”
“Yeah, I know about it.”
“Strange the way life is. I mean, we’re sitting here talking about her the night before last, then”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that, she’s dead.”
Luke turned to leave. “Yeah, strange, isn’t it?”
15
Luke was thinking about death as he sat in the crescent-shaped corner booth at Kolter’s Deli and waited for his father to walk through the entrance.
The incongruities of Josue Chaca’s death plucked at him. If, as Adam Smith had explained, the boy’s bone marrow provided a clear-cut diagnosis of leukemia, then why had they not found any blasts in the boy’s blood samples? Why hadn’t the chest X-ray revealed any signs of the respiratory failure that were so evident on the boy’s exam? And how had a family of meager means marshaled the forces of their consulate so quickly, and over a weekend?
Luke had seen death often enough to recognize its methods. It operated with a certain logic and natural order that were missing from this case. There was no pattern here, no fulcrum that would yield to reason.
The same elements were missing from Kate’s death. It wasn’t the violent method of her murder that resisted logic — this was Los Angeles, after all. It was the dissonant quality of her final hours that churned in his mind. Zenavax’s IPO and her imminent wealth should have been cause for heady exuberance, not the trepidation he had heard in her voice. She should have been popping the cork on a champagne bottle, not rushing out to a hastily arranged late night meeting with someone she hadn’t seen in four years.
A disquiet that felt out of proportion to his questions gnawed at him. Something was pulling at him, something he couldn’t see or hear.
But he could feel its pulsating rhythm. What was it?
“Dr. Luke, you want I pour you some more coffee?”
Luke turned and nodded at Antonio, the deli’s owner, who was resting a coffee carafe on the slope of his thick Italian midsection.
Antonio and his wife, Bianca, were Sicilian-born immigrants who seemed content to follow Kolter’s mixed ethnic tradition. Depending on the time of day, one of three distinctly different personalities seized control of the deli. Breakfast had a quiet energy about it, patrons taking in the blended aromas of freshly baked pastries and strong coffee. By lunchtime its origins as a delicatessen dominated, with long lines of customers shouting their orders across the take-out counter. At sunset, Kolter’s transformed itself into an English pub, its stingy antique wall sconces barely illuminating the dark wood paneling and burgundy leather seats.
After filling Luke’s mug, Antonio stood back and smiled at the front window. “Ah, another beautifuls sunrise for the childrens.”
Across the street, a small trickle of early birds had grown to a steady flow as hospital staff arrived for the 7:00 A.M. shift change. Few showed any interest in the TV news crews standing near the hospital entrance, the same crews that Luke had skirted by leaving from the rear loading dock.
A bell on the front door tinkled and the second customer of the day, an Asian man, walked through the front door.
He was followed almost immediately by a disheveled man with unruly white hair who was wearing a lab coat that was creased in a dozen places it shouldn’t be.
Luke waved his father over to the table. Ever since Luke’s mother had died in an accident twelve years ago, breakfast at Kolter’s was an everyday event for Elmer.
Just as poker with the residents was an every-Saturday-night event.
The dark circles under his father’s eyes told Luke that last night had been no exception. The venue for Elmer’s card games changed from time to time, depending on the schedule and whereabouts of certain hospital administrators. Management had made it clear: Poker was not an activity for which their hospital had been licensed, and though many of the residents might not be able to control their illicit urges, the senior faculty should know better than to participate in an unlawful pastime.
Luke was certain that his father didn’t know better — after all, Elmer organized most of the poker sessions — but by moving the location of the games around the hospital campus, sometimes on short notice, his father probably thought he was showing proper respect, much like the mouse pays to the cat.
The elder McKenna slid into the booth. “Help me fatten up my son, Antonio. He’s too skinny.”
“You want I make-a you a nice omelet, Dr. Luke?”
Luke lifted his cup. “This’ll do.”
As soon as his father ordered and Antonio left their table, Luke said, “I take it you haven’t heard about Kate Tartaglia.”
Elmer cocked his head.
“She was murdered Friday night.” Luke threw a thumb over his shoulder. “It happened just down the street.”
“Oh, my Lord.”
Luke wasn’t surprised that his father hadn’t heard the news. Elmer had gotten to the point in his career that he rarely worked weekends anymore, and a stranger’s murder wasn’t likely to work its way into a poker conversation among residents inured to the more-than-occasional gunshot and knifing victims who showed up in their E.R.
“She was coming here to meet with me,” Luke said. “I think the police figure some punk robbed, then killed her.”
Elmer brought a hand to the side of his face.
“Kate called me late Friday,” Luke continued. “Out of the blue. I don’t know what she wanted, but she seemed upset.” He took a swallow of coffee. “Have you talked to her recently?”
Elmer shook his head slowly, as though half lost in a private thought. “Kate was so young, so…”
Luke couldn’t remember his father ever expressing an angry thought about Kate. Ironically, Elmer seemed to be the only person who hadn’t held a grudge.
“Dad, would you check to see if you received an e-mail from Kate?”
“An e-mail?” Elmer’s eyes suddenly came back into focus. “Why?”
“She sent me something, but I never got it. Maybe she addressed it to you by mistake.”
“Knowing Kate, that’s not likely, but I’ll check.”
Luke reached for a spoon and started playing with it. “There’s something else you need to know about.” He recounted his discussion with Barnesdale and the attorney.
“He what?” Elmer said. “How could Henry suspend you? As far as I’m concerned, that Erickson fellow finally got his comeuppance. It’s as simple as that.” He dipped his chin to put an exclamation point on his opinion.
“No, it’s not as simple as that. I had a choice. I could’ve tried to defuse the situation,” Luke said. “Instead, I let loose on the guy.”
“Uh-oh. I can hear all those gears cranking away in your head. Ya know, sometimes you have a way of overthinking things.”
Luke gave a tired roll of his eyes.
Antonio’s wife, Bianca, marched over and laid a plate in front of Elmer. She was a matronly woman who looked uncomfortable when she tried to smile, so rarely did.