“I was curious where you picked up my name and number.”
I could see her weighing the pros and cons of a reply.
She said, “You were listed in his hospital chart as next of kin.”
“Are you aware he died ten days ago?” I asked.
Her tone was neutral. “I’m not surprised. He was in bad shape when I saw him last.”
“I was hoping you might answer a question or two.”
“Such as?”
“Did you know he’d enrolled in a drug trial?”
She thought about her answer briefly and then said, “Yes.”
“Are you acquainted with the physician in charge?”
“Dr. Reed. Yes.”
“Did he come into CCU while Terrence Dace was a patient?”
“Once as a visitor, yes. What makes you ask?”
“Someone told me Dace signed himself out of CCU without the doctor’s okay.”
Her stare was unyielding.
“Was there any discussion about why?” I asked.
She dropped her gaze, which made her impossible to read.
I plowed on. “His friends tell me he was scared to death of Dr. Reed. I wondered what the problem was. You have any idea?”
She turned and began walking away from me.
I followed six feet behind, my voice embarrassingly plaintive even to my own ears. “I heard Dr. Reed terminated him for noncompliance, but he was sober when he died. No alcohol or drugs in his system, so what was going on?”
She glanced back at me. “I work for the hospital. I’m not affiliated with the university. You want information about Dr. Reed’s work, talk to him. In the meantime, if you’re hoping I’ll sink to the level of rumor and gossip, you’re out of luck.”
She turned on her heel.
I stopped in my tracks and watched her walk away from me. What had she said? If I was hoping she’d “sink to the level of rumor and gossip”?
“What rumors?” I called after her.
No answer.
• • •
I wasn’t giving up on this. Henry had said that if I met with Reed and didn’t feel he’d leveled with me, I should talk to someone else. Obviously, in approaching Eloise Cantrell I was searching too far afield. Anything she knew would be hearsay. I needed someone more directly involved with him. The obvious answer was Mary Lee Bryce. She’d know what was going on behind the scenes. The problem was, I had no way to get to her without going through Willard. I could call her directly, but how would I explain who I was or why I was so interested in the work she did? I only knew about her because Willard had hired Pete. The notion of approaching him created a mild thrill of uneasiness. It wasn’t my job to keep his dealings with Pete a secret from his wife. I wasn’t responsible for protecting either of them. Willard wasn’t my client and Pete was dead. There was a certain, subterranean moral code in play, but surely, I could think of a way around that old thing.
When I got home, I sat down at my desk and pulled out the two folders. After a brief search, I found Willard’s address scratched on a piece of paper. Cherry Lane in Colgate. I locked the studio, hopped in the Mustang, and headed for the 101.
Next thing I knew, I was knocking on Willard’s door. I carried a clipboard, looking (I hoped) like my business was legitimate. In my heart of hearts, I did pray Mary Lee wouldn’t answer the door. I wanted to talk to her, but I had other matters to cover first. I knew nothing about Willard. I’d seen photos of Mary Lee, but none of him.
The man who responded to my knock struck me as strange the minute I laid eyes on him. His complexion was ruddy and his skin looked dry. His ginger-colored hair was clipped close to his skull and the tips of his ears were pink. I’d once seen a litter of newborn mice who’d exhibited the same naked characteristics. His eyes were pale blue and his lashes light; white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy trousers.
He rested his weight on forearm crutches and one leg was gone. “Yes?”
“Mr. Bryce?”
He didn’t own up to it but he didn’t deny it, so I moved right along. I held up my clipboard. “I’m a former colleague of Pete Wolinsky’s.”
Again, no verbal response but his complexion shifted, white patches appearing on a ground of pink. His mouth must have been dry because he licked his lips. I hoped the man wasn’t a serious poker player because I could see now he might be a textbook study in physiological tells. “You knew Pete was killed?”
“I read about it in the papers. Too bad.”
“Terrible,” I said. That out of the way, I went on. “His wife asked me to go through his business files for tax purposes and I came across his report. I wonder if you could answer some questions.”
He shook his head. “I can’t help. I don’t have anything to say.”
“But you were a client of his.”
“Um, no. Not really. I mean, I knew him and we talked a couple of times, but that was it. More like friends.”
Baffling, wasn’t it? I looked down at the paper on my clipboard and allowed that little crease to form between my eyes. “According to his records, he collected approximately . . . I can’t read his writing here. It looks like two thousand dollars, which you paid him to follow your wife . . .”
He glanced over his shoulder and then eased out the door.
I leaned sideways and peered over his shoulder. “Oh, wow. Is she home?”
“No, she’s out. I don’t want to talk about this. My wife doesn’t know anything and I’d just as soon she not find out.”
“Is she at work?”
“She quit her job, if it’s any business of yours. She’s off at the supermarket. Look, I’ll tell you what I can, but you have to be gone by the time she gets back.”
“Then we better be quick about it. In Reno, she met twice with a man named Owen Pensky. I gather he’s an old high school friend. Do you have any idea what they talked about?”
Lines appeared on Willard’s forehead, and his upper lip lifted toward one side of his nose. “You said this was for tax purposes. I don’t understand the relevance.”
“Don’t ask me. I can’t begin to guess why the IRS is looking into it.”
“The IRS?”
“This Pensky fellow might be the focus of their investigation. I really have no idea. Pete was obviously concerned enough to make a note of it.”
“Well, yes. That was partly my doing. When she got back from Reno, she started shutting herself in the bedroom, making long-distance calls. When I told him about it, he thought there might be a problem.”
“Good guess on his part,” I remarked. I looked at him without comment, creating a small stretch of silence.
Willard shifted his weight. “So what happened was, he overheard a phone conversation between Mary Lee and Owen Pensky . . .”
“How’d he manage that?”
“What?”
“How could Pete overhear a phone conversation? I’m not following.”
He adjusted his crutches and stepped back. “I don’t think I should say anything more. Maybe someone else can help.”
“Wait,” I said. “Hold on. I’m probably out of line here, Mr. Bryce, but in my past association with Pete, there were occasions when he employed a phone bug. Any chance of that here? Because if you gave your consent, you may be facing a serious legal issue.”
“I didn’t consent. I was against it. I didn’t like the idea at all, but he said if there was something going on, we might as well know the truth.”
“So you’re saying he recorded a private conversation.”
“He might have without me knowing it.”
“You didn’t hear the tape yourself?”
“No way. I paid him and that’s the last I saw of him.”
“What happened to the tape?”
“He kept it, I guess . . . if there was one.”