Part 8 (1/2)
Thinnes nodded. ”What about their personal finances?”
”Separate checking accounts; healthy balances. Every credit card known to man-some rarely used-all current. They own the condo they live in-” Oster shrugged. ”Lived in-and Bisti's studio loft on Wells. Joint.”
”Let's go back and see the widow.”
Ryan was sitting in the hall outside Lauren Bisti's room at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. She was reading, but she wasn't so deep into her book that she didn't see them coming. She looked tired and relieved to see them.
”You look like you been run hard and put away wet,” Oster told her.
She pushed her red-blond hair back from her face. ”I do you guys a favor and you insult me. Thanks, Carl.”
”You are the most beautiful detective at Area Three,” Thinnes said. She grinned. ”What've you got for us?”
She hooked her thumb toward Lauren Bisti's door. ”She's still sleeping off whatever they gave her last night. And I've turned away two reporters-one posing as a doctor-and three people claiming to be relatives. Two of 'em named Kent.”
”They come together?” Thinnes asked.
”Nope.”
”Either of them mention the other being here?”
”Hun-uh. Todd Kent made some kind of noise about being a lawyer and said, 'We'll see about that,' when I told him he couldn't go in. But he hasn't come back.”
”Who was the other relative?”
”Anne Bisti.”
”Small world,” Oster said.
”One more thing, Ryan,” Thinnes said. ”She remember what happened?” Ryan shrugged. ”Thanks, Ryan. You can take off.”
Oster took Ryan's chair. Thinnes went to find the resident they'd spoken with the night before or-failing that-to find someone who could be on hand in case what they asked Mrs. Bisti put her back into shock.
She was technically awake when they went in with the resident, but wouldn't have pa.s.sed a sobriety test. She looked like the faded copy of a beautiful woman. Thinnes and Oster waited while the doctor took her pulse and explained that her visitors were police officers who'd come to ask her questions. They asked him to wait out in the hall or somewhere near by, and he said he'd be at the nurses' station.
The room brought last summer back to Thinnes. He'd spent it in the hospital. This hospital. He didn't remember the ER. He'd been in shock by the time Caleb-unwilling to wait four to sixteen minutes for a fire-department ambulance-had driven him to the emergency entrance. But he remembered the rooms well enough.
He pushed the memory away with a shudder and said, ”Mrs. Bisti, could you tell us what happened?”
After a long pause, during which she seemed to be trying very hard, she said, ”I can't remember.”
He gave her more time. When she finally shook her head, he said, ”What do you remember?”
”Going to look for David.” She was sure about that. Then her face registered confusion again. ”I don't remember finding...Something happened to him! What?”
”Why do you say that?” Thinnes said, trying not to sound like a cynic questioning a suspect.
”David's not here,” she said. She sounded like a young child reasoning something out. ”And you're policemen.”
”Where's David?” Her voice rose on ”David”; she sounded panicky. She grabbed for the call b.u.t.ton and pushed it before they could stop her.
Oster said, ”Mrs. Bisti-”
She ignored him. When the doctor came rus.h.i.+ng in, she demanded, ”Where's my husband?”
In the end, the doctor told her. He looked furious as he glanced from Oster to Thinnes and back-probably thought they should break the news. Then he took her hand in both of his and said, ”Your husband's dead, Mrs. Bisti.” He kept hold of her hand.
She didn't seem to hear, at first. Then-as suddenly and completely as ice in a microwave turns to water-her expression changed from fear to misery, and she started to whimper. Thinnes had heard the sound many times during his recovery-the sound of someone in great pain, too heavily drugged to be aware of it.
She pulled her hand away from the doctor and put it, put both her hands over her face. The whimper became a wail, then a scream, then a serious crying jag during which she curled into the fetal position.
An Academy Award performance, Thinnes decided. Or maybe real pain. It sometimes got to him that he automatically thought the worst. Occupational hazard. She hadn't been acting last night, when she went into shock.
After what seemed like a long time, the doctor said, ”I'm going to order her another sedative.”
Lauren Bisti uncovered her face and said, ”No! It won't bring David back.” She gave a few more involuntary sobs and sat up, pulling the covers up under her chin and s.h.i.+vering, underneath them, as if she were freezing.
Thinnes stepped closer to the bed and handed her a tissue from a box on the bed stand. She reached a hand out and took it, blew her nose, and wadded the tissue up in her hand. She looked at Thinnes when she asked, ”What happened to him?”
”He was murdered.”
She put her hand over the lower part of her face and sniffled, then took the hand away and said, ”By whom?”
”We were hoping you could tell us?”
She shook her head. ”What else can I tell you? That would help you find...?”
He had her go over the two days before the killing. It took a long time. She had to stop, often, to get her crying under control, and she seemed to drift off somewhere from time to time. Nothing she recalled seemed unusual. David hadn't seemed upset or preoccupied and hadn't had any threatening calls or visitors.
Thinnes finally gave her his card and asked her to contact him if she remembered anything else, no matter how trivial. ”And we'd like to take a look at your condo and your husband's studio, if you don't mind, Mrs. Bisti, to see if we can find any clues as to who might've wanted him dead.”
She seemed to bring her attention back from far away. ”What? I'm sorry. Of course. Get me my purse, and I'll give you the keys.”
Twenty-Two.
Only the turquoise triangle with its tawny cougar curled inside advertised David Bisti's studio. The door it was mounted on looked like an artist's door. Made of polished hardwood planks-long sections of trees, seven feet in length and irregular widths-fitted together like puzzle pieces. No handle, bell, or knocker. It took Thinnes some time to locate the keyhole in a seam between the boards.
”Cute,” Oster said.
Thinnes thought it was pretty ingenious. When he turned the key, the door swung open noiselessly and with the oiled precision of a safe.
What they found inside made him stop and wonder.