Part 14 (1/2)

Perched on the toilet in the carriage house, Jimmy steadied the new key with both hands, hating the way the lithium made them shake. The pills had to go, but for now, he would take them for her. She had to look as though she was doing her job.

Bending over, he waited for the red light and then plunged the electromagnetic device into the latch of his ankle bracelet. He held his breath, and for an agonizing moment heard nothing. And then it clicked, and the padded metal s.h.i.+fted on his ankle. He gingerly separated the halves, freeing his leg. He stood and looked at his reflection. He wore a dark human-hair wig and a pair of tinted gla.s.ses that enhanced his night vision. Dressed in a black leather car coat and jeans, he felt pumped as he bounded down the stairs.

He entered the garage, and headed toward the parked yellow cab with the darkly tinted windows. Anywhere other than New York, it would stick out like a sore thumb, but here it was anonymous and perfect. He turned over the eight-cylinder engine, and looked up at a pair of black-and-white television monitors mounted to the left of the bay doors. They afforded him a panoramic view of the street outside. When it was clear that there were no pedestrians in visual range on 19th Street, he hit the b.u.t.ton. The door slid open, and he was out.

He cracked the window, savoring the cool night against his cheek.

He glanced at the time, signaled, and turned up Madison, timing the lights, as one of Mother's chauffeur's had taught him. He pictured Barrett, and began to hum the opening bars of the Revolutionary etude. He could see her beautiful lips, hear the traces of a Southern accent, calling to him, wanting him to prove himself. He would do this for her. He would pa.s.s this test.

THIRTEEN.

Back at work on Tuesday morning, it was all Barrett could do to keep from screaming. Why had she believed him? She'd waited over two hours at the bar in D'Emilio's, thinking that maybe the symphony got out late, or that they had to play multiple encores, or that he couldn't get a cab. All the while the hands on the clock had inched around and around. Several times, she'd gotten up from her corner table and circled the bar and the back dining room, just in case he'd shown and hadn't seen her, sitting at their usual table in a clingy black-knit dress-Ralph's favorite. Throughout her wait, men had approached, wondering if she wanted company. She'd smiled and told them she was waiting for her husband. One had been bold enough to ask why no ring. She'd forgotten it, the gold band still in a pocket of her gym bag. It had been almost one a.m. when she'd finally left. She'd felt numb and doubted whether she'd sleep at all. She'd thought of calling Ralph's mom's house, where he'd been staying. Maybe he just forgot? But no, standing her up for two-and-a-half hours without as much as a phone call was not an accident. It was deliberate and cruel. She'd angrily taken out her vintage jet earrings-a birthday gift from Sophie and Max-and left her dress crumpled on the bathroom floor. When she'd hit the bed, she'd tried not to think about him, about wanting him there with her. She'd hugged her pillow tight and cried. And when she'd finally drifted off, it was to a world of twisted dreams, one swirling into the next, the alarm finally pulling her from a cras.h.i.+ng wave of black spiders that had surged out from under the lid of a grand piano.

And now, even work seemed too much of an effort. She wondered if others could tell how furious she was, how confused. But no one had said anything, other than Anton, with an off-handed, ”Rough night, last night?”

Marla intruded over the intercom, ”Dr. Conyors, it's the D.A.'s office on line one.”

”Thanks,” she pressed the flas.h.i.+ng b.u.t.ton.

”Barrett, it's Jim O'Malley.”

”What's up?” she asked, picturing the late-twenties a.s.sistant D.A. with his close-cropped red hair and ghost-white complexion.

”I wanted to discuss your report on Todd Anderson.”

”Not my best work,” she admitted, thinking back to her rush job.

”It's fine, but before we go into the hearing I wanted to ask ...”

She didn't let him finish, ”I thought that was last week.”

”No ... it's Thursday.”

”They changed the date again?”

”No ... it's not changed at all, at least as far as I'm aware.”

”Okay, Jim ... something's strange. Anton told me last week that you needed it right away.”

”That didn't come from me, Barrett. You know I'd call you myself for something like that.”

”Right ... maybe someone else on your team?”

”Not likely. Not without my knowing.”

”Then what the ...”

”Something wrong, Barrett?”

”I don't know,” she admitted, trying to fathom Anton's motive. She finished her conversation with the detail-oriented attorney, giving him the additional insight he sought into the mind of the copy store killer.

She hung up and stared at her cold Dunkin Donut's coffee. Her first thought was to call Anton, but she stopped herself. Last Thursday-her first meeting with Martin-was a big ball of weirdness, and Anton's funky behavior was a part of it.

She sipped the stale coffee and dialed the twenty-four-hour hotline for the forensic center. ”Has the rest of Jimmy Martin's labwork come back?” she asked.

”I'll get his chart.”

Barrett waited, and pictured Ellen and Jimmy as children. He still played wonderfully, and she had a twinge of guilt, knowing that the medications would weaken his abilities on the cello.

The woman came back on the line, ”The Risperdal level isn't back, but the prolactin is.”

”And?”

”It's normal.”

”Thanks,” Barrett said, about to hang up. ”Wait a minute, could you do me a favor and go back and give me all of his lithium levels?”

”From when?”

”Back to Croton, at least a couple year's worth. And especially any done since his release.”

”I'll see what I have.”

Barrett heard the rustle of paper over the line.

That's interesting.”

”What?” Barrett asked.

”I'm going back all the way and he hasn't had any since his release. The set you ordered was the only one. I can give you the old ones.”

”Great,” Barrett scrambled for a pencil and piece of paper.

The woman read off the results, all of them within the normal range.

”You're certain there are none since he got out?” Barrett asked. ”Kravitz didn't order any?”

”Not that I see.”

”And he's been on lithium all that time?” Something didn't add up.

”That's what it says.”

”Any chance there's an old prolactin level somewhere in his chart?”

”Let me look. I've got one that's six years old-you want it?”