Part 15 (2/2)
”You can't touch me.”
”It's the pills.”
”No,” Jimmy said, not about to give in, savoring this newfound strength, ”if it were the pills you would have disappeared at Croton, but you didn't. You made my life h.e.l.l.”
”Just trying to be of service,” Father replied. ”At least you were popular.”
”She loves me,” Jimmy said. ”We're going to be married.”
”Fat chance, Jimbo. Fat chance.” He was laughing, ”She just wants to lock you up. Hey fellas, Jimbo's back in town.”
”Shut up!” Father was wrong, but had he missed something? He ran out to the carriage house, and checked the taps on her phone lines. He listened and what he heard was frightening. What the h.e.l.l was prolactin? Is that why he'd grown b.r.e.a.s.t.s at Croton? He'd thought that just came with all the weight. What was she doing? Why was she doing this to him? Checking labs, asking questions?
”Give us a little kiss, Jimbo,” Father's cackle seemed to fill the room.
”Go away.” Then her call to the medical examiner followed by the one with Sheila Kravitz. But what could she tell Barrett, what could she know?
”She'll find something,” Father chuckled. ”And won't that be special?” he started to sing, ”Jimbo's back in town. Jimbo's back in town.”
Jimmy focused on the recordings; the one with the detective stopped him cold. He was flirting with her. He played their conversation back several times, listening to the lightness in her tone.
Father changed tunes, ”Her boyfriend's back and you're going to be in trouble ...”
Something was wrong, several somethings. First off, Jimmy had requested plainclothes police. He didn't want the neighbors to see patrolmen coming in and out. But plainclothes didn't mean detective. So why a pair of detectives? And it was obvious that Dr. Conyors had a previous connection with this Hobbs. But what would she be doing flirting with a cop? She talked to him like an equal, like a friend.
Father interjected, ”Like a lover. Like a hot and tasty cop lover with a big fat night stick that...”
”Shut up!” Jimmy screamed, struggling against a paralyzing fear.
He clicked on the Internet, and began to search. Starting with the police department's web site he retrieved Edward Hobbs' badge number, date of hire, and rank. ”Interesting,” he muttered finding a glitch in the database where there were two entries for Hobbs' name and badge number. He clicked on the second, ”s.h.i.+t!” he muttered. That couldn't be right. How was it possible for someone to go from being a Deputy Chief of Detectives down to a Detective Third Grade? Was it all part of an elaborate scheme to get him sent back to Croton? Anxiety flared, but the date of Hobbs' demotion was over a year ago. Even he could tell that the timing was off. Still, the thought of having the once Deputy Chief wandering around his home and romancing Dr. Conyors made him furious. He switched databases and hacked past the firewall security and into internal investigations. He double-clicked on the icon for Disciplinary Actions and Outcomes. In the search field he entered Hobbs' badge number. The screen flashed once as it pulled up a 200-page disciplinary file on Detective First Grade Edward Hobbs.
”My, my, my,” Jimmy commented, as he opened the file and started to read. And just like the husband, he now realized that Hobbs would be a test that he could pa.s.s easily.
FIFTEEN.
Barrett and Hobbs walked down the carpeted hallway, checking door numbers as they went. Between apartments were groupings of fussy French gilt tables and chairs and crystal-dripping mirrors with lighted bra.s.s wall sconces.
”Shrinks make good money,” Ed commented, as they neared their destination.
”They can.”
”How much do you think apartments go for in a building like this?”
”To buy or rent?” she asked, as they engaged in a favorite New York pastime-How Much Does That Apartment Go For?
”Your choice.”
”I'd say, to rent, a closet-sized studio is over two grand.”
”And to buy?”
”Same apartment ... half a mil, maybe three quarters.”
Before they could work their way up through one, two, and three bedrooms they arrived at the door to Morris and Sheila Kravitz's apartment.
Barrett was raising her hand to knock as the door opened.
Sheila Kravitz, a woman seemingly in her early thirties with over-processed ash-blond hair greeted them. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, and her eyes were red-rimmed, even in the dim light. ”The doorman called me,” she said, as she led them down a long hall. ”You have to forgive the mess, but the movers are coming tomorrow and I'm trying to get things as organized as possible.”
”You're leaving town,” Ed commented.
”And you are?” she asked.
”Detective Hobbs.”
”Figures.” Sheila turned and looked at Barrett, ”You didn't say anything about bringing a cop.”
”He's a friend,” Barrett said.
”I suppose it doesn't matter. I don't really understand why you're here. But in a way I've been expecting someone. You know I told Morris a long time ago that the money didn't matter.” She then stacked three half-packed boxes on the edge of the couch, clearing a s.p.a.ce for Barrett and Hobbs. ”I guess you'd say he wasn't a very secure man.”
”You miss him,” Barrett commented, trying to draw a bead on Sheila's elliptical statements.
”You have no idea.”
”What did you mean by the money didn't matter much?” Barrett asked.
Sheila straightened up and pushed a wisp of straw-dry hair back from her face. ”This,” she raised her hands and turned around. ”All of this,” pointing toward a killer view of the Hudson to the west and a s.p.a.cious deck, where small evergreens and trailing ivy had been neatly planted, facing east. ”If you asked Morris he'd probably make some weird joke about needing it for me, or doing it for me-it didn't matter to me. It's bad enough when everyone around you thinks that you're a gold digger, but when you get it from the man you love ...”
”The money had something to do with Jimmy Martin?” Barrett asked.
”That's the Croton man, isn't it?”
Barrett nodded.
”So that was his name. Morris was very good at not talking about his patients. It's one of the first things that drew me to him.”
”Where did you meet?” Barrett asked.
<script>