Codella stood on the front steps of the 171st and called Dr. Abrams again. This time the receptionist put her on hold, and a moment later Abrams came on. His gentle voice in her ear said, “You’re persistent, Detective Codella. I want you if I ever need a homicide detective—which I hope I don’t.”
“Well, I hoped I’d never need an oncologist,” she answered. “So? What’s my verdict?”
“You’re boring. Quit calling my office, and don’t come back for six months this time.”
She took a deep breath and felt her mind reconnecting with the body she had feared might fail her again. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Now go solve some murders.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
She opened the precinct door and went inside. Just like yesterday, Muñoz had everything precisely arranged on the table in interview room A. He slid his hands into the green nitrile gloves and took the three evidence bags she held out. “I see you went in there like a one-woman CSU team,” he said.
“Just don’t tell Banks.” She frowned. “He might try to recruit me, and sifting through garbage isn’t really my thing.”
Muñoz tested the rug fibers first. As he pinched the tube to release the test solution, they watched the liquid change to violet. “Same as last time,” said Muñoz.
Codella felt a sense of exhilaration even more intense than what she had felt after hanging up from Abrams. It was an exhilaration she knew she shouldn’t feel. She wanted Lucy Merchant’s death to be a homicide. But all detectives were guilty of hoping their instincts were correct. And you mitigated your guilt by telling yourself you were only confirming a terrible deed that had already been perpetrated. Wishing for someone’s murder after the fact was different from wishing for it before they were dead.
Muñoz unwrapped a second ampule and repeated the procedure with residue from the medicine cup. Haggerty slipped into the room in time to watch the third test on the liquid from Lucy Merchant’s diazepam prescription bottle. When Muñoz was finished, three clear plastic test kit tubes lay on the table, all three containing the same violet liquid. Codella photographed the ampules. She looked at Muñoz. “How often do these test kits lie?”
He shrugged. “In my experience, they’re right more often than wrong, but it’s always possible something in the sample screws up the results. It happens.”
“We’ll voucher the evidence and send it to the lab for confirmation, but we won’t get results for weeks. And I can’t wait that long.”
“So what’s your plan?” asked Haggerty.
Codella pulled out a chair on one side of the interrogation table, and Muñoz and Haggerty sat across from her. “Let’s assume for the moment that the tests aren’t lying. If they’re not, then we just traced oxycodone from Lucy Merchant’s diazepam bottle into her medicine cup and onto her bedroom carpet. That’s fairly compelling circumstantial evidence that someone tried to drug her—considering that her only prescribed medication is diazepam—Valium—which is not an opiate like oxycodone.”
Both men agreed.
“The day nurse, Lorena Vivas, showed me Lucy Merchant’s medicine chart. All she took were some vitamins and Benefiber in the morning and a five-milligram dose of diazepam oral suspension every night to prevent her from wandering and screaming out in her sleep. That’s it. No narcotic. I have a photo of her chart. You with me so far?”
“So far,” said Haggerty.
“So the question is, how did a narcotic get in that bottle? Someone had to put it there, but who?”
“Are there closed circuit cameras to check?” asked Muñoz.
Codella shook her head. “The patrons of Park Manor like their privacy too much.”
“What is it with people and their need for privacy?” Haggerty grinned.
“So assuming our test kits are telling the truth,” continued Codella, “then someone accidentally or purposefully added a lethal opiate to Lucy Merchant’s diazepam.”
“Technically it’s an opioid,” pointed out Muñoz. “Oxy isn’t actually extracted from opium. It’s synthetic. But go on.”
Codella nodded. “Since her diazepam bottle was half empty yesterday, I’m thinking it’s unlikely the oxy was in the bottle when it came to Park Manor from the pharmacy. Someone at Park Manor must have added it to the bottle.”
“It makes sense, but you’re stringing together a lot of what ifs, aren’t you, Detective?” observed Haggerty. His tone was half teasing, half serious.
“Just follow my logic.” She leaned forward and stared at both men across the table. “If the oxycodone was added to her bottle at Park Manor, and if the dosage was strong enough to kill her, then it must have been added the day she died. Sunday. Otherwise, she would have succumbed earlier.”
“That makes sense.” Haggerty nodded.
“And that means someone went into the dispensary and poured something into the bottle in the hours between her Saturday night dose and the one that killed her.”
“Or they switched the bottles,” suggested Muñoz.
“That would certainly be easier and faster,” agreed Codella. “But that would require someone to interact with her pharmacy. I think someone added the drug, not switched the bottles.”
“So we focus on anyone who was in Park Manor in the last twenty-four hours of her life,” said Muñoz.
“The nurse on duty had the most opportunity,” pointed out Haggerty.
“Agreed,” said Codella, “and we have to check her out. But she would know all eyes would be on her.”
“The caregiver who fed her the medicine,” said Muñoz.
“We have to consider him too. But the oxy was added to the prescription bottle, and he doesn’t have access to the dispensary. Someone else put the oxy in that bottle. I’m wondering about the Nostalgia care coordinator. A woman named Baiba Lielkaja. She’s got keys to every door in there. She unlocked Lucy Merchant’s suite for Brandon Johnson yesterday morning after Lucy Merchant died. And she called in sick today. I think something’s up with her.”
Haggerty frowned. “If you’re going to go full steam ahead on this, Claire, you need to trace that oxycodone straight down her throat. You need an autopsy.”
“I know. But the daughter’s afraid to demand one, and the father doesn’t want it.”
“Get the DA involved. You need that body. Go see McGowan.”
“He’ll tell me I don’t have enough evidence. Too many what ifs, as you say.”
“Her body’s going to be embalmed if you don’t move fast.”
“Actually, cremated, which is worse.”
“So you maybe have two or three more days,” said Haggerty.
“I have an idea.”
Muñoz and Haggerty waited.
“I’m going to go see Merchant. Convince him to authorize an autopsy.”
“Good luck with that!” Haggerty shook his head. “He’s not exactly the world’s nicest guy, from what I’ve read.”
Codella shrugged. “Yeah, well, nice guys don’t run banks, I suppose. But I have no choice.” She looked into Haggerty’s blue eyes. “Can I borrow Muñoz for a couple of hours?”
“You want to borrow my detective?”
“Just to do a little research on Merchant. I don’t want to go in blind.”
“Shit, Claire. That’s not exactly standard procedure. Reilly’s not going to be thrilled if I’m running a rent-a-cop operation while he’s gone. You can’t get a Manhattan North detective to do it?”
“You know the answer to that. McGowan won’t give me shit. He wishes I was dead.”
Haggerty gave her a skeptical look.
“No, I’m serious. I didn’t tell you what he said when I came back from my scan yesterday. Once cancer shows up on your doorstep, you can’t ever really get rid of it, can you?”
“He said that?” said Haggerty.
“With a big smile on his face.”
Muñoz shook his head. “What an asshole.”
“That son of a bitch,” added Haggerty. “I’d like to throttle him.”
“Do it indirectly, Brian. Help me. I need some backup.”
Muñoz turned to Haggerty. “Reilly doesn’t need to know. No one needs to know.”
Haggerty shoved his hands in his pockets. “Shit, all right. Just to spite that bastard.”