Codella pressed the buzzer. When no one responded, she pushed the square black button again and held it down for at least five seconds. Finally a woman’s voice over the intercom said, “Who is it?”
“My name is Detective Codella. Is this Baiba Lielkaja?”
For several seconds, the only response was the hollow roar of the active intercom. Then the voice asked, “What is this about?”
“I’d like to speak to you, Ms. Lielkaja. May I come up? I have identification.”
After a noticeable pause, the front door lock disengaged with a click. Codella pushed the door open and stepped into the parlor floor of a brownstone that had been converted into multiple apartments. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and came face-to-face with a blond woman leaning against the doorjamb in cotton drawstring sweatpants and an oversized sweater. A gray wool scarf was wrapped around her neck. Codella could see that she was striking, but puffy bloodshot eyes and pale skin blunted her beauty. “Ms. Lielkaja?”
The woman nodded.
Codella showed her shield. “May I come in?”
“Sure, but . . . I’m not well. And my place is a mess.”
Codella shrugged. “Whose isn’t?” She stepped through the door and immediately noticed the open pullout bed against the right wall of the room. On the opposite wall stood a laminate bookshelf filled with thick hardbound health care textbooks and paperback novels. Next to the bookshelf was a small desk that held a laptop and printer. There was no clutter. The studio apartment was anything but messy. The layout reminded Codella of her first rental in the city, an East Village one-room walk-up between Avenues B and C that she’d shared with too many cockroaches.
Lielkaja shut and bolted the door behind them. “What can I do for you, Detective? Has someone in the building been robbed?”
“I’m here to ask you some questions about Lucy Merchant’s death.”
Lielkaja raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“You know how it is when a high-profile person dies,” Codella answered casually. “This is just routine.”
Lielkaja motioned to two chairs at a small round table near the kitchen. “What do you need to know?”
“Whatever you can tell me.” Codella took a seat.
Lielkaja remained standing. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. Did Mrs. Merchant’s death come as a surprise to you?”
Lielkaja frowned. “I suppose. A little.”
“A little?”
“Well, she wasn’t in hospice care. Usually when someone is near the end, hospice support gets involved.”
“Was she frail?”
“I wouldn’t say that. She was still ambulatory.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Sunday evening. I don’t usually work on Sundays but I did that night because we were down one caregiver, and Sunday night dinners are busy.”
“Busy how?”
“A lot of families show up to eat with the residents. It gets pretty chaotic.”
“And how did Mrs. Merchant seem at dinner that night?”
Lielkaja shrugged. “She seemed fine.” Then she quickly added, “I mean, no different than usual. Why?”
“Tell me about Cheryl O’Brien.”
“What about her? You’re not thinking—”
Codella was used to people turning her questions back on her. Posing counterquestions could signal simple curiosity, but it was also a predictable technique of those who needed time to compose their thoughts. “I just need you to tell me about her.”
“She’s the night nurse.” Lielkaja continued to stand. Codella noticed that her fingers gripped the top rail of the chair in front of her so firmly that the veins on the back of her hands stood out. “She works the seven to seven shift four nights a week. She’s been with Park Manor for about six months. A very nice person. Very reliable and caring.”
“And she gave Mrs. Merchant her medicine that night?”
Now Lielkaja’s large, aquamarine eyes narrowed slightly. They did not shift away from Codella’s in a telltale sign of obfuscation, but neither did they blink in a natural way. “That’s right,” she finally said.
Codella held her eyes. “Or did Brandon Johnson administer the diazepam that night?”
Lielkaja let go of the chair. She walked behind Codella and entered the tiny kitchen so that they were separated by a half-wall. “Julia Merchant told you that, didn’t she?” Lielkaja turned on the faucet and poured water into a glass. “Well, she’s wrong. That didn’t happen. Cheryl gave the medicine. Only Cheryl. Brandon gave her water.”
“You’re sure about that?” asked Codella. “Absolutely sure?”
“Yes.” Lielkaja raised the glass to her lips.
Codella nodded. “Why did you let Brandon into Mrs. Merchant’s room after she was dead?”
Lielkaja set down her glass and sighed. “He wanted to say good-bye to her. I didn’t think there was any harm.”
Codella glanced around the apartment again. “Isn’t it possible you also didn’t think there was harm in him giving her medicine?”
“No,” Lielkaja responded firmly. “That’s different. That’s a Park Manor rule. I don’t violate rules.”
A few minutes later, Codella stood on the steps in front of the brownstone. I don’t violate rules, Lielkaja had said, but she had lied. Would Cheryl O’Brien tell the same lie? Would Brandon Johnson lie, too?