Cheryl O’Brien’s curly hair was just a shade away from black. Her skin was ruddy and her lips were too thin for the bright-red lipstick she’d applied. Her pale-blue dress was an inexpensive wraparound from a season or two ago, and her shoes were scuffed black flats with worn-out heels. “I need to ask you some questions,” said Codella.
O’Brien glared at her with exasperation. “Are you kidding me? What’s going on? I just got grilled by some other detective.”
Codella squinted into the woman’s small eyes. “What? Who did you just speak to, Ms. O’Brien?”
“Some Detective. Novotny or something like that. Look, I’ve got to leave pretty soon.”
Codella barely managed to contain her rage. “I’m sorry that you need to speak to both of us,” she said. “I won’t take up much of your time. May I come in, Ms. O’Brien?”
“It’s Mrs.” The woman was gaunt, and her shoulders curved inward although she was no more than forty. She hugged her door and seemed to debate her next move. Finally she swung it open. Her Stuyvesant Town apartment was on a low floor, and the living room windows faced another red brick tower within the large postwar residential complex. The room was somber. “You can come in for a minute or two, but—”
“Thank you.” Codella stepped in.
The woman gestured to a plaid couch—an ancient Jennifer Convertible, Codella guessed. She would have preferred to remain standing, but sitting on dilapidated and uninviting furniture was often a requirement of her trade, and she duly committed to a cushion and thanked the woman.
“You were one of the two last people to see Lucy Merchant alive.”
“I suppose so,” agreed O’Brien.
“You and her caregiver.”
“Yes. Brandon. Brandon Johnson.”
“You gave Mrs. Merchant her evening medications.” Codella stated this rather than asked, and the woman dropped her eyes guiltily.
“Yes. Her valium. Diazepam.”
“You prepared it in the dispensary?”
“That’s right.”
“Tell me when and how you prepared that medication, Ms. O’Brien.”
“Mrs.,” O’Brien corrected her again. “I have to go to work very soon, my other job.”
Codella leaned forward. “This is important, Mrs. O’Brien.”
“Are you saying I did something wrong? That other detective kept asking me about where I used to work. What was that all about? I didn’t do anything.”
“No one thinks you did,” Codella assured her quickly. That fucking Novotny. Now she couldn’t put any hard questions to O’Brien. She had to tread lightly. Novotny had spooked her. “I just need to know how you prepared the medication.”
“I always prepare the meds the same way. In the dispensary. I wear an orange vest. That tells everyone I’m not to be disturbed. The medications are in a locked cabinet. I prepare each resident’s medications one at a time.”
“Could you describe that procedure?” Codella asked in a calm voice she wouldn’t have had to use if Novotny had followed her orders and stayed on the databases.
“First I label the cup. I put the resident’s dosage into the cup—sometimes it’s liquid, sometimes it’s a pill or several pills—and I check off the box on the medication checklist. Then I put the cup on a tray and move on to the next resident’s meds. When they’re all prepared, I start my rounds.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about Lucy Merchant’s medicine bottle that night?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, was it in its usual position? Did it look out of place in any way?”
O’Brien squinted. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Did the medicine itself look any different than usual?”
She shook her head.
“How long did Mrs. Merchant take diazepam?”
“Since October or November, I think.”
“And why did she take it?”
“She got very anxious at night. She had trouble settling down. Dr. Fisher tried her on Atavan—that’s what most of the residents take—but it didn’t work for her.”
“How did she behave at night before she took the diazepam?”
“She’d get out of bed and wander around. She would scream at anyone she passed.”
“What did she scream?”
“Oh, crazy stuff, you know. Stop it. Get away from me. You can’t make me do that. Nothing rational. Sometimes she called me Daddy. She was having delusions. Dementia is a terrible thing, you know.”
“You said Detective Novotny asked about your work history. Forgive me if I’m repeating something he already asked you. How long have you worked at Park Manor?”
“Going on six months.”
“And before that?”
“Eldercare Elite,” she said. “And I was a visiting home nurse.” She looked at her watch. “I still am, and I’m supposed to be with a patient in half an hour.”
“Can you tell me why you left Eldercare Elite to come to Park Manor?”
“More money,” O’Brien said. “They offered me the night shift. It pays more and I can be a visiting home nurse during the day. And we need the money.”
Codella nodded. “I just have one more question. The night Mrs. Merchant died, did you allow her caregiver, Brandon Johnson, to administer the medication?”
O’Brien looked into her lap. She didn’t move or speak.
Codella waited. She had to know if the nurse would lie the way Baiba Lielkaja had lied or whether she would tell the truth like Hodges. The silence answered the question long before O’Brien opened her mouth.
“How did you know?” the nurse finally asked.
“Why did you do it?” Codella countered.
“Because whenever I came into her suite, she turned belligerent.” Now O’Brien spoke in a steady stream, as if she were relieved to have the truth out. “I don’t know why. No one else caused her to act that way. Maybe I reminded her of someone? All I know is that I would have been fired if Brandon didn’t help me. And my husband lost his job last year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He sold software. He didn’t make his quota. I need this job.”
Codella heard the terror in O’Brien’s voice. She was a woman trying to provide for her family against the odds. “Who do you think Lucy Merchant could have mistaken you for?”
“I don’t know. As I said, she called me Daddy sometimes.” She laughed. “Not that I look like a daddy—I hope.”
“Did she call you by any other names?”
O’Brien shook her head. “She couldn’t remember names, not even her daughter’s.”
Codella nodded. “All right, Mrs. O’Brien. That’s it for now. Thank you for your time.”
Codella returned to her car and sped up First Avenue with her hands gripping the wheel the way she wanted to wring Novotny’s neck. She crossed the park at Ninety-Sixth Street and pulled behind Manhattan North. Novotny was sitting at his desk and staring at the computer when she barged in his office.
He looked up. “What’s eating you, Codella?”
“I gave the team direct orders not to contact anyone from Park Manor, and you went right to the phone. You called up one of the last two people to see Lucy Merchant alive.”
“Cheryl O’Brien.” He smiled. “That’s right. She worked for Eldercare Elite until six months ago,” he said. “You didn’t know that, did you? Eldercare is trying to buy Park Manor, Codella. It was in that New York Times article. Something’s going on there. She’s part of something bigger. It’s an important connection.”
“An important connection? How the fuck do you know it’s important?”
“She could be a plant. Don’t you see?”
“You don’t want to know what I see, Novotny.” She leaned across his chair as if she were going to tear him to shreds. “Did it ever occur to you that if you’re a nurse at Eldercare, then Park Manor is the next logical step in your career? It’s the pinnacle of care facilities in Manhattan. People have all kinds of reasons for making a move, Novotny. You were supposed to come to me with your connections. Cheryl O’Brien is not our killer. I spoke to her. She didn’t hide anything. If you ask me, she’s just busting her ass to keep her family afloat. You’re a fucking moron.”
Novotny pointed a finger at her. “Don’t use that tone with me, Codella. I don’t work for you.”
“You do on this case. You report to me. And as of right now, you’re off the team.” She grabbed the Merchant files off his desk.
He pulled them back. “You can’t do that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’ll go to McGowan,” he threatened. “We’ll see who wins that one.”
“We’ll see right now.” Codella turned and stomped down the hall to the lieutenant’s office. “Am I running the Merchant case or aren’t I?”
McGowan looked up from a precinct map on his desk. “What’s your problem, Codella? I gave you a team, didn’t I?”
“Good. And as of this moment, Novotny’s off it. If he contacts one more person involved in the case, I’m writing him up.”