BOOKING THE APPOINTMENT isn’t easy. At first, I ask nice. When it doesn’t work, I invoke Civic Duty. Rebuffed, I threaten the high Office of the Police Commissioner for the City of New York. It’s unlikely the PC would intervene, but the gambit works. Dr. Eliana Goldstein agrees to meet me in her office at New York-Presbyterian University Hospital of Columbia and Cornell, located at 525 E 68th Street, Manhattan.
Mostly, I’m here on a hunch hoping to link Dr. Marcus Livingstone to Manhattan via the New York-Presbyterian Hospital, the institution I recall from a framed document hanging from his office wall. Denieca Brown can place victim and suspect together more recently than a few years back, which catches Livingstone in a major lie about when he last saw his ex-wife. A lie he has repeated to both Gabby and I and is on record as having made.
To add bullets to our gun, I’d like to map Livingstone’s movements on and off the Island of Manhattan to and from New Jersey; times, dates, and whereabouts to see if he was in the City when Miranda died. We can collect toll, traffic, and surveillance video from a thousand cameras in the hope we can put him close to, or contacting, Miranda on the day in question.
Perhaps Livingstone used the Hospital as cover when meeting with her and, consequently, the other victims as well.
Dr. Eliana Goldstein is abrupt with her introduction as if she resents the intrusion. She is late-forties with dark wild hair. On the bridge of her nose are a set of thick-lens spectacles. On her fingers, she wears a lot of rings. Skin-tight stretch trousers emphasize a pear-shaped bottom which is not entirely unappealing.
“It’s a murder investigation.”
Dismissively, Goldstein waggles her bejeweled fingers.
“You’re asking about Dr. Marcus Livingstone. I don’t know what I can tell you. He doesn’t practice from here.”
“I recall a framed document from the Hospital mounted on his office wall. Right up there with photos of him hobnobbing with Hillary Clinton and Chris Christie. In such a place of honor, it obviously means something special to him.”
Goldstein huffs as if she disapproves of Livingstone’s political choices. “Dr. Livingstone worked here off-and-on for ten years from two thousand five through fifteen. He was never on staff. Mostly, he covered vacation time and days off for the full-time residents. We provide counseling services to a number of public institutions. I imagine the document recognized him for his contribution. It was not a diploma.”
“Two thousand fifteen was the last he worked here? Not more recently?”
“If it were more recently, I would know. If it were more recently, I would say.”
“Why did he stop coming?” I say, deflated.
“That, I couldn’t say. Perhaps he became tired, or bored, of working public service cases. There’s no joy in it, you know. He wasn’t under contract, he could stop attending at any time.”
Something pops at the back of my brain, so I take a leap of faith. “You do work for the NYPD?”
Again, with the admonishing, bejeweled finger. “Nice try, Detective, but if you’re thinking about access to patient files, it’s not going to happen.”
“Not asking, Doctor. Just want to know if the NYPD is on your roster of public service accounts.”
Goldstein considers the potential for breach of confidentiality, decides there is none. “Yes. We do a lot of work on behalf of the New York City police.”
✽ ✽ ✽
After leaving Goldstein, I walk east along E 68th. Crossing at York, I head to the underground car-park to retrieve my vehicle. But there is a street-vendor stationed at the corner blocking my way. The scent of grilled sausage fills my nostrils, attracting my attention. With a fully loaded sausage and an ice-cold Dr. Pepper in hand, I sit on a low stone wall flanking the exit to the underground where I digest my information and my meal.
Which makes me think of Jimmy.
A call to Mount Sinai connects me with the floor nurse who tells me Jimmy is stable and resting comfortably. I am not immediate family, so more info is forthcoming.
Late-day traffic is building on the street. It’s another warm, brilliant afternoon. I calculate the odds on when it will come to an end. Feeling dangerously maudlin, I recall how much I wanted to crawl into bed with Gabby last night. But with nothing from Gabby to indicate the feeling is mutual, I refrained. The dream is screwing with my head. Or maybe the pills. Or maybe the investigation.
At which point, my mobile chimes.
“Detective? Chloe Wozniak.”
Really?
“Ms. Wozniak, what can I do for you?”
“I really do feel the need for us to speak. About the case.”
“If we can do it over the phone, I’m available now.”
“I believe it’s best done in person.”
Her tone is conspiratorial, as if she has something to confess. Could it be she knows, from her past work, the identity of The Chatterbox?
“Fine. Are you staying downtown?”
“Holiday Inn, Midtown West.”
“I have an interview at The Plaza, should wrap-up by nine. You okay to meet after?”
“I have an early flight, but if you can come to me, yes.”
As if the day isn’t long enough, I say, “Sure thing. See you then.”
“Room number is nine-oh-five.”
Rolling with the hunches, I telephone Bobby Danilenko, The Uke. It rings six times before he picks-up.
“Out fishing,” he says, to explain the delay in answering.
“I thought the fishing was shit.”
“No sin a man trying.”
In no mood for pleasantries, I get to the point.
“You told us Terry Lattimer had been ordered into therapy. Did he ever talk about it?”
“He didn’t confess himself to me if that’s what you mean.”
“Never told you what he spoke about with his therapist?”
“I told you. Imagine it was dirty-talk and degrading acts of violence.”
“Do you think he would have discussed details of your case-files?”
“Why not? It isn’t off-limits. If you’ve ever been ordered by your CO into therapy, you’d know it.”
“Haven’t we all?” To stretch my legs, I stand from the low wall, walk to toss my garbage into a trash-bin. “Where did these sessions take place?”
“Downtown, New York-Presbyterian Hospital. Some days I drop him off, some days I pick him up. Department has an agreement of some sort with the loony-bin there to outsource the more difficult cases. Believe me, Terry was hard-core; he was a basket-case. What’s this all about, you don’t mind my asking?”
“Can’t say,” I admit. “But if I ever get back up there, I owe you a bottle of Khortytsa Brand Deluxe.”
“I’ll count on it,” The Uke says, before disconnecting.
Next, I ring Tommy Upton on his mobile.
“No promises, Fortune. I’ll try to confirm. If Livingstone either sat in on sessions with Lattimer, or had access to his file, it would explain a lot. But why the hell are you working Manischewitz and Mancinelli?”
“I’m not. It came up in the course of the investigation. I have a witness who can identify Livingstone as a man meeting with Miranda at her work within the past few months, which means Livingstone is lying about when he last saw his ex-wife.”
“The evidence is still circumstantial but lying is good.”
“If we place him on traffic-cam either entering or leaving Manhattan before, during, or after Miranda’s TOD, we may have Probable Cause.”
“I’ll request video and toll records. Go back at Livingstone; don’t be polite. I want him to know we know he’s lied to us. He didn’t mention his work with the department. No reason he should. But with a plaque on his wall celebrating his work with NYPD, you’d think he’d want the detective investigating the murder of his ex-wife to know it.”
“If we connect him to the files of Terry Lattimer?”
“I’ll see it as a direct connection to Manischewitz and Mancinelli. I’ll speak to the Chief.”
Encouraged, I ask for more. “Sir, is it possible to have an investigator search for audio files where Livingstone may have given a speech in public and is captured on tape? I don’t care if it’s a wedding video. Anything. A voice comparison could show he and The Chatterbox are the same guy.”
“I don’t care what they say about you, Fortune. I like the way you think.”
“If The Chatterbox calls me again?”
“Disconnect. Nothing to be gained by pissing off the Chief of Ds. Not yet.”