Chapter 20

I called Samantha immediately and got her machine. I left a long message anyway asking her to call me on my car phone at any time. Then I called Marta Vasquez and asked her if she knew of any friends of her husband’s who were nicknamed Doc. She said she’d never heard him call anyone that. I asked her to get together his address book, all his credit card statements, check stubs and health insurance claims for the last year. I told her I’d be over to get the information from her.

In the car I took a second to lie back and close my eyes. The incision throbbed and my face felt like someone was tunneling a transatlantic cable through it. I tried a smile on for size and it hurt worse. Driving over to Marta Vasquez’s I prayed that my phone would ring. It didn’t. I trudged grimly up to the front door. Just as I was about to knock on the door, Marta Vasquez pulled it open. “Please come in, Mr. Haggerty.”

“Thanks. Can I have a glass of water, please?”

“Surely.” She walked back towards the kitchen. Over her shoulder she asked, “What happened to your face?”

“I cut it shaving.”

“You must be very clumsy.”

“Touché.”

She returned and held out a glass of water. I took it, said thanks, popped a painkiller in my mouth and drowned it.

Marta wore a burgundy sweater tucked into blue jeans. The jeans were tucked into high, cordovan boots. Her hair was pulled straight back and highlighted her black eyes and lush mouth. Whatever Malcolm Donnelly couldn’t find at home it wasn’t sexual.

“Do you have the information I asked for?”

“Yes. It’s on the dining room table.”

“Great.”

“Do you want anything to eat?”

“No, thanks. I’m drinking my meals these days.”

“Some soup, then. I have some homemade sopa de ajo. It’s very good for shaving cuts.” She smiled.

“Thanks.”

I went to the table. On it were a pad and pencil, a checkbook, a manila folder and an address book. I sat down, opened the checkbook and made a list of all the checks made out to physicians. Then I went through the folder that contained his credit card receipts and added any new names to the first list. A review of the year’s medical claims did not yield any additional names. Then I went through the address book and wrote down the phone numbers and addresses for the names on the list. There were seven names. Six physicians and a pharmacy.

“Soup’s on.”

I took my list and went into the kitchen. A large bowl of soup with a thick slice of a dense, dark bread next to it was set out for me. I sat down and Marta pulled up a chair catty-corner to mine with soup and bread of her own.

The soup was hot and spicy, redolent with garlic. I tore off chunks of the bread and dunked them in the soup. Properly softened, I was able to get them down. I slid the list over to Marta. “What can you tell me about these names?”

I sipped my soup as she scanned the list.

“Dr. Carson was our dentist.”

“For all of you?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Canzoneri was Malcolm’s physician. He’s an internist. I went to him also. Dr. Harrison is my OB-GYN. Dr. Locke is my eye doctor; I wear contacts. Dr. Reece is the kids’ pediatrician. Dr. Tompkins is Cholo’s vet. Cholo is our boxer.” I looked around for said animal. “He’s at Dr. Tompkins’s right now. His ears were just cropped and I think he’s got an infection in one of them.” She handed me the list and I scribbled some notes on it.

“Would you hand me the phone, please? I’m going to call these people.” She reached over, grabbed the phone, freed up some cord and handed it to me. “And thanks for the soup. It was just right.”

“Por nada.”

Harrison, Locke and Reece had never seen Malcolm Donnelly as a patient. Carson was a solo practitioner and had been out of town on the day Malcolm Donnelly died. Donnelly’s call from the hotel had been local. Four down, one to go. Dr. Canzoneri’s office refused to give me any information. When Mr. Donnelly paid the overdue balance on his bill they would be glad to speak with me. Until then Consolidated Collection Corporation spoke for them. I drew question marks after Canzoneri’s name. It would be interesting to know whether he had treated Malcolm for gonorrhea, and when. That left the pharmacy.

Marta asked, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Thanks, plenty of milk with it, though.”

“Sure.” She stood up and went to the sink.

With her back to me she asked, “Why are you so interested in Malcolm’s doctors?”

“I want to know where he got the medicine that was in his system when he died. I think he might have had a prescription for it after all.”

“What is it called?”

“Meprobamate. I don’t know what the brand name would be.”

“Let me look in the medicine chest. See if we have it there. I don’t remember it, though. Malcolm hated drugs. You could hardly get him to take aspirin for a headache.” She washed her hands and walked out of the kitchen.

She came back with three jars and a bottle. They contained a common antihistamine, a painkiller, an antidiarrhea medicine and a cough medicine with codeine. All of which were over two years old.

“This is all we have. I knew I hadn’t seen any new pills recently. Why do you think he had a prescription for it?”

Truth and consequences time. “Your husband was not alone on the night he died. A high-priced call girl was with him. She says that he looked sick and that he had some pills with him. I’m trying to find out where he got them from.”

“Was she with him when he died?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“She said that he looked sick, but he didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. He called a doctor for help. She went into the bathroom and when she came back out he was dead. It must have been very sudden. He didn’t cry out or anything.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Yes.”

“Will she say this in court?”

“If she’s approached properly, I think she will.” Like with a two by four.

“How does this change things?”

“It opens up the possibility of malpractice. I’m certain that Malcolm didn’t commit suicide. Now it’s a question of whether he died by accident or from negligence. Either of those findings is more consistent with his behavior that day. If Malcolm spoke to a doctor and did something on that doctor’s advice and died from it, that makes the doctor responsible.”

She didn’t bring up and I decided not to remind her about that very bothersome suicide note. Marta went back to making the coffee. After she had it going she turned around and wiped her hands on a towel. “I’m glad he didn’t suffer.” She went on wiping her hands. “Maybe it’s better that he didn’t want to die. I don’t know. At least I can tell the children that their father didn’t want to leave them and know that it’s the truth.”

“It’ll spare them a lot of guilt on top of everything else. Now if I can just prove what I’ve told you.”

The coffee was done. Marta poured two cups and brought them to the table with cream and sugar. I kept doodling around the pharmacy’s name.

“I have an idea. I want you to make a phone call.”

“Okay, who do you want me to call?”

“The pharmacy. Tell them that your husband has died. Tell them that for estate purposes—taxes and insurance and so on—you’d like a complete list of his prescriptions including the doctor’s name and the date of each prescription.”

“Okay.”

I passed the phone and the pad to her. Five minutes later she hung up the phone and pushed the pad back to me. There was one prescription. It had been refilled three times. Meprobamotrin. Prescribed by a Dr. Truman Whitney, office phone 555–7241.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number. On the fourth ring someone answered and said, “Mental Health Center.” I hung up.

“Who was it?”

“A mental health center.”

“What?”

“I think your husband was in therapy there. At least, he was going there to get medication.”

“But I had no idea. He never told me.”

“There were a lot of things he never told you, right?”

“Yes, but there were no records.”

“You said your husband was concerned about his security clearance. Therapy is not something you want the clearance investigators to know about. My guess is that he paid for his sessions in cash and never filed for insurance reimbursement.”

“What can you do to find out if all this is true?”

“I’m going to pay them a visit and take a look at your husband’s chart.”

“Will you tell me what you find out?”

“You mean about what Malcolm was doing in therapy?” She nodded. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She sipped her coffee, then put her cup down. “Maybe not. What difference would it make anyway?”

“Probably none.” I stood up to leave. Marta followed me to the front door. “Thank you for believing me, Mr. Haggerty.”

“Nothing to it. You were telling the truth. I’ll be in touch.”

I drove home in silence. A cold lump was beginning to form in my chest. Cancer of the heart.