CHAPTER 18

At seven the next morning, Kylie and I were in Selma Kaplan’s office. The two of us looked worn out but happy. For the same reason, I suspect. I didn’t ask.

Selma got right to it.

“I woke up yesterday morning thinking I was going to send Warren Hellman to prison,” she said. “A few hours later, justice takes it up the wazoo, there’s a shooting outside my courthouse, and suddenly I’m dedicating my life to finding the people who killed a cop killer and his equally soulless brother who let an innocent young girl die on a godforsaken desert road.

“And then you two top off my evening by telling me that Brooke Hellman, the one person who my boss, your boss, and the entire city’s boss wants us to tiptoe around, may have funded both murders. So if I seemed a little cranky when you called last night, that ought to explain it.”

To some, that might have sounded like an apology. Kylie and I knew better. Selma Kaplan is the first to own her mistakes, but she has never once apologized for her born-and-bred-in-New-York approach.

“I don’t know who your source is,” Selma said, “but he, she, or it is someone you should cultivate. When you first said Curtis OD’d on insulin, I thought, hell, that shit happens all the time. There’s no doctor, no nurse involved. The man administers his own shots. Nobody’s fault but his own if there’s too much insulin in the syringe. Turns out there’s a lot more to it than that. Not only are there different brands of insulin from different pharmaceutical companies, but there are different strengths.”

She brought up a Google Images page on her computer. It was filled with pictures of insulin vials.

“This is the U-100 dose,” she said, tapping a finger on the screen. “U-100 is the go-to insulin for the majority of diabetics, and according to the report the ME got from Columbia Presbyterian, it’s the one Curtis Hellman has been using all his life.”

She pointed to a second vial and clicked on it. Another page came up. The headline said “U-500: Not For Ordinary Use.”

“This is the U-500,” she said. “It’s five times more potent than what Curtis needed. It could have killed him, and yet he injected it into his own arm. So your first question is going to be, was he trying to kill himself, or was somebody trying to do it for him?”

“Hopefully, you have the answer,” Kylie said.

“We got lucky,” Selma said. “The paramedic who answered the 911 call grabbed the vial and the syringe that Curtis had used. The label said U-100, but when they sent the insulin to the lab it turned out to be U-500. The hospital immediately called the FDA, because if the drug company was putting the wrong label on a dose that would be deadly for most people, the feds can shut them down immediately.”

“Clearly that didn’t happen,” Kylie said, “or it would have been front-page news.”

“Exactly,” Selma said. “The FDA determined that the bottle labeled U-100 was from one drug company, and the U-500 insulin that was inside was a proprietary formula from a different company.”

“So our source was right,” I said. “Somebody switched the insulin and tried to kill him.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Selma said.

“Was it reported?” Kylie asked.

“No. The FDA contacted Curtis. They were trying to ascertain where along the chain from manufacturer to injection the compromise occurred, but he refused to cooperate, so they dropped it.”

“Just like that? No investigation?”

“It’s not their job. Once they determined that the drug companies were not at fault, Curtis’s overdose was no longer their problem. I read their summation. The doctor who wrote it cautioned that it could have been an attempted homicide, but it also could have been attempted suicide, and it’s possible that Hellman was too embarrassed to talk about it.”

“Somebody should tell that doctor to stick to medicine, because he sucks at criminology,” Kylie said. “If Curtis wanted to punch his own ticket, he’d have injected the superstrength shit into his body straight from the U-500 vial. He wouldn’t go through the trouble of transferring it to a low-octane bottle.”

“But somebody did,” I said. “And if the paramedic hadn’t brought that vial in to be analyzed, it would probably have gotten lost.”

“More like Brooke would have destroyed it as soon as she got home,” Kylie said.

“Slow down,” Selma said. “Last night, you said Brooke was the only one who had the means.”

“That’s what our source told us.”

“Oh, really? I can just hear Sonia Blakely now. ‘Your source, Detective? Did you ask your source if the Hellmans have a maid? Does your source know how many days or weeks the insulin was sitting around the house? Did any guests drop by during that time? And who delivered it from the pharmacy? Did the doorman sign for it?’ I’m sorry, guys, but unless I can prove that Brooke Hellman had exclusive access to that vial, we don’t have a case.”

“Let’s talk about motive,” I said. “Two dead brothers, a shit ton of money. Who gets it all?”

“The wills haven’t been filed yet, so nothing is official, but I made a few calls,” Selma said. “With Warren and Curtis both gone, the entire company, which is valued at a half billion or more, all goes to Brooke.”

“Bingo,” Kylie said.

“Not so fast. That may be a motive for me to kill somebody, but Brooke already has more money than she needs. She had a hefty stockpile when she met Curtis. Since they’ve been married, she’s added to her own personal wealth, and looking at her credit card and checking transactions, she’s pampered and well cared for. Her husband didn’t deny her anything. If we try to convince a jury that she farmed out a double homicide for money, we will be laughed out of 100 Centre Street. Sonia Blakely beat us when we had all the answers. If we’re going up against her a second time, we better have all our ducks in—”

Kylie’s phone rang, cutting Selma off. It wasn’t her standard ringtone. It was the one I knew she’d set up for Shane.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s my . . .” She decided not to finish the sentence. “Sorry, Selma. I’ll make it quick.”

“Go ahead, take it,” Selma said.

She stood up, turned away from Selma, and answered the call. “Hey, babe, I’m in the middle of a meeting, and I really can’t—” She stopped. Her tone changed. “Yes, this is Kylie MacDonald.”

She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Is he okay?”

Selma and I could hear only one side of the conversation, and we were doing our best to fill in the blanks.

“I’m a detective with Red,” Kylie said. “Don’t sugarcoat it for me. I want to know what happened. Break it down for me.”

Kylie lowered herself back into her chair as she listened, her body shaking. “Where is he now? Thank you, Detective Edlund. I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“What’s going on?” I said as soon as she hung up.

She was trembling, fighting tears. “It’s Shane. He’s been shot. He’s in surgery at Lincoln Hospital.”