“I guess you never get so old that you don’t feel the loss of a parent.”

“No.” Frank shrugged. “I talked to him. He’s on the warpath himself, wants to know who killed his father, and why.”

Joe stared at Frank, and Frank grinned and shrugged.

“Okay, you and I both know that the Bigelow money and power drew lots of enemies. But, hey, I’m not a cop. I turn over my findings, and the cops take it from there.”

“And what did you find?”

“That the man’s love for a good glass of wine did him in.”

“So his wine was definitely poisoned?”

“Definitely. He hadn’t eaten in hours. From the timing, I got the impression he was probably about to go out for dinner. That it was the aperitif before the meal.”

“What was it?”

“Rosencraft 1858. A very rare burgundy,” Frank said.

Joe almost smiled. “I meant the poison.”

“Arsenic.”

“I thought arsenic poisoners usually dosed their victims more slowly?”

“Arsenic poisoning was popular in the past. Centuries ago. People got sick, and eventually they died. But a large dose is just as effective—and quicker.”

“Was there anything else? Any sign of a struggle? Bruises, gashes, defensive wounds?”

“Not a thing,” Frank told him.

Joe was silent. Frank shrugged. “‘Quoth the raven—die.’”

“There’s nothing about poisoning in ‘The Raven,’ is there?”

“No, but there is in both ‘The Black Cat’ and ‘The Cask of Amontillado.’”

“I do the autopsy, Joe. That’s it. After that, I let the cops do their work.”

“Who caught the case?” Joe asked.

“Raif Green and Thomas Dooley. They’re both good guys. Neither one is green. They’ve been working murders together for almost ten years.”

“Yeah, I know them both,” Joe said. He knew them well, and he liked them both. That was a relief. Neither was the type of hothead to get antsy because a P. I. was on the case. They were both workhorses who had come up through the ranks, seen everything, grown weary and kept at it anyway. Good cops, they were constrained by the department’s budget and tended to be pleased when someone like him could throw some private citizen’s funds at a case.

“There’s a break for you,” Frank said.

“Yeah, thanks, I’ll give Raif a call. I know him best,” Joe said as he rose. “We’ll have to grab a beer soon, Frank. I don’t want to keep you from your work now, though.”

“Don’t worry. Old Hank isn’t going to get any deader,” Frank told him.

Joe glanced over at the body on the Gurney. If it weren’t for the gash, “Old Hank” could have been sleeping.

“A fall?” he asked skeptically.

“Oh, yeah. You bet. He fell right into his buddy’s broken-off whiskey bottle.”

“Sad,” Joe said.

“It’s always sad,” Frank said. “That’s the thing—death is sad. Except…”

Curiously, Joe turned back to him. “Except?”

Frank shrugged. “Every once in a while, I get someone in here who was dying of cancer or something. I cut them open, and it’s horrifying what disease does to them on the inside. But on the outside, hell, sometimes it’s as if they’re actually smiling. Like death was a release from god-awful pain.” He shrugged. “You get used to it. Then again—hell, you should know this—you never get used to it. And if you did, you’d suck at your job.”

“Dr. Arbitter?”

A young woman was standing in the open door.

“Connie?” Frank said.

“They need you in reception.”

“Be right back,” Frank told Joe.

Joe started to protest. He needed to get going. But Frank had already gone to see to whatever business had summoned him away.

Joe looked over at the body, and suddenly the corpse’s head turned, and the grizzled old man opened his eyes. Hey, you. Yeah, you, buddy. You can see me, and you can hear me. You tell Vinny I said fuck you! You tell him he’s going to get his. He can get that crack-freak friend of his to pay his bail, but he’s going to go down out on the streets. You tell him. He ain’t going to have a moment’s peace. You tell him, you hear me? Damn you, you hear me?

Joe felt frozen, staring at the corpse.

This was bullshit.

It was all in his mind.

Hell, he must have had even more to drink last night than he’d thought.

The door behind him swung open again. He spun around. Frank had returned, muttering. “With all today’s technology, these clerks still can’t spell. Who the hell mistakes the word breast for beast?”

Joe looked back at the body.

It was just a corpse again.

Old Hank couldn’t get any deader.

“Joe? You all right?” Frank asked. “Hell, man, you’re as white as if you’d seen a ghost.”

Joe forced a laugh. “Like you said, Frank. Old Hank can’t get any deader. I take it the cops have whoever did this to him?”

“Dead to rights. A low-life drug dealer. Not that Hank was your model citizen. He bought it during a barroom fight with a guy named Vincent Cenzo.”

He’d just had to ask, Joe thought.

“So, Joe. I’m sorry, where were we?” Frank asked.

“Finished,” Joe said, offering his hand.

“Beers are on me,” Frank said as they shook.

“Sounds good. See you soon.”

“You bet. You need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

Call. Yup. Next time, he would just call.

“See you, Frank. Thanks.”

He felt like a swimmer who had seen a shark and needed to stay calm. He tried like hell not to go running out of the autopsy room.

He managed to push his way through the doors like a normal person, then walked quickly down the hall. He even managed a goodbye and thanks for Judy at the desk.

Then he burst out into the light of day and joined the throng of people rushing around in the Saturday afternoon sunshine.

He was almost running…

And then he stopped.

Because there was no way for a man to run away from his own mind.

What a beautiful day.

He walked and walked, wishing he had a hat to tip to passersby. It was nearly summer, but the usual heat and humidity weren’t plaguing the city today. No rain clouds marred the heavens. No unhealthy miasma hung around the buildings, and a pleasant breeze swept through the giant forests of concrete and steel. It was simply a perfect day.

He visited St. Mark’s Square, where he paused, thinking that politicians, stars, geniuses, men of letters, heroes, patriots and enemies of the state had once walked this way. He closed his eyes and imagined a long-ago city.

What a beautiful, beautiful day. It was just good to be out. To love New York. To love the world.

To bask in pleasure.

Someone walked by him with a boom box blaring, gold chains making a strange clanking sound against the plastic casing. The man’s arm sported a tattoo.

Ah, yes. The gangs of New York. Ever present. Then and now.

A little Yorkie passed him, yapping shrilly. He was tempted to kick the tiny beast into the traffic. Instead, he paused and said something complimentary to the dog’s pudgy owner, who blushed and chatted. He moved on quickly then, afraid she was going to try to give him her phone number.

He passed a police officer strolling his beat, and nodded a greeting. The officer nodded and smiled in return.

As he walked at a leisurely pace, he passed an electronics store. A giant plasma screen took up most of the display window. The news was on, so he paused to watch.

His heart was filled with glee. He longed to laugh aloud. Instead, he watched gravely as other people grouped around him on the sidewalk.

The entire city was still pondering the death of Thorne Bigelow.

Philanthropist.

Icon.

Brilliant man of letters.

Like hell!

Bastard. Braggart. Glutton. Idiot.

“What a horrible way to die,” someone said.

“It’s that book he wrote. He was killed because someone didn’t like his book on Poe,” a young woman said solemnly.

Her boyfriend slipped an arm around her shoulders. She was hugging something that looked like a mop. Maltese, Pekinese, some kind of “ese.” What was it with people and their obnoxious little dogs ruining his Saturday morning?

“It could have been anything,” the boyfriend said. “I mean, the man was a billionaire.”

The man was a bag of hot air. Gas. He was one big fart.

“Tragic,” he said aloud.

The boyfriend was shaking his head. “Did you know that one of the guys who got hurt in that pileup on the FDR was some friend of Bigelow’s?”

The girl shivered. “And that psychic said somebody else is going to die.”

“Think psychics really know the future?” he asked, turning to the couple.

“Oh, yes,” the girl said, and turned to look at him. Maybe a little too closely. “There are real psychics out there. People who see things. Who knows if that woman, that Lori Star, is really one of them, though. I mean, I never heard of her. She hasn’t written a book or anything. Anyway, it’s all so tragic, don’t you think?”

“Tragic,” he repeated, shaking his head.

And he moved on somberly, his head lowered.

His grin wide.

Yes, it was a beautiful day.

His grin suddenly faded.

It was bull. There weren’t really people out there who could see the future, who had second sight, who could share experiences as if they were in another person’s body and just…know things.

Were there?

He kept walking, pensive.

Maybe it wasn’t such a beautiful day after all.

CHAPTER 4

“Thanks, guys, for taking the time to meet me,” Joe said.