Blindsight

“That’s true,” Laurie admitted.

“Do you mean to say you think these yuppies were forcibly administered the cocaine? Laurie, get real. With users willing to pay big bucks for the stuff, why would anyone go on a personal crusade to rid the city of some of its best and brightest? What would they have to gain? Isn’t it likelier that these people were really into drugs on the sly, maybe even dealing?”

“I don’t think so,” Laurie said.

“Besides,” Lou said, “didn’t you say that these people were shooting the coke rather than sniffing it?”

“That’s right,” Laurie said.

“Well, how is someone going to stick a needle in someone who isn’t cooperating? I mean, don’t nurses in hospitals have a hard enough time sticking patients? Now you’re telling me some struggling victim who’s trying to just say no can get shot up against his will? Give me a break.”

Laurie closed her eyes. Lou had stumbled upon the weakest point of her homicide theory.

“If these people were being injected against their will, there would be signs of struggle. Have there been any?”

“No,” Laurie admitted. “At least I don’t think so.” She suddenly recalled the shattered statue in Julia’s apartment.

“The only other way I could conceive of this happening is if the victims had been drugged to beat the band with some kind of knockout cocktail beforehand. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you people at the M.E. office would have found a drug like that if there’d been one. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Laurie conceded.

“Well, there you go,” Lou said. “I’m not going to fault you for considering homicide, but I think it’s a mighty remote possibility.”

“There are a few other facts I’ve discovered that have made me suspicious,” Laurie persisted. “I visited the apartment of one of the more recent overdose cases today, and the doorman said that on the evening the woman died, she’d come home with two men he’d never seen before.”

“Laurie, you can’t mean to tell me that the fact a woman comes home with two men the doorman doesn’t recognize has spawned this huge conspiracy theory. Is that it?”

“OK! OK!” Laurie said. “Go easy on me. Do you mind that I bring this stuff up? The problem is that these things are bothering me. It’s like a mental toothache.”

“What else?” Lou said patiently. “Out with it.”

“On two of the cases the respective girlfriend or boyfriend was called by the victim an hour or so before and asked to come over.”

“And?” said Lou.

“And nothing,” said Laurie. “That’s it. I just thought it was curious that these people who were allegedly hiding their drug abuse invited their non-druggie significant others over if they were pla

“These two could have called for a million different reasons. I don’t think either had any idea this trip was going to turn out the way it did. If anything, it’s more support for self-administration. They probably believed in the popular myth of cocaine’s aphrodisiac powers and wanted their playmates to be available at the height of their turn-on.”

“You must think I’m nuts,” Laurie said.

“Not at all,” Lou insisted. “It’s good to be suspicious, particularly in your line of work.”

“Thank you for the consult. I appreciate your patience.”

“My pleasure,” Lou said. “Any time you want to run something by me, don’t hesitate.”

“I enjoyed di

“If you liked this restaurant,” Lou said, “I’d love to take you to one in Queens. It’s out in the middle of a real Italian neighborhood. Authentic Northern Italian cuisine. How about tomorrow night?”

“Thank you for asking,” Laurie said, “but I do have plans.”

“Of course,” Lou said sarcastically. “How could I forget Dr. Limo.”

“Lou, please!” Laurie said.

“Come on,” Lou said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll take you home. If you can stand my humble, stripped-down Caprice.”

Laurie rolled her eyes.

Franco Ponti pulled his black Cadillac up in front of the Neapolitan Restaurant on Corona Avenue up the street from the Vesuvio and got out. The valet recognized him and rushed over to assure him that good care would be taken of his car. Franco gave the valet a ten-dollar bill and walked through the door.

At that hour on a Friday night, the restaurant was in full swing. An accordion player went from table to table serenading the customers. Between the laughter and din, an air of conviviality marked the evening. Franco paused for a moment, just inside the red velvet curtain separating the foyer from the dining area. He easily spotted Vi

Franco walked directly to the table. When Vi

“You want something to drink?” Vi

“A glass of wine would be fine,” Franco said.

Vi

“You got something for me?” Vi

Franco took a drink and twisted the bottle around to look at the label.

“Angelo Facciolo and Tony Ruggerio are with Cerino tonight. So they’re idle. But last night they were out hustling. I don’t know what they did early in the evening because I’d lost them. But after some midnight pizza I picked them up again, and they were busy. You read about those murders in Manhattan last night?”

“You mean that big-shot banker and the auction house guy?” Vi

“Those are the ones,” Franco said. “Angelo and Tony did both those jobs. And they were messy. They almost got nabbed both times. In fact, I had to be careful not to get picked up for questioning, especially on the banker job. I was parked out front when the cops came.”

“What the hell did they whack them for?” Vi

“I still don’t know,” Franco said.

“Every day the cops are more agitated!” Vi

“I’ve put out some feelers,” Franco said. “I’ll be asking around as well as tailing Angelo and Tony. Somebody’s got to know.”

“I have to do something,” Vi

“Give me a couple more days,” Franco said. “If I can’t figure it out, I can get rid of Angelo and Tony.”

“But that would mean a war,” Vi

“You know something, Doc?” Cerino said. “That wasn’t so bad at all. I really was worried but I didn’t feel a thing when you operated. How’d it go?”

“Like a dream,” Jordan said. He was holding a small penlight and shining it in the eye on which he’d just performed surgery. “And it looks fine now. The cornea’s as clear as a bell and the chamber’s deep.”

“If you’re happy,” Cerino said, “I’m happy.”

Cerino was in one of the private rooms of the Goldblatt wing of Manhattan General Hospital. Jordan was making late postoperative rounds since he’d finished his last corneal transplant only half an hour earlier. He’d done four in that day alone. In the background Angelo was leaning against the wall. In an armchair next to the door to the bathroom, Tony was fast asleep.

“What we’ll do is give this eye a few days,” Jordan said, straightening up. “Then if all goes well, which I’m sure it will,” he hastily added, “we’ll do the other eye. Then you’ll be as good as new.”