Blindsight

“Nothing like that,” Laurie said. “It’s about your secretary, Marsha Schulman.”

“You mean my former secretary,” Jordan said. “She didn’t show up or call this morning either, so I’m in the process of replacing her. I already have a temp.”

“I’m afraid she’s dead,” Laurie said.

“Oh, no!” Jordan said. “Are you serious?”

Laurie explained how she had made the identification of the headless corpse with the chest X-ray, and the fact of the two surgeries.

“The forensic medical investigators are following up to make the identification even more certain,” Laurie said, “but with what we have already, I think we can be quite confident.”

“I wonder if that bastard husband was involved,” Jordan wondered aloud.

“I’m sure the police will be looking into the possibility,” Laurie said. “Anyway, I thought you should know.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Jordan said. “What horrible news.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings,” Laurie said.

“It’s not your fault,” Jordan said. “And I had to be told. Anyway, I’ll still see you at eight.”

“Eight it is.”

Laurie hung up and dialed Internal Affairs. She spoke to a disinterested secretary who took down the details of her story, promising to pass them along to her boss.

Laurie sat at her desk to compose her thoughts before returning to the autopsy room for her last case. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed. It felt as if every aspect of her life-personal, professional, ethical-was spinning out of control.

“I’m Lieutenant Lou Soldano,” Lou said politely. He passed his credentials to the bright-eyed secretary at the reception desk.

“Homicide?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Lou said. “I’d like to speak with the doctor. I only need a few minutes of his time.”

“If you’ll have a seat in the waiting room, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Lou sat down and idly flipped through a recent edition of The New Yorker. He noticed the drawings on the walls, especially one that was blatantly pornographic. He wondered if someone had actually chosen them or if they had come with the office. Either way, thought Lou, there was no accounting for some people’s taste.

Other than the drawings, Lou was impressed with the waiting room. The walls were paneled with mahogany. A tasteful, inch-thick oriental carpet covered the floor. But then Lou already knew the good doctor did quite well for himself.

Lou looked at the faces of the patients who paid for this opulence, plus the limo and the roses. There were about ten in the waiting room, some with eyepatches, some who looked totally healthy, including one middle-aged woman draped in jewels. Lou would have loved to ask her what she was there for, just to get an idea, but he didn’t dare.

Time passed slowly as one by one the patients disappeared into the depths of the office. Lou tried to contain his impatience, but after three-quarters of an hour, he began to get irritated. He began to think it was a deliberate snub on Jordan Scheffield’s part. Although Lou didn’t have an appointment, he’d expected to be seen relatively quickly, perhaps to schedule a future visit if it were needed. It wasn’t every day a detective lieutenant from Homicide dropped by someone’s office. Besides, Lou hadn’t planned on taking much of the doctor’s time.

Lou’s reason for the visit was twofold. He wanted to find out more about Marsha Schulman, but he also wanted to talk about Paul Cerino. It was a kind of fishing trip; the doctor might be able to fill him in on some details he didn’t yet know. He resisted the nagging thought at the back of his mind: he was really there to check out the guy who was seeing Doctor Laurie Montgomery every night for dinner.

“Mr. Soldano,” the secretary said at last, “Dr. Scheffield will see you now.”

“It’s about time,” Lou mumbled as he got to his feet and tossed his magazine aside. He walked toward the door being held open by the secretary. It wasn’t the same door that all the patients had disappeared into.

After a short hall, Lou was shown into Jordan’s private office. He strode into the center of the room. Behind him he heard the door close.

Lou looked at the top of Jordan’s blond head. The doctor was writing in a record.

“Sit down,” Jordan said without looking up.

Lou debated what he wanted to do. The idea of disregarding what sounded more like a command than an offer appealed to him, so he stayed where he was. His eyes roamed the office. He was impressed and couldn’t help compare the environment with his own utilitarian, metal-desked, peeling-walled rathole. Who said life was fair? Lou mused.

Redirecting his attention to the doctor, Lou couldn’t tell much other than that the man was well groomed. He was dressed in a typical doctor white coat that appeared to be whiter than white and starched to boardlike stiffness. On his ring finger he wore a large gold signet ring, probably from some fancy school.