“Sara did call her doctor, Robert Dweck, internist, and was told she could come in at noon.”
“She didn’t make the appointment,” Conklin said.
“No flies on you,” Claire said to Conklin. “Sara Needleman called nine one one at ten-oh-eight. EMS got there at ten fifteen, found Sara dead in her bedroom.”
“She died of stomach cramps? Something she ate?” I asked.
Claire continued, “To be determined, girlfriend. To be determined. Stomach contents and blood are at the lab.
“Meanwhile, I spoke with the medics who brought Sara in. There was no vomit or excrement in the house.”
“Why do you think her death is like the Baileys’?”
“At first I didn’t. There was a lull when she came in, so I got to her quick, thinking I knew what to look for.”
Three of Claire’s assistants tried to look busy, but they were hanging close enough to hear her report. I could already see the words “Breaking News” under a glamour shot of Sara Needleman interrupting our regularly scheduled programming. I could feel the public linking Needleman’s death to the Baileys’, the barometric pressure falling.
Big storm coming in.
Claire ticked off the possible causes of Sara Needleman’s death.
“Leaving poison aside for now, stomach cramps are often caused by a perforated ulcer or an ectopic pregnancy gone bust.”
“But not this time,” Conklin guessed.
“Correct, Mr. Man. So the cramps could’ve been unrelated to her death. I checked for aneurysms, stroke, heart attack — found nothing. I examined all her organs. You could gift wrap them, tie ’em with a bow. Show ’em to med students to let them know what normal organs look like.”
“Huh.”
“No marks on her body, no bruises of any kind. Nothing wrong with Sara Needleman except that she’s dead.”
Conklin said, “She was on my list of names. I hadn’t gotten to her yet.”
“Too late now,” I muttered.
Claire said, “So now I’m thinking we’ve got the Baileys and Needleman. Same social circle. Could be same cause of death. So when I sent out Sara’s blood, I ordered the works. I’ve got sections holding at minus seventy for testing by someone who’s going to be looking for something other than the usual herbs and spices,” Claire said glumly. “What am I going to say now, compadres?”
Conklin said it. “More police work.”
“Bingo, Ricardo. Someone’s got to figure this out, because I’ve hit the wall.”
Claire turned to Sara Needleman’s body, put her hand on the woman’s sheeted torso, and said, “I hear hoofbeats coming down the road, Sara darlin’, I’m thinking ‘horse.’ You are a definite zebra.”
Part Three
PARTY ALL THE TIME
Chapter 50
THE MORNING AFTER Sara Needleman died, Chief Anthony Tracchio called to say, “The mayor’s on my ass. Drop everything except this case, and don’t screw up.”
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I said, “Yes, sir, Tony. No screwing up,” but I wanted to scream, “What are we looking for?”
Lieutenant Michael Hampton, a twenty-year veteran of the Special Investigation Division (SID), had also been assigned to our dead- millionaires case, and he looked half as happy as I was. We met in Hampton’s office, broke down the tasks, and divvied up the list.
Hampton deployed a team to Dr. Dweck’s office to collect Sara Needleman’s records and interview the doctor and his staff. Another SID team shot over to Needleman’s showroom and office to interview Sara’s personal assistant, Toni Reynolds, and the rest of Needleman’s staff.