With Peabody, she hunted it up, stationed herself outside the door.
“The other three on the list,” Peabody began, studying her PPC. “There’s nothing to indicate they’d have the knowledge or skill to create the toxin. Or have access to something like we’re dealing with. Or, for that matter, the financial means to pay for somebody who did.”
“Blackmail, force, like minds,” Eve reeled off.
“Yeah. Still, it has to cost. I’ll start going down levels on the financials.”
“Do that. And military or paramilitary backgrounds or associates. Spouses, family members. Same with science and medical.”
As she spoke, the door opened. “Change that dressing tomorrow. You should see your regular doctor within the week.”
“Okay.” The man with the bandaged arm and sour expression kept walking.
“And you’re welcome,” Ponti muttered.
“Dr. Ponti.”
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. NYPSD. We need to speak to you.”
Though he looked pretty fresh—Eve figured the three-day scruff was a fashion statement—he gave them the weary eye. “If this is about the stabbing a couple nights ago, I gave the officers all the information I had.”
“Something else. Would you like to talk here, or somewhere more private?”
He sighed, a man in his late thirties with streaky blond hair to go with the scruff and good high-tops, pressed jeans, a pale blue shirt, and a white doctor’s coat.
He wagged a thumb, started down the hall. “I can’t take ten unless I get a buzz. What’s this about?”
“Dr. Kent Abner.”
“Who? Oh, right, right.” Now he rolled his eyes, pushed a door open into a small lounge. He walked straight to the coffeepot. “What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Ponti paused in pouring the coffee, and the eyes that had shown no interest whatsoever narrowed with it now. “Police dead? What happened?”
“It’s odd you wouldn’t have heard, as Dr. Abner had privileges here. I would think some of the staff would mention it.”
“I just came on at eight. I’ve been busy. This is my first break.”
“Your wife’s a surgical nurse here?”
“That’s right.” Interest turned to wariness. “What is this? What happened to Abner?”
“Poison.”
He finished pouring the coffee, sat. “Not accidental, I take it.”
&n
bsp; “No. You and Dr. Abner had a disagreement.”
“You could call it that, or you could call it him pushing his weight and opinion in where it didn’t belong and undermining me with a patient, and with the chief resident.”
“It pissed you off.”
“Damn right it did. And if I poisoned everybody who pissed me off, the ER would be overflowing. Look, I was on the last leg of a double. I was tired, and maybe a little short-tempered. The woman brings in her kid—bronchitis—and he’s filthy. He’s got a couple of scrapes, infected from not being cleaned properly or treated. I’m telling her what needs to be done, and granted maybe I wasn’t polite about it, then Abner’s letting me have it and taking over. We had words, and my supervisor took his part of it. I got a wrist slap and a day off. That was months ago.”