His mind was beginning to wander into forbidden areas, which began to torment him into having second thoughts about the evening's plans. It was at that moment that his cell phone came to life. He glanced at his watch. There was less than an hour to go before D-day. He felt his pulse accelerate. A phone call at that moment was an inauspicious sign. Since the chances of it being Laurie were nil, the chances were huge that it was someone who could throw the evening's schedule out of whack.
Pulling the phone from his belt clip, Jack eyed the LCD screen. Just as he feared, it was Allen Eisenberg. Allen was one of the pathology residents who was being paid by the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner to cover routine problems after hours, which the forensic investigator on duty thought needed the attention of a medical doctor. If the problem was beyond the pathology resident's comfort zone, then the medical examiner on call had to be contacted. Tonight, it was Jack.
"Sorry to have to call you, Dr. Stapleton," Allen said, his voice whiny and grating.
"What's the problem?"
"It's a suicide, sir."
"Okay, so what's the question? Can't you guys handle it?" Jack didn't know Allen very well, but he knew Steve Marriott, the evening forensic investigator, who was experienced.
"It's a high-profile case, sir. The deceased is the wife or girlfriend of an Iranian diplomat. He's been screaming at everyone and threatening to call the Iranian Ambassador. Mr. Marriott called me for backup, but I feel like I'm in over my head."
Jack didn't respond. It was inevitable: He would have to visit the scene. Such high-profile cases invariably took on political implications, which was the part of Jack's job that he detested. He had no idea if he'd be able to make the site visit and still get to the restaurant by eight, which only added to his anxiety.
"Are you still there, Dr. Stapleton?"
"Last time I looked," Jack retorted.
"I thought maybe we'd been cut off," Allen said. "Anyway, the location is apartment fifty-four-J in the United Nations Towers on Forty-seventh Street."
"Has the body been moved or touched?" Jack pulled on his brown corduroy jacket, unconsciously patting the square object in its right pocket.
"Not by me or the forensics investigator."
"What about by the police?" Jack started down the hallway toward the elevators. The hall was deserted.
"I don't believe so, but I didn't ask yet."
"What about by the husband or boyfriend?"
"You should ask the police. The detective in charge is standing next to me, and he wants to talk with you."
"Put him on!"
"Hey, buddy!" a loud voice said, forcing Jack to pull the phone away from his ear. "Get your ass over here!"
Jack recognized the gravelly voice as that of his friend of ten years, Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano of the homicide division of the New York City Police Department. Jack had known Lou almost as long as he had known Laurie. It had been Laurie who had introduced them.
"I might have known you'd be behind this!" Jack lamented. "I hope you remember that we're supposed to be at Elio's at eight."
"Hey, I don't schedule this crap. It happens when it happens."
"What are you doing at a suicide? You guys think it might not be?"
"Hell, no! It's a suicide, all right, with a contact gunshot wound to the right temple. My presence is a special request from my beloved captain in appreciation of the parties involved and how much flak they are potentially capable of producing. Are you coming or what?"
"I'm on my way. Has the body been moved or touched?"
"Not by us."
"Who is that yelling in the background?"
"That's the diplomat husband or boyfriend. We have yet to figure that out. He's a little squirt, but he's feisty and makes me appreciate the silent, grieving type. He's been yelling at us since we got here, trying to boss us around like he's Napoleon."
"What's his problem?" Jack asked.
"He wants us to cover his naked wife or girlfriend, and he's madder than hell because we insist on
Pulling the phone from his belt clip, Jack eyed the LCD screen. Just as he feared, it was Allen Eisenberg. Allen was one of the pathology residents who was being paid by the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner to cover routine problems after hours, which the forensic investigator on duty thought needed the attention of a medical doctor. If the problem was beyond the pathology resident's comfort zone, then the medical examiner on call had to be contacted. Tonight, it was Jack.
"Sorry to have to call you, Dr. Stapleton," Allen said, his voice whiny and grating.
"What's the problem?"
"It's a suicide, sir."
"Okay, so what's the question? Can't you guys handle it?" Jack didn't know Allen very well, but he knew Steve Marriott, the evening forensic investigator, who was experienced.
"It's a high-profile case, sir. The deceased is the wife or girlfriend of an Iranian diplomat. He's been screaming at everyone and threatening to call the Iranian Ambassador. Mr. Marriott called me for backup, but I feel like I'm in over my head."
Jack didn't respond. It was inevitable: He would have to visit the scene. Such high-profile cases invariably took on political implications, which was the part of Jack's job that he detested. He had no idea if he'd be able to make the site visit and still get to the restaurant by eight, which only added to his anxiety.
"Are you still there, Dr. Stapleton?"
"Last time I looked," Jack retorted.
"I thought maybe we'd been cut off," Allen said. "Anyway, the location is apartment fifty-four-J in the United Nations Towers on Forty-seventh Street."
"Has the body been moved or touched?" Jack pulled on his brown corduroy jacket, unconsciously patting the square object in its right pocket.
"Not by me or the forensics investigator."
"What about by the police?" Jack started down the hallway toward the elevators. The hall was deserted.
"I don't believe so, but I didn't ask yet."
"What about by the husband or boyfriend?"
"You should ask the police. The detective in charge is standing next to me, and he wants to talk with you."
"Put him on!"
"Hey, buddy!" a loud voice said, forcing Jack to pull the phone away from his ear. "Get your ass over here!"
Jack recognized the gravelly voice as that of his friend of ten years, Detective Lieutenant Lou Soldano of the homicide division of the New York City Police Department. Jack had known Lou almost as long as he had known Laurie. It had been Laurie who had introduced them.
"I might have known you'd be behind this!" Jack lamented. "I hope you remember that we're supposed to be at Elio's at eight."
"Hey, I don't schedule this crap. It happens when it happens."
"What are you doing at a suicide? You guys think it might not be?"
"Hell, no! It's a suicide, all right, with a contact gunshot wound to the right temple. My presence is a special request from my beloved captain in appreciation of the parties involved and how much flak they are potentially capable of producing. Are you coming or what?"
"I'm on my way. Has the body been moved or touched?"
"Not by us."
"Who is that yelling in the background?"
"That's the diplomat husband or boyfriend. We have yet to figure that out. He's a little squirt, but he's feisty and makes me appreciate the silent, grieving type. He's been yelling at us since we got here, trying to boss us around like he's Napoleon."
"What's his problem?" Jack asked.
"He wants us to cover his naked wife or girlfriend, and he's madder than hell because we insist on
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