Which reminded Carella of the two hoods in the hotel bar. Which further reminded him of Svetlana's granddaughter. Which brought him full circle to why they were here.
"The autopsy," he reminded Blaney.
"Two to the heart," Blaney said. "Both of them in a space the size of a half-dollar. Which didn't take much of a marksman because the killer was standing quite close."
"How close' "I'd say no more than three, four feet. All the guy did was point and fire. Period."
"Was she drunk?" Carella asked.
"No. Percentage of alcohol in the brain was point-oh-two, well within the normal range. Urine and blood percentages were similarly normal."
"Can you give us a PMI?"
"Around eleven, eleven-thirty last night. Ballpark." No postmortem interval was entirely accurate. They all knew that. But Blaney's educated guess coincided with the time the man down the hall had heard shots. "Anything else we should know?" Hawes asked. "Examination of the skull revealed a schwannoma arising from the vestibular nerve, near the porus acusticus, extending into both the internal auditory meatus. "
"In English, please," Carella said. "An acoustic neuro ma "Come on, Paul."
"In short, a tumor on the auditory nerve. Quite large and cystic, probably causing hearing loss, headache, vertigo, disturbed sense of balance, unsteadiness of gait, and tinnitus."
"Tinnitus?"
"Ringing of the ears."
"oh."
"Liquid chromatography of the coagulated blood disclosed a drug called diclofenac, in concentrations indicating therapeutic doses. But the loose correlation between dosage and concentration is a semi quantitative process at best. All I can say for certain is that she was taking the drug, not why she was taking it. "Why do you think she was taking it?"
"Well, we don't normally examine joints in a post, and I haven't here.
But a superficial look at her fingers suggest what I'm sure a vertebral slice would reveal."
"And what's that?"
"Lipping on the anterior visible portion."
"What's lipping?"
"Knobby, bumpy, small excrescences of bone. In short, smooth, asymmetric swellings on the body of the vertebrae."
"Indicating what?"
"Arthritis?"
"Are you asking?"
"Do you know whether or not she was arthritic?"
"She was."
"Well, there," Blaney said.
Hawes was still trying to remember the title of that movie. He asked Sam Grossman if he remembered seeing it.
"I don't go to movies," Grossman said.
He was wearing a white lab coat, and standing before a counter covered with test tubes, graduated cylinders, beakers, spatulas, pipettes and flasks, all of which gave his work space an air of scientific inquiry that seemed in direct contrast to Grossman himself. A tall, angular man with blue eyes behind dark-framed glasses, he looked more like a New England farmer worried about drought than he did the precise police captain who headed up the lab.
Some ranking E-flat piano player in the department had undoubtedly decided that the death of a once-famous concert pianist rated special treatment, hence the dispatch with which Svetlana's body and personal effects had been sent respectively to the Chief Medical Examiner's Office and the lab. The mink coat, the cotton housedress, the pink sweater, the cotton panty hose, and the bedroom slippers were all on Grossman's countertop, dutifully tagged and bagged. At another table, one of Grossman's assistants sat with her head bent over a microscope.
Hawes looked her over. A librarian type, he decided, which he sometimes found exciting.
"Why do you ask?" Grossman said.
"Cause of death was two to the heart," Carella said. "Plenty of blood to support that," Grossman said, nodding. "All of it hers, by the way.
Nobody else bled all over the sweater and dress. The dress is a cheap cotton schmatte you can pick up at any Woolworth's. The house slippers are imitation leather, probably got those in a dime store, too. But the sweater has a designer label in it. And so does the mink. Old, but once worth something."
Which could have been said of the victim, too, Carella thought.
"Anything else?"
"I just got all this stuff," Grossman said. "Then when?"
"Later."
"When later?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Sooner."
"A magician I'm not," Grossman said.
They went back to the apartment again.
The yellow CRIME SCENE tapes were still up. A uniformed cop stood on the stoop downstairs, his hands behind his back, peering out at the deserted street. It was bitterly cold. He was wearing earmuffs and a heavy-duty overcoat, but he still looked frozen to death. They identified themselves and went upstairs. Another of the blues was on duty outside the door to apartment 3A. A cardboard CRIME SCENE card was taped to the door behind him. The door was padlocked. He produced a key when they identified themselves.
Hidden under a pile of neatly pressed and folded, lace-trimmed silk underwear at the back of the bottom drawer in her dresser, they found another candy tin. There was a savings account passbook in it.
