“The way they’re approaching this, they haven’t got a hope in hell.”
“There then, Krekor. It’s settled. This is your priest talking. You should do what you can do for as long as you can do it, and worry about eventually when it gets here.”
“Right,” Gregor said.
Gregor could have pointed out that for Tibor to consider himself Gregor’s priest was worse than disingenuous, since Gregor was the only permanent resident of Cavanaugh Street who did not regularly attend church. He was also the only permanent resident of Cavanaugh who had doubts about the existence of God and was willing to say so. Why quibble, when Tibor was telling him what he wanted to hear?
Poisons and Toxicity was threatening to break his kneecaps. Gregor chucked it off to his side.
“Listen,” he told Tibor, “I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Not until tonight, Krekor. Because of going to Ardmore.”
“Not until tonight, then. Maybe not until very late tonight. I have a lot of running around to do, and I’m going to have to do it all in cabs.”
“Good luck,” Tibor said.
Gregor hung up. He put the phone back on the side table. He stood and went over to the other bed. The forensics report was a clipped-together mass of photocopied forms that looked like it had been scribbled over by a gang of angry children. Gregor leafed through it until he found a page with the departmental letterhead showing through reasonably clearly. Then he checked the time again. It was exactly eight o’clock. If he’d been dealing with a doctor in private practice, he wouldn’t have had a chance. Doctors employed by states and cities, though, worked on state and city schedules. He could only hope.
He punched in the number for the New Haven medical examiner’s office. He got a phone that rang six times before it was picked up. He had expected to reach a receptionist or a switchboard operator. He got a man with a deep voice and a hacking cough.
“Medical examiner’s office,” the man said.
Gregor thought he might as well give it a try. “My name is Gregor Demarkian. I don’t know if that will be familiar to anyone in the ME’s office or not. I’m looking for Dr. Philip Brye.”
The hacking cough went on and on. Either this man needed to stop smoking cigarettes, or he had the kind of cold that should have kept him home from work.
“Mr. Demarkian?” the man said. “This is Brye. Tony Bandero told me you might call.”
“I didn’t know if you’d be in this early in the morning,” Gregor said.
Philip Brye chuckled. “I’m always in. Ask Tony. I’m here day and night. Since my divorce, I don’t seem to have any place else to go. My wife said I wouldn’t go any place else even when we were married. You have something you want to know?”
“I’d like to come in and talk to you in person, if you wouldn’t mind,” Gregor said.
“About Tim Bradbury?”
“About Tim Bradbury.”
“I saw all that stuff on the news last night about the accident at Fountain of Youth and I wasn’t sure. My, Tony was having himself a fine old time, wasn’t he? Did you know that Tony Bandero had aspirations on the order of turning himself into a media star?”
“I’d begun to suspect it.”
“Yeah, well, everybody does after about ten minutes. So come on in. I’ll send out for coffee and Danish if you haven’t had breakfast. We’ll have a talk.”
“I haven’t had breakfast,” Gregor said.
“Nobody really gets in around here until nine o’clock anymore anyway,” Philip Brye said. “It’s not like it was when I was starting out. We all got in early and stayed late. Now the only time this place is buzzing is on the holidays. New Year’s Eve coming up. Do you find yourself giving lectures about how different everything was when you were young and feeling about three hundred years old?”
“Often,” Gregor said, “but I don’t think I really want the world to be like what it was when I was young.”
“I guess I don’t either, not in most ways. Look, if Tony’s stuck you safely out of town without a car, call Bulldog Cabs. They’re a bunch of college kids and they need the money. Also, they’re reliable and they’re cheap.”
“Bulldog Cabs,” Gregor agreed.
“See you in a while,” Philip Brye said.
Gregor hung up again. That hadn’t been too bad, he thought. Philip Brye hadn’t hung up on him. He even sounded like he might turn into an ally.
Gregor got up and headed for the closet, where he had hung his three three-piece suits and his little collection of white button-down shirts: what Bennis always called his “determined to be unfashionable” wardrobe. He had taken a shower the night before, so he didn’t have to worry about that. He had at least one tie—the lemon yellow and scarlet red rep tie Donna Moradanyan had given him for Christmas—that was in reasonably good shape. It wasn’t in reasonably good taste, but Gregor tried not to ask too much of ties. It was enough that they shouldn’t be fraying. Or actually in strips.