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.”
“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.”
“Had you seen Dr. Abner since that incident?”
“I’ve seen him around. I stay out of his way. He comes in here from his private practice. I’m in the trenches. I didn’t appreciate what he said or did, and said so. This brings the cops to my work?”
“That’s right. Where were you night before last, about ten o’clock?”
“Out there, dealing with a teenager with three holes in him from a sticker. I was supposed to be off at ten, they brought the kid in at nine-forty-five. I triaged him for surgery, gave a statement to the cops. I didn’t get out of here until at least ten-thirty.”
“And then?”
“I went home, where my wife was waiting for me. We drove to the Hamptons. We have a friend with a beach house, and they’d told us we could have it for a couple nights. We both had the next day and night off, so we spent it there. Slept, had sex, ate, drank, slept some more. We drove home early this morning. Jesus.”
“Did you see or speak to anyone while there?”
His temper rose, visibly—the heat in the eyes, the tightening of the jaw.
“No. The whole point was quiet, solitude, relax. We walked on the beach a few times, but we weren’t being sociable. Look, I have to get back. This has nothing to do with me.”
“Who owns the house?”
He hissed out a breath. “Charmaine and Oliver Inghram. Ollie and I went to med school together. He’s private, too. Cosmetic surgery, so he can afford a beach house. We borrowed my brother-in-law’s car, as we don’t own one. He’s a lawyer, and if you come back on me again, I’ll be contacting him.”
He stormed out, and Eve angled her head.
“Bad attitude, bad temper, resents not having a pot of money. He stays on the list—along with the wife.”
“She could’ve made the drop,” Peabody agreed. “Then they drive to the Hamptons for cover. It’s not bad.”
“Yeah. We’ll keep looking at them. Now let’s go talk to men who liked to smack little kids around.”
“The fun never ends in Homicide.”
They tracked down Ben Ringwold at his food truck in a primo spot a block off Fifth. Though not yet open for the lunch crowd, he answered the door at their knock.
Incredible scents poured out.
He wore a splattered white bib apron, had his hair shorn close to his scalp. His face was as splattered with freckles as his apron was with sauces.
“Sorry, ladies, we need about fifteen minutes.”
The “we” included a second man, as black as Ringwold was white, working at the stove where all those spicy smells came from. The second man—also an ex-con, from Peabody’s search—had a head full of dreads covered with a cook’s cap.
Eve just held up her badge—and watched Ringwold’s face tighten with stress.
“We have our licenses, our permits.” He pointed back in the truck where they were displayed.
“We’re not here about your license, Mr. Ringwold. We’re here to talk to you about Dr. Kent Abner.”
“Kent Abner?” He didn’t pretend not to know the name. “What about him?”
“He’s dead. He was poisoned yesterday morning.”
“Poisoned? Jesus. Look, you better come in—it’s tight, but if we have the door open, people are going to start lining up.”
“What time in the morning?” Ringwold’s partner, one Jacques Lamont, spoke with a musical accent that explained the name on the truck.
CAJUN BON TEMPS
“About nine-thirty,” Eve said as she and Peabody crowded in.
Stains and splatters might have painted both aprons like crazed art, but the cook and prep surfaces were shining clean.
“We already prepping by nine,” Lamont said. “Getting our supplies for the day. You can check.”
“How about ten o’clock the night before?”
“I was at a meeting. Addicts Anonymous, at Blessed Redeemer Church—we use the basement. From about eight to about nine, nine-thirty. Then I had coffee and some pie with the kid I’m sponsoring. We left about eleven, I guess, to head home.”
“How long have you been clean?” Peabody asked him.
“Nine years, eight months, two weeks, and four days. I’m not going to give you the kid’s name, but I’ll give you the diner where we had coffee—and some pie. I’ll give you the waitress’s name. I’m a regular, Susan knows me. We were there until about eleven. It’s only a couple blocks from my place, and I walked home, went to bed. It’s the Bottomless Cup, on Franklin. Susan Franco waited on us.”