of events leading to the woman’s death.’ ”
“When was this?” Sam asked.
“About a year ago,” I said, then kept reading. “ ‘Edna Jackery was an employee of Sydney’s Snack and Scuba Shop, also located on County Road Thirty-nine, where she was a bookkeeper and occasional cashier. She reportedly worked late that night, and police speculate that shedecided to walk home after failing to start her 1997 Chevrolet Malibu, which apparently had a dead battery.’ There’s a bunch of other stuff about the survivors, and what a good mother she was, and the memorial service, and the rest of the usual.”
I looked for more recent articles, but there was only one, which said the police had yet to track down the hit-and-run driver.
“If Edna Jackery died at Southampton Hospital, Markham would’ve been the one to declare, am I right?” I asked Sam.
“If he was there, and when isn’t he?”
“You can ask him what happened to her nipple.”
“I’m not asking him,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I’m on my way to the Pequot to eat fish, drink vodka, and crack a new physics text from the library. See if I can bring a little certainty to Werner Heisenberg.”
“I don’t know how you read stuff like that. It makes my hair hurt.”
“Tell me what you find out,” he said. “I’ll do the same.”
“Certainly.”
My new car was still where I parked it. I don’t know why it wouldn’t be, but I was feeling overly protective.
As predicted, Markham was at the helm of the Southampton Hospital ER. The woman who sat in a little glass booth just inside the double doors, through which I’d recently been wheeled, examined me carefully when I asked to see him, looking for blood or evidence of blunt-force trauma.
“Dr. Fairchild is on the surgical floor on a consult. How important is this?” she asked.
“It’s regarding a murder investigation,” I said, hoping that sounded important enough.
She seemed unhappy about it, but picked up the phone and murmured into it for a few minutes. Then she looked up at me.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jackie Swaitkowski. He knows me.”
Still looking at me, she listened and nodded and pointed to the waiting room.
“Any relation to Pete Swaitkowski?” she asked.
“Widow.”
“Oh. Sorry. My sister had a terrible crush on him in high school. I guess you’re the one who caught the fish.”
“More like a bird,” I said, and went to sit down. I’d had this exchange a few hundred times since Pete and I got married. Nobody could argue with Pete’s looks. Or his gentle, good-natured smile and eagerness to do whatever dopey thing anybody else thought would be fun. He’d walk in a room and all the gay men and heterosexual women would drop dead in love. I finally got used to it when I realized he was oblivious to the whole thing. Probably assumed it happened to everybody.
Half an hour later, the woman in the booth waved to me and told me to meet Markham in the canteen.
“I didn’t know you were in the employ of the police,” he said as I approached. He was sitting at a table with a half dozen cups of yogurt, apparently purchased from one of the vending machines.
“I’m not. The victim was one of my clients.”
“And one of mine?” he asked.
“Sergey Pontecello. Found in a bloody heap in the middle of the road.”
He nodded as he dug around the bottom of the yogurt container.
“I love the ones with all the little pieces of fruit,” he said. “It’s like finding buried treasure.”
“He was declared dead at the scene, so I assume they took him straight to the forensic morgue in Riverhead.”
“That’s right. But I hear about it from the paramedics. They like to impress me with gruesome stuff I don’t actually see, so I can’t prove them big talkers.”
“Not sure they could exaggerate this one. Pretty gruesome.”
“I take your word for it, Counselor. How you feeling yourself? Sometimes the bad stuff take some time to show itself.
“When was this?” Sam asked.
“About a year ago,” I said, then kept reading. “ ‘Edna Jackery was an employee of Sydney’s Snack and Scuba Shop, also located on County Road Thirty-nine, where she was a bookkeeper and occasional cashier. She reportedly worked late that night, and police speculate that shedecided to walk home after failing to start her 1997 Chevrolet Malibu, which apparently had a dead battery.’ There’s a bunch of other stuff about the survivors, and what a good mother she was, and the memorial service, and the rest of the usual.”
I looked for more recent articles, but there was only one, which said the police had yet to track down the hit-and-run driver.
“If Edna Jackery died at Southampton Hospital, Markham would’ve been the one to declare, am I right?” I asked Sam.
“If he was there, and when isn’t he?”
“You can ask him what happened to her nipple.”
“I’m not asking him,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I’m on my way to the Pequot to eat fish, drink vodka, and crack a new physics text from the library. See if I can bring a little certainty to Werner Heisenberg.”
“I don’t know how you read stuff like that. It makes my hair hurt.”
“Tell me what you find out,” he said. “I’ll do the same.”
“Certainly.”
My new car was still where I parked it. I don’t know why it wouldn’t be, but I was feeling overly protective.
As predicted, Markham was at the helm of the Southampton Hospital ER. The woman who sat in a little glass booth just inside the double doors, through which I’d recently been wheeled, examined me carefully when I asked to see him, looking for blood or evidence of blunt-force trauma.
“Dr. Fairchild is on the surgical floor on a consult. How important is this?” she asked.
“It’s regarding a murder investigation,” I said, hoping that sounded important enough.
She seemed unhappy about it, but picked up the phone and murmured into it for a few minutes. Then she looked up at me.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jackie Swaitkowski. He knows me.”
Still looking at me, she listened and nodded and pointed to the waiting room.
“Any relation to Pete Swaitkowski?” she asked.
“Widow.”
“Oh. Sorry. My sister had a terrible crush on him in high school. I guess you’re the one who caught the fish.”
“More like a bird,” I said, and went to sit down. I’d had this exchange a few hundred times since Pete and I got married. Nobody could argue with Pete’s looks. Or his gentle, good-natured smile and eagerness to do whatever dopey thing anybody else thought would be fun. He’d walk in a room and all the gay men and heterosexual women would drop dead in love. I finally got used to it when I realized he was oblivious to the whole thing. Probably assumed it happened to everybody.
Half an hour later, the woman in the booth waved to me and told me to meet Markham in the canteen.
“I didn’t know you were in the employ of the police,” he said as I approached. He was sitting at a table with a half dozen cups of yogurt, apparently purchased from one of the vending machines.
“I’m not. The victim was one of my clients.”
“And one of mine?” he asked.
“Sergey Pontecello. Found in a bloody heap in the middle of the road.”
He nodded as he dug around the bottom of the yogurt container.
“I love the ones with all the little pieces of fruit,” he said. “It’s like finding buried treasure.”
“He was declared dead at the scene, so I assume they took him straight to the forensic morgue in Riverhead.”
“That’s right. But I hear about it from the paramedics. They like to impress me with gruesome stuff I don’t actually see, so I can’t prove them big talkers.”
“Not sure they could exaggerate this one. Pretty gruesome.”
“I take your word for it, Counselor. How you feeling yourself? Sometimes the bad stuff take some time to show itself.
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