Chapter 17

James was surprised to see Isobel waiting for him in front of his office building when he emerged at six forty-five. His surprise gave way to suspicion when he saw the feverish look in her eyes.

"What?"

Isobel glanced up and down Madison Avenue. "Not here. Can we get a drink or something?" She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, sorry!"

He patted her shoulder. "It's okay, I can handle it."

They settled themselves at the lobby bar of a hotel on Madison and 52nd Street, where he used to meet Jayla. As the bartender served his Coke, James realized he hadn't been there since he and Jayla had broken up.

Isobel took a long sip of her wine. Then she set the glass down and looked at him squarely.

"He was poisoned. I saw the autopsy report. There were two things in his blood." She closed her eyes, as if trying to recall the words. "Meperidine and digoxin." She opened her eyes. "And coffee, eggs and toast in his stomach."

James felt his chest tighten, and the dim lights in the bar seemed to flicker. Why should it bother him to know beyond a doubt that Jason Whiteley had been murdered? Hadn't he at one time felt like murdering the guy himself? Maybe that's why it bothered him.

"Shit."

Isobel rubbed her hands together nervously. "What am I going to do? What can I tell them that will make them believe it wasn't me? I served him the coffee!"

James massaged his brow and tried to think. He was, unaccountably, flashing back to the night of the frat party when that Barnard girl had died. She and Jason had been dating, and he had given her a bottle of tequila as both a present and a dare. Jason had been mixing kamikazes California-style, right in her mouth, and when she'd passed out, he'd started making out with her roommate. He had served the girl the alcohol that killed her, and then cheated on her. And James had taken the rap. Jason deserved to have someone serve him poison in return.

"James? James! You're not helping." Isobel snapped her fingers in front of his face, jolting him back to the present.

"Maybe it wasn't in the coffee," he said reflexively. "Maybe it was in the eggs or the toast. Maybe his girlfriend or wife, or his roommate, whoever - maybe one of them poisoned him."

Isobel's brow furrowed. "Do you think? I hadn't thought of that."

"What are those substances? Where do you get them? How do they work?

"No idea. What I really want to know is if the rest of the coffee in the pot tested positive."

"You won't get that from the medical examiner. Only the police will know."

"Okay, so I'll call Detective O'Connor."

James stirred the ice cubes in his empty Coke glass. "Don't do it. Believe me, if you're a suspect, you'll find out soon enough."

"But I want to know beforehand. I want to be prepared. Doesn't it look good for me to be proactive?"

James gave a mordant laugh. She was such a little go-getter. "This isn't like trying to get an acting job. Nothing makes you look guiltier than trying to stay ahead of the cops."

"But O'Connor seemed nice," she insisted. "Well-educated, too."

"Never trust the nice ones," warned James. "They can turn on a dime, and when they do, they're meaner than the mean."

"Then I'll call the surly one. The short one with the beady eyes."

"Isobel!"

"What? I suppose you're going to tell me I'm being racist?"

"No, I'm going to tell you you're being naïve!"

She crossed her arms petulantly. "You also told me I was wrong about Whiteley being poisoned."

"Who got you into the medical examiner's office?"

"Just to prove me wrong, right?"

He threw up his hands. "You got me there."

"When are you going to start believing in me, James? I believe in you, you know! My friend Sunil asked me if I trusted you, and I said absolutely, yes, no question."

He looked into Isobel's lake-colored eyes and found himself saying, in a shakier voice than he intended, "You're just saying that."

She took his hand and he felt a flash of warmth rush up his arm. "I know you think I'm silly and flighty and all that, but I'm not stupid. Can't you trust me like I trust you?"

He felt suddenly as if he existed in a hundred different parts, each with a different possible answer and none of them the response he most wanted to give. He wanted to say that he trusted her, but he didn't. He didn't trust himself, which meant her trust in him was utterly misplaced. Therefore, he didn't - he couldn't - trust her judgment. How could he, when she was so wrong about him?

He shook her off. "Do what you want. I can't stop you. You always just go off and do your own thing anyway."

From the stricken look on her face, he knew he'd picked the worst of all possible responses. Isobel inhaled sharply and paused, half on and half off her barstool, her lips drawn back in a pained smile.

"I only made it through one box of death records. Sharon Press can finish the morgue job. I'm going back to Dove & Flight."