Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“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.