his only sibling, got everything.”
Sawyer took a swallow of coffee. “That’s interesting.”
“But I don’t think Ed Page popped his younger brother to fund his kids’
college education. From what I could find out, he was as surprised as
anyone else that his brother was a millionaire.”
“Anything in the autopsy report catch your eye?”
Jackson picked out two pages from the file and handed them across to
Sawyer. “As I said, a massive insulin overdose killed Steven Page. He
injected himself in the thigh. It’s a typical area of administration
for diabetics. Other hypodermic entry sites around the thigh region
showed it was his normal area of injection as well. Toxicology report
showed a point-one-eight blood alcohol level. That didn’t help his
cause any when he took the overdose. Rigormortis indicated he had been
dead about twelve hours when he was found; body temp was about eighty
degrees. He was also in full rigor; that corroborates the time of death
indicated by the body temperature and puts his check-out time at between
three and four in the morning.
Postmortem lividity was fixed. Guy died right where they found him.”
“Who did find him?”
“Landlady,” said Jackson. “Probably wasn’t a real pretty sight.”
“Death rarely is. Any note left behind?”
Jackson shook his head.
“Page make any calls before he kicked the bucket?”
“The last phone call Steven Page made from his apartment was at
seven-thirty that evening.”
“Who’d he call?”
“His brother.”
“Did the police talk to Ed Page?”
“You bet they did. Especially after they found out about the bucks
Steven Page had.”
“Ed Page have an alibi?”
“A pretty damn good one. As you know, he was a police officer back
then. He was working a drug bust with a squad of officers on the Lower
East Side when his little brother was dying.”
“The police ask Ed Page about the earlier phone conversation?”
“He said his brother was distraught. Steven told him about having HIV.
Ed Page said his brother sounded like he had already been drinking.”
“He didn’t try to go see him?”
“He said he wanted to, but his brother wanted no part of that. Finally
hung up on him. Ed Page tried calling back, but there was no answer. He
had to go on duty at nine. He said he’d thought he’d let his brother
alone for the night and then try to talk to him the next day. He didn’t
get off duty until ten A.M. He grabbed a few hours’ sleep and then went
to his brother’s office downtown around three.
When he found out Steven had never come to work, he went directly over
to his brother’s apartment. He got there about the time the police
did.”
“Jesus. I bet he was feeling some heavy-duty guilt.”
“If that had been my little brother…” Jackson said. “Damn.
Anyway, they ruled it a suicide. All the facts sure point that way.”
Sawyer rose and started pacing. “And yet with all that, Ed Page didn’t
think it was suicide. I wonder why.”
Jackson shrugged. “Wishful thinking. Maybe he was really feeling
guilty and made himself think that so he’d feel better. Who knows? NYPD
didn’t find any evidence of foul play, and looking at this report,
neither do I.”
Sawyer didn’t answer. He was in deep thought.
Jackson took the report on Steven Page and put it back in the file.
He looked over at Sawyer. “Find anything at Page’s office?”
Sawyer focused absently on his partner. “No. But I did find something
interesting at his house.” He put a hand inside his suit pocket and
extracted the photograph labeled “Stevie.” He handed the photograph to
Jackson. “Interesting, because it was kind of hidden behind some other
photo. I’m pretty sure it’s a picture of Steven Page.”
As soon as Jackson’s eyes came to rest on the photo, his mouth dropped
open. “Oh, my God!” He rose from his chair. “Oh, my God!” he said
again, his voice rising, his hands violently shaking as they clasped the
photo. “This can’t be–it’s not possible.”
Sawyer grabbed his shoulder. “Ray, Ray? What the hell is it?”
Jackson ran to another table in the room. He frantically grabbed files,
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