The Blacker Death: An Ebola Thriller by Larry Enright

sometimes they’re your friend.”
    If murdering a conversation were a crime, I’d be doing twenty to life in Leavenworth. We nursed our drinks till the food came. The food at Pico’s is pretty good after a few scotches and a couple beers. Jimmy tried to resurrect the get-together.
    “How’re the kids?” he asked.
    “Brian, Jr. is working as a ranch hand in Montana. Four years of college to learn how to rope a steer. Go figure. Peggy lives out in Omaha with her mother. She was getting married, I heard, but that was right after the divorce. I’m not sure how it panned out.”
    “Doesn’t the father give the bride away in this country?” Isabelle asked.
    “I was talking about my ex-wife. I send each of the kids a birthday card and a check every year. They never call, never write.”
    “You should have your own reality show, Bam,” Jimmy said. “Call it ‘The Loser.’”
    I gave Jimmy the same chin flick that Carmine had given me and realized just then that Tree Trunk had no intention of trying to get away after he’d killed Gyro the Greek. He wanted to get caught. He wanted us to know that he’d done it and that we couldn’t prove a damn thing. He was rubbing our nose in it. It was a vendetta, pure and simple. If he weren’t so stupid, he’d be long gone. And the only reason I’d gotten under his skin at the interrogation was because I get under everyone’s skin.
    “So, now that I’ve told you my life’s story,” I said, “what’s the scoop on you, Izzy?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Why are you a cop?”
    “My father was one,” she shrugged.
    “Let me guess. He died in the line of duty and you’re following in his footsteps like a good little girl.”
    “Bam,” said Jimmy. “You’re way out of line. What’s your problem?”
    “My problem is that Billy Driscoll is sitting in an isolation unit, waiting for the Grim Reaper to show up.”
    “My father is retired,” said Isabelle. “He and my mother have a house in the country. I majored in theater at university because my mother wanted me to — she always said I was a good actor — but I joined the force after graduating because I wanted to make a difference. I’ve already said I’m sorry once, but I will say it again. I’m truly sorry, Bam. I let Birot out of my sight one time too many and put your partner’s life in jeopardy. I want to make it up to you.”
    “Fair enough. Are you heading up the investigation? Because I want in.”
    “We are,” said Jimmy. “Izzy is here to help us through any diplomatic channels.”
    “What about NYPD?”
    “They’re in on it too.”
    “What have you got so far?”
    “Nothing to speak of. We contacted his father, Jacques Birot. He seemed devastated by the news and pretty upset that we wouldn’t release the body. We haven’t told him yet about the Ebola thing. We only said his death was suspicious and required an autopsy that we’re waiting on.”
    “Jacques is a nice man, and they were close,” said Isabelle. “They spoke by phone once a week like clockwork, and he often came to New York to visit when his son was in assembly.”
    “Yeah, what did they do together?”
    “They liked the museums. They went to plays. Birot liked the opera.”
    “I guess I should have tried that with my kids.”
    “According to Izzy, Birot had no other relatives and all his friends are back in Belgium,” said Jimmy.
    “Except the hookers,” I said. “Are you tracking down which one he was with after he disappeared?”
    “We are,” Isabelle said. “So far, nothing.”
    “How long ago did he drop out of sight?”
    “The General Assembly went into recess two days ago. He took a ride with the French delegation and told us to meet him back at the embassy. He said he was going to have lunch with a friend. They dropped him off on 8th Avenue. That was the last anyone saw of him.” She shrugged, “That’s how it usually went with Birot. He’d show up a few days later and everything would be