When I emerged from the subway at Bowling Green, right at Manhattan’s southernmost tip, I had a few extra minutes to wander the twisty streets of the financial district. I always loved the layers of history here, the street names from the Dutch, when this was New Amsterdam—Maiden Lane, Beaver St., Wall Street, Bowling Green itself—the commodity exchanges going back to the days of the clipper ships, the cobblestones on a few narrow side streets lined with buildings right out of an antique print.
Then right around the corner there would an assertive glass office tower, occupying an entire block, covering the site of something like the Dutch city hall, and here and there, the ordinary twenty-first century sandwich shops and chain drug stores and nail salons to serve the thousands of workers of those towers.
Here was the cemetery where Alexander Hamilton was buried, the church where Washington prayed, the cathedral-like granite towers where the old robber barons worshipped Mammon. There was Delmonico’s restaurant, a reconstruction of the place where Diamond Jim Brady cavorted with Lillian Russell. There were ghosts everywhere, most of them old enough, centuries old, to seem benign.
The most painful downtown ghosts, the most real to me and every New Yorker, were not right in front of me today. The site of the World Trade Center was many blocks north from where I stood right now.
None of it quite banished the dreadful scene at Leary’s apartment. I feared the emergency room would never tell me anything; I would have to go see him as soon as I could.
A few more twists and turns brought me to the address Steven had provided, right on Battery Park, an impressive yet subdued stone building, a home for movers and shakers who preferred a more discreet profile. Inside, though, the soaring lobby was all polished marble, in several colors, inlaid floors, and elaborate brass trim, the epitome of Gilded Age décor demanding attention and awe.
It gave me the same feeling I have looking at Renaissance art. I had to admire the beauty even while I remembered the questionable fortunes that paid for it.
I spotted a discreet, handsome sign saying Hoyt Enterprises and it confused me. Wasn’t James Hoyt Steven’s uncle? I thought this was Steven’s office. Before I could even step to the lofty reception desk, a man in a dark suit came over to me, said “Ms. Donato?” and when I admitted to it, said, “Right this way.”
We bypassed the reception desk, the ID checking, the signing in, the visitor’s tag, and went directly to an elevator. It was waiting for us, doors open. “If you please,” he said and ushered me in.
The doors closed smoothly, and when they opened again, seconds later, we were at a discreetly elegant reception area and Steven was waiting for me.
“Thank you,” he said to the silent man, and to me, “Right this way.”
It was a comfortable office, handsomely furnished, with his nameplate on the door, “I don’t understand. I thought we were meeting at your office. “
“We are. I have an office at my own firm, of course, but I keep one here, because Uncle James is an important client of ours. What do you think?”
“I think I would never do any work at all if I had that window.” We looked right out over Battery Park, a scene of soothing greenery and constant activity, and past it to the ferry terminal and the harbor.
He smiled ruefully. “Note that the desk chair keeps my back to the window. Not an accident. Have a seat? Can I ring for anything for you? Water? Coffee?”
I barely had my folders out, with period photos and useful articles, on his desk, when someone else rang for him.
“Excuse me, I need to take this.”
He turned away from me, and I heard him say softly. “Yes,” “Now?” and “Yes” again. The caller was doing all the talking.
When he turned back, he stood up. “Let’s leave the work for now. We have an invitation to meet someone” He held out a hand to me. “I promise it will be interesting.”
We went back to the elevators, and twenty floors later, with no stops, we stepped directly into an office suite so huge it might have occupied the entire floor. Or at least, it seemed that way to my overwhelmed first glance. In the enormous inner office, bright golden late afternoon sun slid between the bands of a closed silvery shade.
Pastel leather sofas were placed in small groups on the thick Chinese rugs and there was no clutter on the huge glass desk. The sole object was an abstract marble sculpture precisely placed at one corner.
“Ah, Steven. So this is your guest?” The elderly man sounded like Franklin Roosevelt and he had silver hair, a deep golf-course tan, and on this hot summer day was perfectly dressed in a charcoal pin-striped suit, pressed shirt with cufflinks, silk tie. No lounging around in business casual in this office.
“Come in, come in. I am happy to meet you. Erica, isn’t it? Please call me James. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s take a drink out on the terrace, shall we?”
No one needed to introduce me. This was James Hoyt, the man whose name was on the building. I swallowed hard and looked at Steven with, I’m sure, a question in my face. Lots of questions. His expression didn’t answer any of them.
We paused at a bar that seemed to cover one end of the room, and there he poured from a cut glass decanter. “Will you join me in a small pick-me-up? I am having excellent aged Scotch, Highland Park, all the way from the Orkney Islands. Steven, for you? Or I have bottled water here.”
“Water, please.” I did not need liquor adding to my confusion, however exotic a drink it was.
The terrace was landscaped with planters and furnished with solid teak deck chairs, comfortably cushioned, and solid wood tables. I thought fleetingly of the rusted wire mesh seats on my tiny deck. We stood at the stone railing, looking out over the harbor, the bridges and the boats. From that height we could see past New Jersey, past Staten Island, right out to the ocean. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore. It did feel like an old movie, though, a different one with Cary Grant or Humphrey Bogart playing a tycoon.
James spoke from behind us. “I’ve been here forty years and I’m not tired of the view yet. Sometimes I am able to look down over the storm clouds.”
“Uncle James has Zeus fantasies.” Steven’s voice was teasing and James waved a dismissive hand.
“Now, young lady, Steven seems to think you have just the skills to help us with a little problem on our project.”
Our project? I sent a sharp look in Steven’s direction. Was James the mysterious client? The one I was working for? Was there a reason he had not mentioned this? Behind James back, Steven put a discreet finger to his lips, and poured another drink.
“Why don’t you have a seat and tell me all about yourself? Steven tells me you are from Brooklyn yourself?”
Did I really hear an undertone in his voice that added, “Of all exotic places?” Or was I being defensive?
Looking at me steadily, as if he was reading my mind, James added, “I understand you’ve acquired the local insights we find so useful from your work at the Brooklyn History Museum. I know it well. The president of your board is an old friend of mine.”
I had never even met a museum board member.
“And do you also live in that lovely neighborhood, my dear, where the museum is located?”
“Brooklyn Heights? Not a chance. I could not possibly afford it.” I suddenly felt compelled to establish exactly who I am. Aggressively. “I live in Park Slope, also old and charming, but I live in the less charming part, in a very little, undistinguished house that needs a whole lot of work. I grew up in East Flatbush, actually.” Not so old and not so charming, I thought.
There. It was all in the open. Of course I hadn’t yet mentioned that I went to public schools and still went to one, and I had never met a debutante. All this luxury was making me prickly.
“Ah, Park Slope indeed. Now there is a neighborhood that gives new meaning to urban change. I’m sure your house is charming, as they all are there. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
All right, I haven’t had a lot of job interviews in the business world. Actually, I haven’t had any, but this one, if that’s what it was, seemed decidedly odd. Unless he was trying to find common ground. Or he had a subtle interview agenda I was not able to recognize. This was not my world.
“Where should I start?
“Why choose an old house that needs work instead of something clean and perfect?”
“I like old things with stories. I am a historian, after all, or will be when I finish my Ph.D. I have to admit that my parents asked me the same thing.” More than a few times, I thought but did not say.
“Does that mean your parents aren’t historians?”
“Exactly. My dad is a retired cab driver
,
and my mother was, well, she was a mother, and then a secretary at a school.”
“Ah, I see.”
I wondered if he did.
“Of course renovation is a creative act in itself. I’ve put a few renovations in motion in my time.”
Behind him, Steven winked at me. “On a somewhat different scale.”
James waved a hand to dismiss the difference. “Several spacious country houses in my various marriages. Of course they were usually the current wife’s project. I imagine a brownstone has a whole set of preservation issues.”
“Not mine. Everything worth keeping was ripped out long ago.”
“I see.” He looked at me with serious attention.
“Steven has explained to me that the useful work you have been doing for our little venture has been sidetracked by some disturbing problems.” He patted my arm with one almost transparent, trembling hand. I wondered if he was older than he looked. “How can we help you? We consider you a new member of our team, and we do try to take care of our own. Why don’t you tell me what is on your mind?”
I had a feeling people did not often say no to James Hoyt. I didn’t. I couldn’t. It never even crossed my mind.
I began slowly, fumbling, and was appalled to hear my voice turn shaky several times as I described the series of strange incidents in my life and the lives of people around me.
“Is it saying the obvious to suggest you cease asking questions? Someone seems unhappy about that.”
“Yes. All right, yes, maybe I should, but I don’t seem to be able to.”
“I see.” James was nodding thoughtfully. “Please accept my condolences on the untimely death of your friend. I sympathize with your desire to understand it, and on that, I may be helpful. I have friends. But I wonder if there isn’t also a clear issue of your own safety? Maybe we can help directly with that.”
I nodded slightly.
“You have a child, don’t you?”
Off guard, I stammered. “Yes, but she’s fine. She’s not here, in fact I sent her off to camp because I was a worried….”
“Probably you should be. If someone is harassing you, it is not impossible that he could go after her too.”
His words sent a chill right into my body. I must have shivered, because he said gravely, looking right at me, “I don’t mean to alarm you unnecessarily but too much caution is surely preferable to too little, don’t you agree, where a child is concerned?”
I didn’t want to talk about Chris with this smooth, enigmatic man. My child was entirely too personal a topic for this company and this place. I remembered what Steven had said about his cousin JJ.
“You speak as if you know.” I was very politely turning the tables. “Do you have children?”
He put his glass down so quickly, whisky splashed out. “Not any more.”
He used his monogrammed pocket square to awkwardly blot up the spill, then he turned back to me with an unreadable face. “Ms. Donato, please believe that we are trying to help you. Indulge me if you will and allow an old man to feel useful. Steven can take you to meet my most excellent security director and he will come up with a plan for your safety. And you will exercise more caution in your activities?”
As I started to protest, he patted my hand, “I am sure you will do the intelligent thing. I am sure you see what it is.”
He seemed confident that he had made his point. I was guessing that most meetings with him ended with him making his points. He made a call and exchanged a few quiet words. Next thing I knew, another silent man in a dark suit was in the office to escort us down in the elevator.
James shook my hand, then bent down to kiss me on my cheek. “Ms. Donato, use your friends; that’s what they are for.”
It was another swift, silent ride. Steven put a reassuring hand on my elbow, but only said, “We are going to meet Rob McLeod.”
My questioning look was answered with, “He handles buildings, corporate, personal security, everything that needs doing. Relax. He’s a good man, very capable.”
Our escort took us to a door with no information on it, punched a code into a keypad, walked us to a modest, comfortable office, and left.
The tall, trim man at the desk stood to shake our hands. “Steven, good to see you. Ms. Donato? Please be comfortable. I’m Rob McLeod, Mr. Hoyt’s head of security. This is my private office.”
McLeod’s suit hid his physique, but something about the way he moved told me there would be muscles under the Brooks Brothers clothes. He had the erect posture and short hair of an ex-military man. Or an ex-cop. After we were seated, I asked him which. He smiled, briefly. “Both. Marines and Chicago PD. Now tell me why Mr. Hoyt sent you to me?”