Brooklyn Graves (14 page)

“And?” Eliot said it; I was keeping quiet.

He admitted, “And he walked out. I ripped him apart, my man. He's new but he still should've had more sense. Then again,” he looked at me in a way I did not like, “you're not new and you should have had more sense, too.”

Eliot said. “I can see you felt outgunned but you should have called me…”

“Or me,” Dixon said. “It was a huge lapse in judgment. Huge. If I had a heads up I would have handled it very differently.”

“But I tried to…”

Dixon held up his hand to stop me. “If anything happens to that stuff, we are all in trouble. Is that clear enough or do I have to make a speech?” Then he left.

I said, “Eliot, I am so sorry. I feel so stupid. And responsible, too. Just tell me, how bad is this, really?”

He shrugged. “The boss should have known Flint might take advantage and not been so accommodating. Maybe it will all work out. We just have to wait and see.” He turned to papers on his desk, and I could see I was dismissed.

I did not find any of this very reassuring.

“Remember,” he said as I was leaving, “I said your involvement with these Tiffany letters could be a very nice boost to your career? That's a good reason to be careful.” He added, “However that boost has to come with some kind of price tag. Make more of an effort to charm the difficult Thomas Flint. I'm sure you can figure out how.”

Yeah, yeah, I thought. One, charm is not my strong suit; I'm more of a straight-to-the-point person. Two, he seemed immune in any case. Three, I didn't want to charm him, even if I could.

But, yes, I certainly did want to remain on this project now. Maude Cooper was beginning to charm me.

I took a short walk to clear
my head. Hell, I wasn't even supposed to be working that day; no one could tell me I shouldn't leave my desk. They'd better not. Maybe fresh air would chase away the knots in my stomach this whole discussion had caused.

I couldn't seem to get a fix on how badly I had screwed up. I'd been at the museum long enough to know that the genteel behavior in a scholarly organization only covered up all the usual undercurrents of jealousy, ambition, and just plain old bitchiness. Some people were wonderful; some would gladly step on your hands as they climbed over you on the ladder. However, I still had trouble, sometimes, reading the signals through that fog of gentility.

I needed this job. The flexible, part-time hours made it possible for me to work on my dissertation. The pittance of a salary helped me augment my patchwork financial life of fellowships and insurance. The practical experience helped me gain credentials for a real job.

My eyes began to prick, even as I ordered myself not to even think of crying in a public place. I walked faster, no longer noticing the lovely surroundings. I just needed to keep moving. And maybe find a cupcake or two.

An hour later, I had a plan to rescue myself.

“Ryan?” When I called, I used my best mom-not-to-be-messed with voice. “I need to double check some details on those documents your boss took. It can't wait. I'll come look at them tonight, wherever they are.

If I didn't tell him what I really wanted he had no opportunity to say no or to discuss it with Flint. Face to face, I hoped I could persuade them to hand over the boxes. This time I would be grounded in sure knowledge that I had been right, and I would be fueled by Dixon's scary words.

“Uh, okay, they're here at Dr. Flint's house. I'll be here too, all evening, working on them. I guess it's okay for you to come over.”

“Sure it is. We're all working together, after all.”

“I can't ask him anyway. He's out for the whole night, some fundraiser in Connecticut. I'm working and house-sitting.”

Yes! Perfect. In Flint's absence, I was sure I could persuade Ryan—okay, bully him—to hand it all over to me. I would have it all back where it belonged first thing in the morning.

Chapter Twelve

I drove slowly through the quiet back streets of Greenwich Village, looking for the address Ryan had given me. In the busy heart of the Village, you would not think there were any quiet back streets left. The sidewalks always seem to be thronged with NYU students and suburban tourists looking for adventure, and any block might offer a tattoo and piercing shop, a multi-starred restaurant, and one of the few remaining jazz clubs—reminders of an earlier age—or the entire block might be pizza shops, cheap shoes, and cell-phone stores.

Yet, the quiet spots remain. These blocks are lined with exquisitely preserved brick row-houses, much older than those in my neighborhood. There are gracious trees, and well-dressed adults walking sleek dogs. Yes, I could see Dr. Flint here.

Until I found the address, I hadn't realized I was not looking for one of the grand old apartment buildings that anchor some of the corners. I imagined him there in Edith Wharton-ish splendor, but in fact, it was one of the brick townhouses, in the restrained Federal style, with none of the Gilded Age embellishments of my neighborhood. Elegant planters with clipped boxwood lined the stairs. Sleek black painted shutters. And, yes, there was a smartly polished brass plaque next to the door. It said 1823.

I ran up the short flight of front steps, rang the doorbell, waited, and rang again. I was anxious to get the unpleasant errand done.

True, Ryan was a bit flaky but we had just talked, so where was he? I was beginning to be annoyed. Perhaps I should have gone to the old tradesman's entrance under the stairs. I rang the bell down there, peered through the wrought-iron security gate and even rattled it, looking for a sign of life.

I dug my phone out and called, and when there was no answer, left a message: “I am right outside. Answer the damn doorbell!”

I returned to the main door, determined to pound on it until I had his attention. All of the neighbors', too, if necessary. With the first smack of my fist, it gave and I realize it was not quite locked. Okay, I would go in and wake him from his nap, or his video game-induced stupor or whatever it was. Perhaps it was a substance-induced funk. He seemed to be too anxious about his job to try that during working hours, but what did I really know?

I stepped into a dark narrow hall, papered in an elaborate antique-looking design. There seemed to be a parlor off to the right. Though I would normally have been full of curiosity about this elegant old house, I was too annoyed to do more now than take it in, in passing. It seemed surprisingly messy.

I walked to the kitchen in the back, calling Ryan's name, but the room was empty. I looked out the French doors, into a tiny, well-lit garden, to see if he was out there.

There was another room, a kind of study I guessed, as I saw rows of bookcases beyond the half opened door. That looked like the right place for Ryan to be hiding out. It was even messier than the parlor.

And there he was, slumped over a huge old wooden desk, in front of a huge modern computer, sound asleep.

“Ryan!” It was my exasperated mother voice, my “Chris, out of bed right now” voice, inappropriate for a work situation. I didn't care. “Ryan, damn it!” When I put my hand on his shoulder to shake him awake, just as I would Chris, he moved, stiffly and then I saw the wound on the side of his head. He had hit something or been hit. There was blood.

I guess I screamed.

The next thing I knew, I was in the kitchen, as far from Ryan's lifeless body as I could get, dialing 911, giving the necessary information and being told to stay right there. I sat down, shaking and wondering if I would throw up.

Then I called Chris, leaving messages at home and on her cell, that I was delayed, no idea how long. She should do her homework. No going out. And she could call me if she needed to.

My voice sounded weird, even to me, and I wondered how long it would take her to call and demand to know what was going on.

Then I sat in the parlor, on an antique sofa, unable to move or even think, until the police came. I sat there for what seemed like a long time and I could not even have said later what color the sofa was.

The next hour was a blur. Some officers talked to me, asked me a lot of questions about who I was, why I was there, when I arrived, where I had been earlier, when I had talked to him. I could easily establish when I'd left work. I told them I understood this to be Dr. Flint's home, but had no idea where he was or how to reach him; someone in uniform was examining his phone for information. Someone else was dusting the computer for fingerprints, and then began to wrap it up. Someone else asked me if I could see if anything valuable had been taken, and I said I could see items all over the house that I suspected might valuable, but I had never been there before so I could not know what might be missing. I realized the mess might have been made by burglars. If only I had been there earlier.

It didn't come to me until later that if I had been there earlier, I too might have been lying facedown on the table.

Something else hit me first.

“Officer.” My voice went all weird. “I told you I came to pick up some historical documents? They were in boxes…I didn't see them there…in the study…”

“And they would be valuable? Papers of some kind?”

I nodded. “And they really should not have been removed from the museum at all. I mean, they are not valuable in dollars like—um, that silver bowl over there…but they can't be replaced.”

“Describe the boxes.” He motioned to one of the crime scene team. “Can you take her in there? Just to look around? Listen to what she says about the boxes, look all over the room, then someone take her upstairs too, if they're not in there. And could the contents be out and like, scattered around?”

I nodded again.

“Don't touch anything, not one thing, but speak up if you see something like what you're looking for. Got that? You can get started in just a minute.”

I nodded again. I stood up and saw some people going into the study with what I was sure was a body bag.

It felt like a bitter clear moment in the midst of all the activity.

“I…before…” I swallowed. “I knew him. Can I see him…before you take him away…?”

They stopped and one said, “Yeah, sure, but quick.”

I went back into the study for the first time since I found Ryan. He was ready to go now I could see his face, still as a mask, eyes closed. I had wanted to say good-bye, somehow, but now I did not know how to do it. This was not the smart, goofy kid I had liked and who had exasperated me. That person was gone from this body, but I stayed while they moved what was left behind into the bag and took it away. It seemed the least I could do.

An hour later, we had established that the boxes of documents were not there, and the individual documents did not seem to be lying around anywhere. Not on the shelves in the study or on the floor under the desk or in the credenza. It turned out there was a safe in the study, hidden behind an engraving, but it was unlocked and empty. There was nowhere in the exquisite parlor to stash anything, and nothing was hidden in the kitchen cabinets either.

Later, they would do a full search—every dresser drawer upstairs, every closet, in the basement if there was one. I gave them as detailed a description of the papers as I could. In fact, I would scan and send a few of the copies from the office in the morning so they would know exactly what to look for, but I had no hope.

They had been in Flint's possession for only a few hours, and Ryan had told me he would be working on them tonight. They should have been right there on the desk and he should have been right there, too, conscientiously making notes and frowning with anxiety.

They told me I could leave at last, and I walked to my car with tears running down my face.

It was late now. In the surreal atmosphere at Flint's house, I had lost all track of time. The main avenues were still clogged with traffic—this is the city that never sleeps, after all—but as I approached home, only an occasional car drifted down the small streets and no human was out and about on the sidewalks. Parking spaces were all taken, and I had to circle for several minutes, park two blocks away and drag myself to my house, while I longed desperately for home and warmth.

My house was quiet too, and dark. There was a note from Chris: “Mom, WTH, where were you? Ate leftovers, did homework like a good little girl, and went to bed.” I wandered around the first floor looking for mail, checked for dirty dishes lying around the kitchen, checked for phone messages. Finally I gave in to my need to see my own child, even if she was asleep. I knew nothing about Ryan's family, but he was someone's child and he died tonight.

I wanted to wake Chris and hold her tightly in my arms. Just hold her. If I did, she would be either angry or annoyed at me. Choose one. And she needed her sleep. Her alarm clock would wake her for school in just a few hours.

I stood in her doorway and looked at her by the light from the hall. On this chilly night, she was wrapped in the stylish comforter she picked out for her fourteenth birthday, but I could see the ears of her old stuffed bunny peeking out over the edge. Tousled hair, clothes dumped onto the floor. She was breathing.

I was in shock, I suspected, but my own world was intact.

***

I woke up with bright sunlight in my eyes. I had forgotten to close the shutters last night, and it was now nine o'clock. How could it be so late? The house was silent. Chris had left for school and I had slept right through it. I never did that except when I was up all night writing a paper. I was not scheduled to work today, thank heaven.

I put my head under my pillow, trying to find my way back to oblivion, but the doorbell rang. And kept ringing. I finally gave in, got up, fumbled for a robe and fumbled my way downstairs, eyes half-closed, brain more than half-closed, and completely resentful.

It was my father.

“Ohmigod, Dad. What the hell?”

I was standing there in the open doorway, unable to move, but the morning chill was starting to shock me awake.

“Are you going to let me in?”

Trapped, I sighed and stepped away from the door.

“What's going on?” he said. “Chris was real worried about you last night, and she called me this morning.”

“She sent you over here?” I could not believe she would do that.

“Why does that matter?” He stopped, then said, “You know, you really scared her. She said you sounded very weird on the phone, and you wouldn't wake up this morning. If you're in trouble, let me help you both, okay?”

“Oh, sure. That's just what I need to do.” He hadn't been helping much in the last few years.

He looked back without blinking. “I'm right here now. “

Then I burst into tears.

By the time I was able to blurt out “young person” and “old friend” and “killed,” plus “nightmare'” and “falling apart” and “Natalya” and “too much sadness” we were sitting on the sofa and my sobbing was taking place on my father's shoulder. He was mopping my face with a large plaid handkerchief and I wondered how many years it had been since I cried on his shoulder.

“Oh, Dad. It's just…I don't understand…so much is happening.…”

“I know, honey.” He kept his arm around my shoulders, and held me a little tighter. “Life is just throwing too damn much at you, right? Are you ready to tell me about it?”

I was, finally. He shook his head at the deaths, patted my hand and stopped me at one point to pour coffee and make me some toast.

When I said, “But what am I going to do? I feel all involved with Ryan—he was just a kid!—but I don't know what I can do. And Chris and Natalya.
I don't have the energy or time to be involved. And I don't even know how I could be. And I'm in trouble at work, maybe big trouble.”

The words came pouring out before I realized I was saying them. And to my father. I had spent so many years establishing that he could not tell me what to do. Ever.

“Honey, I'm here to help, any way I can, including talking about it, but you need to figure this out yourself.”

Who was this sane creature and what had he done with my real parent, the protective, overbearing one?

And was there a faint twinkle in his eye when he said it? He went on, “Maybe I can start by making you some breakfast. Got any bacon? Have you eaten lately? Hard to think clearly on an empty stomach.”

I shook my head. I was pretty sure I had skipped dinner last night.

He pulled me to my feet, pointed me to the stairs, and said, “Shower now. Plenty of hot water. Food will be on the table by the time you are done.”

As I moved away, I mumbled, “No bacon for me. I just keep it for flavoring a salad. And use the lowfat cheese.”

“No chance. Right now you need calories, not health food crap.”

That sounded more like my dad and I was too exhausted to argue.

A few gallons of hot water, three eggs, a pile of cheddar and four strips of bacon later, I felt a little less shaky. That was a good thing, because the phone rang and it was my boss, telling me I needed to come in, day off or not, and how soon could I be there?

When I put the phone down, I took a few deep breaths.

“Those suited-up bastards. Do you want me to come in with you? “

“What? NO. I am not in kindergarten, for crying out loud. I will handle it, I can handle it, myself, like a grown-up. Which I am.” I hoped saying it made it true.

“Well, I'll drive you there. You don't need the stress of waiting around for a bus or subway. And I'll stay to take you home, too.”

“No, Dad. Thanks, but no. Don't wait.” If I was getting fired, I did not want to have to deal with him right after. Then I caved a little and said, “But I'll take the ride there. Thanks.”

I dressed in my most professional clothes that were clean and ironed. I put on full makeup. It was all armor. Look like a person with lots of confidence, and that was who I would be. I hoped.