Authors: Sam Cabot
M
ichael Bonnard?” Charlotte asked, although she’d seen enough photos of Bonnard to know that if the guy coming down Donna’s stoop wasn’t him he had a twin. The difference was, the guy in the photos wasn’t as battered as this one. This one was scratched, tired-looking, and holding his left arm gingerly. Like, say, he’d been in a fight. “NYPD. We need to ask you some questions.” She and Framingham showed their badges.
“I’m Michael Bonnard.” After a brief, searching look at her he added, “Abenaki.”
Abenaki? Lot of that going around. Tahkwehso, he was Abenaki, too. Thinking about him gave her spine a tingle. She wondered if he knew Bonnard. Not likely. There were maybe ten thousand Abenaki all told, in five or six states and a couple of Canadian provinces. Tahkwehso lived at Akwesasne; Bonnard, she could see already, was as city as she was. But she wouldn’t be much of an investigator, would she, unless she followed up? Tahkwehso had no cell phone, but she could find him. To help with the case. And maybe he’d tell her when he was coming back.
Charlotte put Tahkwehso out of her mind and said to Bonnard, “Detective Charlotte Hamilton. Lenape.” She turned to the man with Bonnard and waited.
“Spencer George,” he said. “Tribeless.”
“Sorry to hear it. Dr. Bonnard, shall we talk out here, or would you like to come downtown?”
“I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?”
“You tell us.”
“As far as I know, no. What’s this about?”
“What happened to your face?”
“We were mugged. Spencer and I.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where?”
“Central Park.”
“Did you report it?”
“No. They didn’t get anything and neither of us got a good look at them, so what’s the point?”
“The mugging,” and Charlotte let a little skepticism leak into her voice, “was that before or after you were at Sotheby’s yesterday?”
“After.”
“Why did you go?”
“To Sotheby’s? To see an item they’re listing for auction.”
“Which item?”
“A wolf mask.”
Framingham’s cell phone beeped and he stepped away to read something on his screen.
“You’re not a collector or a historian,” Charlotte said. “Why did you want to see the mask?”
“My grandfather was a medicine man. He used to tell me about masks like this but he’d never seen one. They’re extremely rare.”
“So you just thought you’d check it out?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know a young woman named Brittany Williams?”
“No.”
My ass,
thought Charlotte. People who really didn’t know someone almost always asked to hear the name again.
“Hey!” said Framingham, beside her again. “Smile!” He snapped a cell phone photo of Spencer George.
George scowled. “I object! Is he permitted to do that without my consent?”
“No expectation of privacy on a public street,” said Charlotte.
“Really? How disagreeable.”
The front door to the small brick house opened. Charlotte looked up and nodded. “Donna.”
“Charlotte. Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Doc?”
“Thanks, Donna, no problem.”
“Whatever you’re doing, want to do it in here? Cold out there.”
“Whatever we’re doing”—Bonnard turned to Charlotte—“I’d like to know what it is.”
“It’s okay, thanks, Donna,” Charlotte said. “This won’t take long.”
“I, for one, am relieved to hear that,” said Spencer George.
Donna nodded and closed her door. A moment later her round face appeared at the window.
Charlotte turned back to Bonnard. “When you went to Sotheby’s, who did you see?”
“Detective, what’s going on?”
“Answer the question, please.”
“I saw Estelle Warner, the Specialist in the Native Art section, but really, it’s cold out here and I’m getting annoyed.”
“I’m annoyed, too. Brittany Williams was killed at Sotheby’s a few hours after you left. Homicide irritates the hell out of me.”
“My God.” That wasn’t much of a reaction, but hell, he was an Indian. Spencer George said nothing.
“What happened to her?” Bonnard asked. He didn’t, Charlotte noticed, ask again who Williams was.
“Someone tore her throat out.”
“Jesus.”
“Was it you?”
“Was it
me
? Why would I— Are you crazy? No, of course not.”
“But you knew her.”
“No, I— Was she the assistant? Blond young woman who brought the mask? Then I met her, yes. But I didn’t know her.”
Charlotte turned to Spencer George. “What about you?”
“About me? What would you like to know?”
“Who are you in all this?”
“In all this criminal activity? I don’t believe I’m anybody. In the larger world, I’m a friend of Michael’s.”
“Did you know Brittany Williams?”
“No, I did not. Nor have I ever been to Sotheby’s.”
“But you are a collector,” Framingham interjected. Charlotte raised her eyebrows but let him run with it.
“Of art, yes, I am, and how clever of you to know that. But the artifacts of Michael’s—and, I assume, Detective Hamilton’s—people are not within my area of expertise.”
“No, yours is more European art. Items from the Vatican, say.”
Spencer George eyed Framingham. “My collection includes some pieces the Vatican has deaccessioned, yes,” he said evenly.
“And how do you two know each other?”
“Michael and I? We met at a gallery opening, as a matter of fact. The works of Jeffrey Gibson. Do you know him? Quite a talented young man. One of your people,” he said to Charlotte. “Though not of your—what is it you say? Your nation.”
Framingham smiled but seemed to have no more to say, so Charlotte turned back to Bonnard. “Why didn’t you go to work today?”
“I was pretty wiped out. I decided to sleep in and take the day off.”
“To come to the Bronx.”
“I’ve been wanting Spencer to meet Donna.”
“Tell me this,” Charlotte said. “What was your reaction to the mask when you saw it?”
“The mask? I thought it was beautiful.”
“But you were disappointed.”
“Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“Is that what Dr. Warner said? She’s very perceptive.”
“Disappointed, why?”
“As I said, the elders used to talk about masks like these when I was a kid. Maybe you heard the stories, too?” When Charlotte didn’t answer he went on, “I guess I just expected something more spectacular.”
“Where were you last night around nine?”
“Walking in Central Park. Waiting to get mugged.”
Charlotte looked at Spencer George, who smiled and nodded.
“After that? Did you go to a hospital, get medical attention?”
“We went back to Spencer’s. He wasn’t hurt and I took care of myself.”
“Michael is a doctor,” Spencer George added helpfully.
“So no one can confirm your story?”
“No,” said Bonnard. “Do I need that? Are you seriously thinking I killed this woman?”
“Should I be?”
“Not unless you want to waste your time. Detectives, I wish we could help you, but it’s really cold out here and I have things to do. If we’re at the point where you’re accusing me of murder, I think—”
“If someone, some Indian, killed Brittany Williams to stop the auction, who would that have been?”
“Are you— No one would do that.”
“You’re sure? I’ve seen Indians kill for a bottle of beer.”
“And you see that as a political statement?”
“I see it as desperation. The same as this would be. You know anyone that desperate?”
Bonnard just shook his head.
“All right,” Charlotte said. “Stay available. I want to be able to find you if we need you.”
“How did you find me this time?”
Charlotte grinned. “Lenape tracking secret. Matt, you have contact info for Mr. George?”
“Doctor,” said Spencer George. He handed Framingham a business card. “Though I’m sure you could find me just as you took my photo: whether I want you to or not.”
Charlotte said, “Okay, you can go. Come on, Matt, as long as we’re here, maybe you should meet Donna, too.”
She trotted up Donna’s front steps, Framingham following behind. As Donna opened the door Charlotte saw Bonnard and his friend turn and stride away.
Y
ou lied to the authorities,” Spencer said, walking beside Michael on the way to the subway.
“Technically, no. She asked if anyone could confirm my story. It’s not true, so how could anyone confirm it?”
“That,” said Spencer, “is the sort of sophistry I’d expect from a Jesuit.”
“I just couldn’t see an easy way to explain that the people with us last night were the people she met at Sotheby’s later. If I were a cop I’d see that as one coincidence too far.”
“And yet, that’s the innocent part of the story.”
“I know. I just don’t want to spend the day in a police station convincing them. In my defense, she wasn’t straightforward with me, either. She asked why I went to Sotheby’s but she knew I’d gone to see the mask. She already knew I was disappointed in it.”
“She asked that to see if you’d lie. I believe that’s her job.”
“And on that I told the truth. That must have bought me some credibility.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you didn’t appear to have a great deal of credibility in her eyes.”
“Her partner doesn’t seem to think much of you, either. What was he talking about, ‘items from the Vatican’?”
“That’s a long story, best told beside a warm stove. About our lonely night last night, I assume you’d like Livia and Father Kelly to tell a similar tale?” Spencer took out his cell phone.
“Yes, though we won’t be able to keep it going. They’ll put it together eventually. But I’d like to find Edward before that.”
Those words hung in the air between them, begging the question of what would happen then; but Spencer had asked that once, and would not again. Before he entered Livia’s number, he said, “I must warn you, I’m not sure I can convince Father Kelly to tell a lie. In that he’s rather different to most other men of the cloth.”
“Takes his vows seriously, does he?”
“According to Livia, all of them. Michael, am I to be surprised that this Lenape detective knows your friend Donna? Or is she known to every Native person in New York?”
“Not everyone. But her place is on the Indian grapevine. You’re new in town, looking for work or whatever it is, you need a place to stay, ask around and someone will tell you about Donna. Mind you, she runs a tight ship. No drugs, no alcohol. Still, if I were an Indian cop, I’d make it my business to stay on Donna’s good side because she always knows who’s coming and going.”
“And you’re not worried that Donna will reveal to these detectives our true reason for coming to see her?”
“No. Edward . . . It’s hard to explain, but people care about him in a special way.”
“Including yourself.”
“Well, he’s my brother. But Donna, Ivy, Pete—people look out for him, protect him. You heard Ivy, her dream, how worried she
was. Donna won’t volunteer anything. Though I guarantee, if anyone besides Edward had shown up in her place with a wannabe like this Abornazine she’d have kicked them both out.”
“May I ask you about Ivy, and her dream? I had a sense that you and the others put special credence in it.”
“Ivy’s a seer. I don’t know if your people have anyone like that?” Spencer shook his head, and Michael went on, “Ivy’s dreams have always meant something. Since we were children. She’s from Akwesasne, too. We grew up together. No one discounts Ivy’s dreams, even guys like Pete and Lou, from the West. But Ivy can’t always explain them.”
“I see. Thank you.” They were nearing the subway entrance, so Spencer thumbed Livia’s number.
“When you’re done,” Michael said, “do me a favor and turn the phone off.” Michael had his own phone out and was powering it down.
“Why would I do that?”
“That’s how they found us. ‘Lenape tracking secret.’ They must’ve traced my cell phone.”
Livia answered on the second ring. “Spencer. How are you feeling? And how’s Michael?”
“I’m quite well, thank you. Michael’s much improved. Were you able to locate the owner of the mask?”
“We spoke with him. A man in Riverdale by the name of Bradford Lane.”
“Riverdale, in the north Bronx? Has Mr. Lane been approached by anyone other than yourselves? Does his situation seem secure?”
“I’m a little worried about him, actually. No, no one’s been there, and I don’t know how Edward would learn his name, but it’s not impossible. I suggested he might take extra precautions until we
know for sure whether the mask had anything to do with the murder but he refuses.”
“I see. And on the subject of the mask itself?”
“He’s convinced it’s real. Or at least, that the one he sent to Sotheby’s is the one he bought fifty years ago, that had been in the Hammill family since the French priest brought it to them in the seventeen hundreds. But that’s an interesting point.”
“What is?”
“The French priest, Père Ravenelle. Mr. Lane said someone came to see him a few years ago asking about Père Ravenelle and about the mask. Research into the early Church in North America. He turns out to have been Gerald Maxwell. Thomas’s department chair at Fordham.”
“My,” Spencer said. “That’s an odd coincidence.”
“Not necessarily. The early Church is his area. It may turn out to be convenient, though. We’ve just gotten to Fordham, on the other side of the Bronx. Thomas is going to go see him.”
“How marvelous that we all find ourselves in the Bronx. Perhaps we can reconvene at my home in, say, an hour? We can compare notes. But before that, please know this: we’ve just had an encounter with two police detectives. When asked whether anyone had been at my home with us late last night, after the mugging in the park that accounts for Michael’s injuries, Michael replied that we were alone. He thought the coincidence of your having been with us and then at Sotheby’s was too much to bear.”
“Spencer, that’s perfectly innocent and explainable. Why would it matter unless—”
“—unless they were suspicious of us? I believe they may have formed that opinion, which would be why they wanted to know where we’d been.”
“Formed that opinion, based on what?”
“I’m not certain. Viewed from a certain angle, Michael’s responses may have appeared a bit evasive. Perhaps I did my part, also. In any case, I’m not asking you, and certainly not Father Kelly, to join in our deception. I’m just making you aware of what’s been said. No one, of course, has so far mentioned brother Edward.”
“I understand. It’s possible the police won’t be interested in us anyway. Was it the same detectives I told you about last night?”
“A young woman of Michael’s people, though apparently a different tribe—”
“And a smiling, weird man? They were suspicious of us, too, just for being at Sotheby’s. It might not mean anything.”
“The smiling man, who I believe is called Framingham, did mention the Vatican to me.”
“Oh, Spencer, really? I thought all that had been wiped clean. Do you suppose it will be a problem?”
“I have no idea. I’m rather annoyed, I must say. However, at the moment there are more pressing issues. It’s important to Michael that he be allowed to continue his search for his brother unhindered. And that no one else begin a similar search.”
“All right, Spencer. I’ll tell Thomas. And we’ll see you at your place in an hour.”
“Everything all right?” Michael asked as Spencer slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“Yes. Though Livia is uneasy about Mr. Lane.”
“She’s worried Edward will find him.”
“I don’t like to put it that way, but I’m afraid so.”
“She may be right. And it may be a way to find Edward.” Michael turned his phone back on, scrolled through for a number. He thumbed it, waited, then, “Lou? It’s Doc. Give me a call. I need a favor.”
When he lowered the phone Spencer said, “Lou—he’s one of the gentlemen I met last night?”
“I’m going to ask him to keep an eye on Lane’s place. He’ll love it. He’s a hunter, grew up in the woods. The L’Anse rez in Michigan. Did two tours in Afghanistan as an Army Ranger. His father was Army, too. You must’ve noticed he looks Asian?”
“I wouldn’t have inquired about it, but indeed I did.”
“God, Spencer.” Michael grinned. “For a historian, you’re amazingly not nosy.”
“On the contrary. I’m attempting a certain discretion, as I understand it to be an attribute valued by your people. In the normal way of things I’d be clamoring to have my questions answered.”
“I can’t see you ever clamoring, but I’m flattered anyway. Lou’s dad is Potawatomi. He met his mom in Vietnam and brought her back to the rez. It hasn’t been easy for Lou, especially since the Army. He’s been in and out of trouble, kind of lost his way. But he’s a good guy.” Michael’s phone rang and he lifted it to his ear. “Lou? Thanks for calling. No, not yet. Listen, maybe you can help me out. I wouldn’t ask, but you heard Ivy— Yeah, okay, I know I don’t, sorry. It’s like this. There’s a guy in Riverdale, I think Edward might be headed his way. Any chance you could go up there, keep an eye on the place, call me if he shows up? Come to think of it, anyone. Whoever shows up there, let me know, okay? But not this number. I’ll call you with the number in a few minutes. Yeah, good.” Michael gave the particulars of Lane’s home. “Thanks, Lou.” He powered his phone down again and pocketed it. “Come on, Spencer. I need to pick up a pre-paid phone, and if we’re meeting Livia and Thomas in an hour, we just have time to stop by my place on the way. I appreciate the loan of your antique ski sweater, but it’s making me itch.”