"I'm not sure the sandbox was big enough for both of them, but she
tried to make do."
"Did you know about the legend of Freeland Jennings's diamonds?"
Lavery pushed away from the desk and laughed again. "Of course I
did. That's one of the things Lola and I used to argue about late into
the night. Do this dig for whatever historical purposes interest you, I
used to tell her. There's a lot of sorry history of this city on that
island—a storehouse of human misery. But don't be wasting your energy
on some far-fetched tale that may not even have been true."
"Is that what kept Thomas Grenier and Lola Dakota together?"
"Don't be ridiculous. The man is a scientist. He thought that Lola
was foolish to have believed the diamonds were still in the ground. His
interest in the island is strictly scientific."
"What's in it for him?"
"Grenier again expects to profit from the work the students will be
doing when they study the Smallpox Hospital. There's enormous debate in
the field of medical ethics about whether or not the smallpox virus
should be completely eradicated when the disease is conquered
worldwide. Since you need the actual virus to make the vaccine, does
one save a small amount of it against the day that some form of the pox
reappears in the world? And who is the keeper of the deadly virus? Whom
do we trust not to engage in germ warfare?"
"And obviously, some biotech company would support this project,
hoping that a study of all the plagues treated on Black-wells Island a
century ago would be useful to scientists making determinations about
the future," I reasoned.
"Exactly. It's hard to think of any other finite stretch of land,
isolated from the population, which institutionalized, treated, and
buried so many of society's untouchables. That's why Grenier loves it
there."
"Does this venture of his have a name?"
Lavery paused for a few moments and then shook his head. "I should
know it, but it's not coming to me right now. You'll have to ask him
yourself. Some fairly gruesome pox-related thing. Lola used to joke and
call it deadhouse dot com."
"Deadhouse?"
"That's how Lola referred to the island."
"Do you know why?" It appeared that the phrase was not as mysterious
as it had seemed when we first encountered the word on a piece of paper
in her apartment.
"You know that a lot of the interns who worked on the project
refused to be involved with the plans at that old smallpox hospital?
They're enthralled with the insane asylum and the penitentiary, but
that abandoned hospital spooks the best of them. Many of those who
aren't science majors believe that they might dig up things that are
still germ infested, that contagion lurks even now in some of the
objects that were buried a century ago. They simply don't want anything
to do with all that deadly history."
"Did you ever go with her to Blackwells—I mean, to Roosevelt Island?"
"Only three or four times. She walked me through the area they call
the Octagon, with that magnificent staircase. And of course we had to
see the remains of the hospital. I'd always wondered what it was, from
this side of the water."
"Would you mind, Professor, if I asked you about the accusations
concerning the misappropriation of the grant money?" It seemed unusual
that Lola would be such an advocate for Lavery, under the circumstances
that Sylvia Foote had described.
His mood changed again and he stiffened. "I have an attorney, Ms.
Cooper, and I've been instructed not to discuss this matter with anyone
out of his presence."
Chapman veered off in another direction. "You know anything about
this kid Julian Gariano? The one who hanged himself last weekend?"
It was hard to discern whether Lavery had a good poker face or truly
had never crossed paths with the campus drug dealer. "Gariano? The name
doesn't sound familiar to me. Was he a King's student? It must have
happened after I left for the Caribbean."
"One more thing, Professor. There's a young woman who was a junior
at the college last year. I don't believe she was in any of your
classes, but I understand she had a problem with drugs, and I thought
perhaps you might have heard something about her disappearance. Her
name is Voight. Charlotte Voight."
"I had heard that she had dropped out, although I didn't know her
either. The administration always circulates a notice to the faculty if
something unusual happens or if a student withdraws from classes
without an official leave. These kids are often going through a tough
time, and one of us might be a lifeline to them. Dropping out is
nothing new for college students, is it?"
Lavery stopped speaking for a moment, then looked up at me. "But
Charlotte Voight is back around, isn't she?"
Perhaps Lavery had information we didn't. "That's news to us. Any
clue where she is?"
"No, I have no idea. But the last time I talked to Lola, that's what
she told me. That she knew where the Voight girl was, and that she was
going to see her."
25
Each time I thought we were about to take a step or two forward, we
were thrown back five or six. Mike had pushed Lavery hard on when it
was that Lola Dakota had told him she was going to see the missing
girl. If the professor was being truthful, he had not seen his neighbor
for almost one month. But if Bart had been honest, then Lavery might
have heard that news from Lola within an hour of her death.
Either way, the effort before us grew larger rather than focused.
Had Charlotte Voight returned to the King's College campus a few days
before Christmas, ready to attempt to reenter school for the new
semester? Did her reappearance have anything to do with the suicide of
her former lover, Julian Gariano, who had supplied her with drugs? And
who else other than Lola knew where the girl was?
There were significant discrepancies between the story told to us by
Bart Frankel and the facts as reported by Claude Lavery. Each of them
was undoubtedly lying about something. Lavery seemed to paint a flawed
picture of each of his colleagues while underscoring the feuding world
of academic politics. And why wouldn't Lavery admit that he had seen
and spoken with Lola Dakota when she had returned to the building just
a short time before she was killed?
"We've got to sit down on Monday morning and map out all these
connections. I'm so tired and emotionally drained at this point. It's
lucky that no one from Special Victims beeped me these last two days."
The clock on the dashboard of Mike's car was slow, but it was already
close to seven o'clock in the evening as we headed downtown from
Lavery's apartment. "The last thing I need is a handful of new
complaints."
"It's Fleet Week, isn't it?"
"Yes, and I'm delighted that everybody's so well behaved this
season. That's usually good for five or six cases." From time to time,
when a special event like the Fourth of July or New Year's called for
it, a large contingent of warships would gather in New York's ports and
harbor. There were festivities aboard as well as up and down the Hudson
River. But sometimes, when the sailors who had been at sea for long
stretches reached Gotham City, the parties got out of control.
"Maybe the guys don't even bother coming ashore anymore. Maybe
'don't ask, don't tell' is working better than anybody thinks."
"And maybe I'll just keep my fingers crossed for a quiet evening.
Jake's supposed to be back from D.C. by now. We'll probably run up to
Butterfield 81 for a steak. Why don't you hang out with us?"
"'Cause I've got a date. I'm gonna drop you off and go over to her
place for dinner."
"And she is . . . ?"
"A good cook."
"That's all you're telling me?"
"I'm not ready to go public." He grinned at me. "You're worse than
my mother."
"Well, you've been much too secretive about what you're up to. Makes
me suspect something more serious is going on. I hate to say the
i
word, but I'm beginning to believe that you're actually involved
with someone. Especially after that heart-to-heart talk you had with me
on our way home from Mercer's house."
"You'll be the first to know, blondie."
Mike dropped me at the entrance to Jake's building and the doorman
helped me out of the car. "Mr. Tyler just came in himself a few minutes
ago, ma'am. Asked if I'd seen you this evening."
"Thanks, Richard." I took the elevator upstairs and slipped my key
in the lock. Jake was on the StairMaster in his den, a set of
headphones linking him to yet another cycle of news on the television
in front of him. He didn't see me come in. I took off my coat and
gloves and sat in the leather chair behind him, waiting until he
finished his exercise and stepped off the machine.
"I'm not so bad to come home to, am I?" he asked, walking over to
kiss me on the nose. "Have you and Chapman solved this one yet? I've
given you a week."
"My brain is spinning. Can we talk about
your
day?"
"I'll take a quick shower and then we can head out for dinner, okay?"
Despite the cold wind, we walked uptown to the restaurant, passing
storefronts with their Christmas decorations and, now, all the signs
for postholiday sales. We settled into a quiet corner banquette, and
the dark, handsome decor of the room suited my mood. I was brooding
about the week's events and the gloom that had enveloped this season
that I so loved. Jake devoured his steak while I swiped a few of his
perfect
pommes frites
to go along with my soup and salad,
and we sipped a wonderful Burgundy.
By the time we were ready to go home, the temperature had dropped
precipitously and we hailed a cab on Lexington Avenue to take us to the
apartment. Once inside, I undressed and got into bed alongside Jake. I
fell asleep with the lights still on and Jake still flipping the
channels. When a nightmare awakened me at 3 A.M., I cradled myself
against his body and tried to push out of my mind the autopsy
photographs of Lola Dakota.
I had already bathed and dressed by the time he opened his eyes on
Sunday morning. The coffee beans were ground and brewed, and I had
taken the newspaper in from the doormat. Jake went into the kitchen and
opened the refrigerator door.
"Scrambled? Sunny-side up? Omelette?"
"One egg over easy."
He looked over my shoulder at the paper. "Why do you start with the
obituaries? Looking for business? Or are you just reading it, as my
father used to say, to make sure your own name isn't in it?"
I put the section aside and set the table for breakfast. We lingered
in the dining room for more than an hour, Jake working the Sunday
crossword puzzle while I was determined to finish the tougher Saturday
maze.
"What shall we do today?"
"How about the Frick? They've got an exhibition of Velazquez
paintings. We can walk over there, spend an hour or two, and then come
home and I can do some paperwork on the case."
"Are you all set for New Year's Eve? I mean, this won't get in the
way, will it?"
"I expect it'll be fine." Joan Stafford was giving a dinner party
for five couples in Washington. We were going to take a late afternoon
shuttle down on Tuesday and spend the night with Joan and Jim, coming
back early the next morning now that Mercer and Vickee had included us
in their wedding plans.
This was the one holiday I hated. There was such an artificial air
about the forced gaiety, and my favorite way of celebrating had always
been to stay at home with friends. Joan was a superb hostess, and the
idea of laughing and relaxing with her in front of a great fire, dining
at her elegant table, then climbing the stairs to curl up for the night
in the guest room of her Georgetown town house seemed a delightful way
to welcome in another year.
"There's a winter storm warning for tomorrow evening. I guess we can
always take the Metroliner."
I was rinsing the dishes when the phone rang for the first time.
Take came back into the kitchen and put his arms around me, embracing
me from behind and pressing his mouth against the top of my head. "That
was Mike, darling."
"I've been waiting for this call." Tears had already formed and I
fought them back.
"Bart Frankel died. They disconnected the life support this
morning." He tried to turn me around to face him, but I stood at the
sink, staring out the window at the gray day while the hot water ran
over my hands. "I just want to hold you for a minute, Alex."
I shook my head.
"You're going to have to let me in one of these days." Jake rubbed
his hand across my back. "Mike said to tell you he's got the search
warrant for Frankel's office. He's on his way to New Jersey to get it
signed so he can pick up the evidence this afternoon." He was massaging
my neck with his right hand, his left still holding my waist. "This
isn't your fault."
I didn't blame myself for Bart's death, but I was pained by the
unfortunate chain of events that had been created from the moment Lola
placed herself in the hands of Vinny Sinnelesi. She had just wanted to
extricate herself from the violent relationship with Ivan Kralovic, but
instead had become a pawn in the prosecutor's efforts to stage a
sensational vote-getting stunt. So often I had heard Paul Battaglia
remind his senior staff that you can't play politics with people's
lives. I admired his wisdom.
Bart had clearly been in greater turmoil than anyone knew. Now he
had died under circumstances that were at best mysterious, with his
reputation tarnished and his debts substantial. And the children, I
suddenly remembered, squeezing my eyes shut. There were three children
who had to cope with both loss and disgrace.
I leaned over the sink, cupping my hands and filling them with
steaming water, holding them against my eyes. "Let's take a walk, okay?"
I held on to Jake's arm as we made our way uptown to the small
museum at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventieth Street. I tried to
explain my feelings, speaking as the frost grabbed at my breath and
formed rings that rose in the icy air. The need to explore the lives of
the people whose tragedies came our way took us to intimate places I
had no more desire to enter than the deceased would have had to let me
in. For me, it was impossible to do this work with a clinical remove. I
could evaluate evidence dispassionately, and I could make judgments
about witness credibility with precision, but there was an emotional
pull that nagged at my heart with every life that was lost.