McAdams took out a sheet of paper.
“Could you spell that for me again? . . . Sure, you can text me, but in case I don’t get reception, if you could just give the names to me now . . . James Wallach and Ralph Kidder . . . Alf Kidder. Do you have their phone num—. . . okay, text me the numbers, that’s fine. Anyone else? . . . Mary Michelson. Thank you so much. By the way, about what happened last night. What’s the upshot? . . . I mean who owns what research? . . . okay, I understand. No, I was just curious. It’s just that we’re working with a suicide and a possible murder . . . I don’t know if their argument is relevant. I’m just collecting facts . . . thank you . . . and you’ll text those num—”
McAdams looked at the phone.
“She hung up. She didn’t like me poking around in what she called school affairs.”
“All the more reason to get her alibi squared away,” Decker said. “She was one of the first people who asked to see Eli’s papers. Kinda pushy about it, too.”
McAdams said, “Do you think she was part of Belfort’s sideline?”
“Maybe she was. Or maybe she wasn’t and wanted a piece of the action.”
Rina leaned forward. “Or maybe she was the one who ransacked Mallon’s room, looking for hidden papers.”
Decker said, “Rina, she wasn’t in town and she’s Chinese.”
“How do you know she wasn’t in town, and haven’t you ever heard of makeup and a wig?” When he didn’t answer, Rina said, “Is she slender built?”
“She is,” McAdams said.
“You asked me to name another mystery woman,” Rina said. “Don’t get peeved when I make a suggestion.”
Decker sighed. “You’re right. It’s a good suggestion. Just not one I was expecting. I’ve got a lot of suspects and nothing concrete. I’m sure Ryan Belfort is going to be displeased by the progress of this investigation.”
“It’s only been a couple of days, Peter.”
“No it’s been four days. Seven days since Eli committed suicide. God created the world in seven days. You think I could solve something by then.”
“You can’t work miracles, Peter. You’re not God.”
“And don’t I know it.”
CHAPTER 27
ONCE IN NEW York City, Decker did a mental map because everyone was being dropped off at a different destination. Tyler was the first: the address, his stepgrandmother’s posh Park Avenue apartment. The street was three lanes in each direction with a median divider filled with flowers in the appropriate seasons. Now it was flat and overlaid with snow, with the exception of a few melting ice sculptures. Traffic, as usual, was clogged with the ritual horn honking that served little purpose except to add to the urban symphony. Decker pulled over to the curb and the doorman rushed out to open the car door and greet McAdams as if he were coming back from military action. Immediately the uniformed man relieved him of his lightweight briefcase.
“Welcome back, Mr. McAdams.”
“Thanks, Martin. How’s it going?”
“You know . . . little of this, little of that.”
“The usual.”
“You got it, Mr. McAdams.”
Tyler poked his head in the passenger window, talking to Decker. “You’ll call me later?”
“I will,” Decker said. “Get some studying done.”
“Unfortunately, that’ll happen because there’s nothing to distract me.” He tapped the car’s hood as he walked away, personified wealth in a cashmere coat with a fur collar.
Decker pulled the car out into thick traffic, going south.
Mallon rolled her eyes. “Figures” was all she said.
“There’s no shame in being rich,” Rina said.
“Did you see how the doorman rushed over like, God forbid, Tyler should carry his own briefcase?”
“It’s the doorman’s job and it’s honest wages.”
“Being professional ass-kissers.”
“Now there’s where you’re wrong. They and the super are the fabric of these fancy buildings. Without them, the residents are helpless. I guarantee you it’s not an easy job.”
Mallon didn’t answer.
“I may be biased,” Rina said. “I do like the uniform. I’ve seen pictures of Detective Decker in the early days, dressed in his uniform. Very handsome.”
“You’re making me blush.”
“You were a doorman?” Mallon asked.
Rina laughed. “No, I meant as a police officer.”
“Oh.” Mallon sounded less than enthusiastic. “Right. When was that? Like the sixties?”
Decker said, “Early seventies. I’m not that old. But the country was still in turmoil.”
“The Vietnam War?”
“Yes.”
“Did you beat up the protesters?”
“You have a way with words, Mallon.”
“I just meant there were a lot of protests and people got beat up.”
“A few got hurt. Most of them were simply arrested and let go a few hours later.”
“So what was the point of arresting them?”
“Not a good idea to sanction chaos in the streets, Mallon, no matter how futile the effort. Then people really do get hurt.” Decker turned onto Fifth, headed downtown. “I feel sorry for you kids nowadays. You’re always groping around to get the sixties going again and it never quite happens. And in answer to your question, I never beat up anyone.”
“But you arrested people.”
“Some idiots . . . including my ex-wife.”
“His ex-wife is a very nice woman,” Rina said. “That came out wrong.”
“If you say so,” Decker said.
From the back, Rina gave him a gentle slug.
“Did you always want to be a cop?” Mallon asked.
“Not a lifelong dream, but it was a natural coming out of the military.”
“You were in the army?”
“I was.”
“Did you like it?”
“Like it? No, I didn’t like it. I hated every moment of it. It was a nonstop brutal and bloody nightmare. I was drafted. Where I lived, if you were drafted, you served.”
“Sorry to bring it up.”
She sounded chastened. Decker said, “No problem. It’s part of my history. Even with the war going on, you could tell that the Vietnamese people were a nice lot when they weren’t sniping at you. Rina and I went back on a tour last year. I hardly recognized the country. We had a fantastic time. I kept trying to use my Vietnamese and I made everyone laugh. I served my country. I’m very proud of my country. I’m American through and through. But revisiting the country, I just kept wondering what the hell were we doing there? The passage of time . . . you see things differently.”
“What about you, Mrs. Decker?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your background?”
“Why don’t you go first, Mallon.”
“Nothing to tell, really. My parents divorced when I was seven. My father left to teach math in Leipzig and my mother is depressed all the time. I have a little sister who’s two years younger and way smarter than I am. She’s almost autistic. She’s at Berkeley and I don’t think she’ll ever return to the East Coast. They totally loved her. She not only found herself, she found others like her.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“E-mail.”
“That’s good. Family is important.”
“So they tell me,” Mallon answered. “Now you, Mrs. Decker.”
“California born and bred. I grew up in Beverly Hills, which sounds a lot ritzier than it was. We had a duplex. Our family was on the top and my uncle and aunt and my two cousins lived on the bottom. My dad came from a family of eight and he and his uncle were the only ones who survived the Holocaust.”
Mallon bit her bottom lip. “Wow. Uh, I mean sorry. Did I just stick my foot in my mouth?”
“Not at all. I had a nice childhood. Our duplex was Spanish style with red roof tiles and big picture windows with lots of s
tained glass inserts called accidentals. It had beautiful old wood floors and original built-ins but no air-conditioning. In the summer, we sweltered, especially since we were on the top floor and heat rises. Eventually my uncle died and the place was sold, and by that time my father was doing well and we moved into a beautiful house in the swanky area of Beverly Hills when I was in my senior year of high school. By that time, I had turned so religious that I eschewed anything material, dumb cluck that I was. Most kids have pictures of rock stars on their walls. I had rabbis. It drove my parents nuts, which I suppose was the point.”
“What did your father do?” Mallon asked.
“He owned a glass installation company. He was one of the first dealers in L.A. to move to all-glass shower enclosures. My poor papa. He worked incredibly long hours. I rarely saw him except on Saturday morning when we went to synagogue. He looked so handsome, all dressed up.” Her eyes started watering.
“Has he passed?” Mallon paused. “Too personal?”
“No, he’s still alive but not in the best of health. But he is ninety-six. My mother, who is ninety-four, is still as lucid as they come, much to Detective Decker’s dismay.”
“What are you talking about? It’s wonderful that she’s so with it.”
“She’s still telling him how to run his life.”
Decker laughed. “That’s true.”
“Do you see them often?”
“Well, we moved to the East Coast and they moved to Florida, so we actually see them and the detective’s mother a lot more now that we’re all in the same time zone.”
“Nice.” Mallon turned quiet.
Decker had finally wended his way into the East Village. He stopped in front of one of NYU’s scattered buildings, a purple flag waving in the winter breeze. Even on a Sunday with chilly temperatures, students took up Washington Square Park and its environs. Manhattan was a city in perpetual motion.
“I don’t know where the library is, Mallon,” Decker told her, “but if you ask, I’m sure someone will help you out.”
“This is fine.” Her voice had turned very quiet. “Thanks.” She got out and closed the door.
“Wanna sit up front?” Decker asked his wife.
“Absolutely.” Rina got out of the car and sat in the passenger’s seat.
“I miss having you up here. I miss the conversations that we have when we take these long drives.”
“Thank you. I do, too.”
Decker scooted the car back into traffic and headed to Brooklyn. “What do you make of her?”
“Mallon? Another wounded animal. You want to hear a pronouncement?”
“Lay it on me.”
“I think that she’d be perfect for Tyler provided that she isn’t a suspect in anything.”
Decker laughed. “That’s still not a closed book.”
“Yes, I know. Do you really suspect her or are you just saying that to cover your bases?”
“I don’t know, Rina. Until we get into Belfort’s computer, I have to be psychologically prepared for anything. If the tech doesn’t crack it by this weekend, I’m just going to get the warrants to get the e-mail information from the server . . . servers. She used a lot of them.”
“A different server for a different purpose?”
“My thoughts, too. She was wearing a lot of hats and probably one of them got her killed. Anyway, enough about my ignorance. What do you and Rachel and Lily have planned?”
“Actually, it worked out perfectly. Rachel has to go to work at the hospital until five, and I’m going to babysit.”
“Meaning you’re going to be exhausted.”
“Lily is in pre-preschool. I’m going to pick her up in an hour. Rachel has left me a list of suggestions for both food and activities. I know how to get to the park. I know how to get to the JCC children’s center, plus Lily still naps at around two. So I’m covered.”
“I don’t think this interview will take all that long. I could meet you at their apartment at around two.”
“Great but call first. Never wake a sleeping toddler.”
“I thought it was a sleeping lion.”
“One and the same.”
RYAN BELFORT HAD made his home near the waterfront in a posh condo that sat above a Starbucks, a tea shop and an organic vegan restaurant that boasted a raw-food health bar, which Decker interpreted as uncooked vegetables. The area was lively, the streets were packed, and parking was more of a concept than a reality. The closest spot was five blocks away, but the sun had managed to peek through the clouds and there was at least promise of a better day ahead.
The building was six stories with Belfort’s unit on floor three. The man who answered the door was indeed the same guy in the pictures at Katrina’s house: good-looking and in his thirties, tall with broad shoulders, blue eyes, and tawny colored hair. He was dressed in sweats and socks, and while he didn’t exactly welcome Decker with open arms, Ryan allowed him past the threshold, which was enough in Decker’s book. The living room was tidy and spare. Apparently neatness ran in the family. Ryan plopped onto a celadon-green couch and slapped his hands over his face in a dry wash. Then he looked up.
“Any news?”
“Not yet. I’m having her computer looked into. That should tell us something, maybe lead us in the right direction.”
“Okay.” Belfort pointed to a chair and Decker sat down. “So why the visit if nothing’s new?”
“I wanted to offer my condolences in person. And I’m also wondering if there’s anything you might be able to remember about Katrina that might help me. Sometimes the smallest thing turns out to be big.”
“Nothing more than I told you over the phone.”
“Tell me about your sister,” Decker said. “What was she like? What would you want her legacy to be?”
“Interesting question.” He sighed. “She was always in my corner. We got along great.”
“Protective?”
“In a way that made you stick up for yourself. She . . . enabled others. That’s what she was . . . an enabler but in a good way.”
“Positive outlook?”
“Yes.”
“How’d she get along with others growing up?”
“She had friends if that’s what you mean.”
“Life of the party?”
“I wouldn’t say that. But I never remember her complaining about her social life.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Nothing serious that I remember. She was always pretty, so she could be choosy.” A long pause. “She was good with guys . . . with my friends, for sure. They’d talk about sports and cars and she’d join in like she was one of them. She was easy to talk to—the kind of girl you can take out for a beer. She could converse on almost any subject.”
“Any specific topics that she liked to talk about?”
Belfort gave the question some thought. “You know, because she was such a math person, she rarely talked about what she was doing. Mostly it centered around what you were doing. Even in adulthood, when we got together, if we weren’t gossiping about old friends, we talked about my work, not hers.”
“But she felt close enough to you to confide that she was having an affair with a married man. She felt close enough to tell you his name.”
Belfort winced. “Not her finest moment, but it wasn’t serious. I only found out about it because I came down to visit her on her birthday and there was this big bouquet of expensive flowers that just overwhelmed her apartment. She told me it was from a friend, and when I started to tease her, she told me it wasn’t at all serious. He was just someone that was convenient. And besides, he was married—which she said worked out well for both of them.”
“Big bouquet of flowers. Maybe he was more serious than she was.”
He shook his head and furrowed his brow. “Surely you don’t think he hurt her. It ended over two years ago.”
“You told us the name, so we checked him out. Jason Logan moved to California a year ago and is an associate pr
ofessor at Pepperdine in Malibu. He lives a block from the beach and he claims he hasn’t left the West Coast in over three months. His last trip was to Hawaii with the family in November. I have no reason to doubt him.”
“Well, like I said, she never mentioned having problems with him.”
“Unfortunately, she must have been having problems with someone.”
“You don’t think it was an accident? Her death? You never told me the specifics.”
“Her death wasn’t accidental. That’s a definite. Suicide? Perhaps. More likely someone was trying to make it look like a suicide.”
“How? A fake note? Pills by her side? A gun in her hand?”
“A and C. It was a slapped-together job, Mr. Belfort. Something that wasn’t well thought out.”
“Oh dear God!” He shook his head. “Well, she never said anything to me about problems with anyone. So whoever it was, she might not have perceived that person as a serious threat.”
“I agree with you there.”
Belfort blew out air. “The whole thing is so unreal. I just can’t believe she’s gone. One minute she’s in my life, and then poof. She had years in front of her, things to accomplish.” His eyes watered. “It isn’t fair. You must see that all the time. How unfair life is.”
“I do,” Decker said. “And it’s frustrating.”
“How often do you solve these things to your satisfaction?”
“Good question,” Decker said. “I’m still at it. So I guess I get enough to keep me going.”
“Do you think you’ll find my sister’s killer?”
“It wasn’t a random murder. It just may take time to button everything down, but I’ll get an arrest. I’m confident of it. Greenbury is a small town. There are only so many places where people can hide.”
“So you’re pretty sure it was someone she knew.”
“I’m pretty certain, yes.”
“I can’t picture her making anyone that mad. It’s so unfair.”
“Yes, it is. And I’m sorry about that. I can’t do anything about the unfairness, Mr. Belfort. Hopefully, I can do something about the justice.”
The Theory of Death Page 24