The irritating buzzing started up again, low down by the coffee table.
“You need a swatter,” Weinberg said, his smile wry. He picked up his briefcase.
“Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Duncan said. He felt awkward about asking, but it had been on his mind. “About something you mentioned yesterday.” He paused. Was this a good idea? Was he just going to seem paranoid?
“Shoot,” Weinberg said.
“Well, you said that Symb86 had been shown to work for several conditions. And you mentioned some. I just wondered, did you just mention a few specific ones, or is that the whole list of conditions it works for?”
“Ah, you mean the CFS and the infertility.” Weinberg smiled, a little sarcastically, at Duncan’s consternation. “I should have been clearer. Yes, we know about your mother and your wife.”
Duncan searched for words. How baldly the man put it, he thought. As if it weren’t a problem that he knew. And was it? Why did it bother him?
“Cinasat always checks out the people they hire,” Weinberg said. “And frankly, the fact that you might be interested in finding ways to address those two conditions made you an especially good candidate for the job. Quite apart from your scholarly qualifications, of course, which were judged to be stellar too.” This he said rather sourly, Duncan thought. “Cinasat likes motivated employees.”
“So they did some sort of background check.”
“It probably wasn’t that difficult. Medical records, social media . . .”
“Medical records? HIPAA laws,” Duncan said.
“There are ways. I don’t know what they are,” Weinberg said. “But is it a problem that they know? Wouldn’t you like to be on the front end of getting the drug? Once safety has been demonstrated, of course?”
“Well, if it worked, yes,” Duncan said. “But what kind of infertility did it work on?”
“I’d have to check the details on the patient data,” Weinberg said. “But as I recall, all the infertility cases were of the nonspecific variety. The patients and their partners had all undergone tests, nothing was found to be amiss, but they just couldn’t carry a pregnancy to term.”
Like Grace, Duncan thought.
“A good incentive for you to respect your nondisclosure agreement,” Weinberg said, as if he’d read Duncan’s mind. “Who knows, maybe the drug will work best for your wife if she comes to it fresh, with no thoughts about the way it was tested, however rigorous those ways were. If she just takes the drug and is confident that it works. No nocebo effects.”
Had he ruined the drug’s potential effect by discussing it with Grace? Duncan wished he had kept it to himself. But he hadn’t said much, and most of it had been hopeful. From now on, if he had any doubts, he would keep them to himself, he thought.
14
GRACE
Wednesday
“It’s my fault for agreeing to go looking for that woman,” Grace said, her hand clenching around the phone. “That must have really stressed you out.”
“I had already decided to go,” Marla said. “I would have gone even without you. Anyway, who could have guessed that she’d died?”
Marla sounded like she was getting upset again, Grace thought. She should just hang up and not compound the situation. “Do you have to go back to the clinic?” she asked.
“Jeez, I hope not,” Marla said. “They wanted me to rest, but the nurses kept poking and prodding me all night. I told them my first two pregnancies were easy, and this one was going to be fine. But they’re taking extra precautions because of my age. Apparently premature contractions are riskier for older women. Did you know we’re older women?” There was an effort at a giggle, but she sounded nervous.
Grace heard Karl’s voice in the background, calling out, “Marla, who are you calling?”
“Uh-oh,” Marla said, sighing. “It’s the rest police. He’s been harping at me. He wants me to lie down and watch movies all day. For the next two months.”
After hanging up, Grace sat down in the small study off the living room, watching the second hand trudge across the white face of the desk clock. All morning, she had been struggling with the niggling worry that she might need to tell the police more about Angie’s voicemail message. They had seemed so suspicious. Could she explain her personal reasons, persuade them that it had nothing to do with Minowa Costa or any story Angie had been writing? Thank God Duncan had been so preoccupied with his own work. After the police left the night before, he had gone back to reading the papers he had brought home, and he had rushed off to work this morning when she was still in the shower. What if she told the police about the message and they told him about its content? She blenched at the thought of his reaction if he found out the whole story. It would be worse if he heard from someone else. Should she just tell him? She couldn’t bear to think about it. She had to focus on her work, she thought. Maybe work from home today.
When she opened her university email, the first message in her inbox caught her eye. It had been sent less than an hour ago. The subject line read, The real reason St. Casilda fired Dr. McCloud. She blinked, frowning. What was this? The sender was [email protected].
The message was short. It said, If you want to find out, meet me at Habib’s Café, 119 Springfield Ave, Paterson. 11 a.m. today. Don’t tell your husband. It was unsigned.
It was much too specific to be spam. She emailed back. Who are you? How did you get my email address?
She was wondering whether she had been too hasty when a response came back. Details when we meet. Don’t tell your husband. Come alone. Who was this?
She wrote back, I can’t meet you if I don’t know who you are.
The response was almost immediate. I know who you are. 11 a.m., Habib’s.
Grace shivered. There was something ominous about that. I know who you are. What did it mean? Did it simply mean the person would recognize her? This had to be someone who worked at St. Casilda. Someone who had inside information about the firing decision. A member of the administrative staff? Somehow the email didn’t sound like one a faculty member would send. Why should she not tell Duncan if this was about his layoff? It didn’t make sense.
St. Casilda’s financial problems hadn’t been a secret, but the termination letter had come out of the blue, in a mauve envelope carrying the college letterhead. As Duncan read it, his face had gone from confusion to shock. She’d never had the chance to read the letter. He’d ripped it up, flung it in the trash. It was only later, after the news had sunk in, that he had begun asking why. Nobody—not Grace nor his colleagues—could understand why he had been the one to be laid off. His publication record had been unusually good, and he had rave reviews from his students. Even a faculty excellence award the year before. Grace thought that what had been hardest for Duncan was not knowing why he had been singled out to lessen St. Casilda’s financial burden.
She read the emails again. Could this person really know something? There would be no harm in going to meet the person, she decided. If she left soon, she would get to Paterson in time.
By a quarter to eleven, her GPS had brought her to a busy part of Paterson. She parked by a shop that sold discount picture frames and set out on foot to the intersection of Springfield Avenue. After turning down the street, she noticed that the area was beginning to look less salutary. Dirty paper cups and empty cigarette packets littered the curb, and shuttered storefronts lurked among shops with dusty awnings, some with “For Lease” scrawled across their front windows.
There weren’t many pedestrians about here. Grace hurried across the cracked bricks of the sidewalk, looking around nervously. She passed a trio of young men in hooded sweatshirts hunched near the open doors of an old brown convertible, and then a small unpaved lot choked with weeds, hemmed by a chicken wire fence. Ahead, across a narrow side street, next to a wall defaced with thick swirls of graffiti, she could see a lurid awning emblazoned with the words HABIB’S CAFÉ SHISH KEBABS. She quickened her p
ace, clutching her purse to her hip.
A sudden burst of sound erupted as a black SUV revved past her. Grace jumped back, startled. The SUV shot forward, and she saw, to her horror, that a black gun was pointing out of the window. Three loud bangs rang out. Glass exploded. Screams pierced the air. Grace froze, an involuntary scream leaving her lips. The SUV zoomed away down the next side street. People poured out of nearby stores. The young men who had been loitering near the convertible rushed past Grace, running toward Habib’s, shouting.
Grace realized she was muttering, “Oh my God, oh my God.” She stood there, wondering what to do, then ran toward Habib’s too. People were pressing toward the doorway. Bits of jagged glass were all that was left of the front window. Shards were strewn across the curb.
“Was anyone hurt?” Grace’s voice was lost in the clamor of people shouting and swearing. She pressed forward, but waving arms and thronging bodies blocked her passage.
The shrill sound of sirens shattered the air as two police cars sped forward, skidding across the street. Four uniformed officers rushed out of the vehicles, shouting, “Back, back! Everyone get back.” They waved people away from Habib’s, clearing a path to the door. Inside, people were shouting. Grace caught a glimpse of toppled chairs and tables, evidently the result of diners having leapt away from the window. No one was seated, but a small group of people was clustered near the back.
“Anyone get a license plate?” one officer shouted.
“No, man. It was too quick,” one man said.
“Black Ford SUV,” a woman yelled. “Went that way.”
Others started chiming in.
“Coming here now doing no good, yo!”
“Where you people when we need you?”
People were getting heated, shouting.
Someone was saying something about gang revenge.
“Move away! Go back to your business! Nothing to see here,” one officer said. People started to trickle away, chattering loudly among themselves.
“I was supposed to meet someone for lunch,” Grace said to the officer who was posted at the door.
“No one’s going in here,” the officer said, his tone dismissive. People were yelling inside. He turned away to talk to the restaurant owner, who was gesticulating angrily, shouting in heavily accented English. Grace could only catch a few words: terrorists, business, America.
She trudged back down the street. People were still clustered in shop doorways. “Do you know if anyone was hurt?” Grace asked a woman with beaded braids who had emerged from a hair salon.
“Nah,” the woman said, her hands on her hips. “No ambulance.” She shook her head. “Haven’t had a drive-by around here for months. And that Habib’s never had a problem.”
Grace returned to her car, locked the doors, and leaned her head back, breathing deep. She could have been sitting in there. She could have been an accidental victim, she thought, relief slumping her shoulders.
15
DUNCAN
Thursday
Duncan stepped back to admire the two pictures he had just hung. They were not new drawings—he had not seen Grace draw anything for months.
He turned at a knock on the door. To his surprise, it was Hammond.
“I didn’t think anyone else would be in yet,” Duncan said.
“We start early,” Hammond said, a smile hovering on his pale lips. Everyone around here dressed so formally, Duncan thought. Ah, for the casual academic life. He brushed the thought aside. He was lucky to have this job, with all its perks on top of the chance to make a real difference in people’s lives.
“I don’t usually make it to this wing,” Hammond said, straightening the knot of his tie. It was a plain charcoal silk, stark against the white of his shirt. “But today I have a meeting here. Thought I’d drop by. See how you’re doing.” He cast his eyes from the hammer and nails on the desk to the pictures on the wall. “Decorating.” He adjusted the collar of his shirt. “No devil masks?”
No sense in getting annoyed at ignorance, Duncan thought. “Well, those aren’t really for decoration,” he said, keeping his face impassive. He realized that sounded too critical when there were masks hanging in Hammond’s study and in the Cinasat lobby, so he added, “Because of my work . . . I mean, I think of them more as ritual objects.”
He saw Hammond’s lips tighten. To change the subject, he pointed at the pictures he had just hung. “Grace did those,” he said, inching one upward. The sketches were intricately drawn, in black ink. “When we were out in the Catskills last year.”
“An artist,” Hammond said, moving closer. His steps were small and neat like the rest of him, his shiny wing tips tapping on the hardwood floor. “Like my wife.”
Not much like Ada, Duncan thought, but he only said, “Grace doesn’t draw much, actually. Her lab consumes most of her time—she’s a biologist. A tenured professor at Dumont University.”
Hammond nodded, and Duncan realized that he probably already knew what Grace did.
Hammond reached out to nudge one frame down, apparently dissatisfied with its alignment. “I wonder . . . Do any of her colleagues work for the pharmaceutical industry? One of our competitors, perhaps?”
“I don’t think so,” Duncan said. “At least, she’s never mentioned it.”
Evidently responding to his puzzled look, Hammond said, “Faculty often get industry grants for research, as you know. Biologists, particularly. Just a matter of curiosity.” He cocked his head, gazing at the pictures. “She’s pleased about your new job, I take it?”
“She must be,” Duncan said, smiling. “It’s not easy to tear her away from her lab, but she went out and bought these frames yesterday, just so I could put the pictures up.” He shook his head. “Apparently almost got shot at in the process.”
Hammond’s scanty eyebrows rose. “Shot?”
“In Paterson. She saw a drive-by shooting,”
“Paterson’s not where I’d choose to go for picture frames,” Hammond said, stroking the thin line of hair along his jaw with two precise fingers.
You wouldn’t go anywhere for picture frames, Duncan thought. The frames around the pictures at Hammond’s house had surely not been bought at a frame shop. The pictures themselves had probably cost many tens of thousands of dollars. At least.
“Grace does things her way,” Duncan said, shrugging.
“You are close to your wife,” Hammond said, his eyes narrowed a little.
Duncan nodded, trying not to show his discomfort. An oddly personal thing for an employer to say to a new employee. There was no way he was going to get into his marital tensions with this man.
“We like that,” Hammond said, smoothing his tie. Duncan could see the blue veins that snaked under the thin skin of his hands. “It fits our company philosophy. We believe loyal families make dedicated employees.” When Duncan looked at him questioningly, he continued, “When spouses understand that jobs benefit the whole family, employees have more leeway. More support to do their jobs.”
“Oh, I think Grace does understand that,” Duncan said. “I don’t have any worries on that score.”
16
GRACE
Thursday
Lydia Delgado stuck her head through the doorway of Grace’s office. She was sporting little hoop earrings with beads in them that matched her peach linen shirt. How did she find the time to coordinate her accessories even at exam time, Grace thought.
“How I love grading,” Lydia said, indicating the uneven stack of papers on her arm. She groaned. “Is yours done?”
Grace nodded. “But my grant application’s due next week,” she said. “Still have the analysis to do for that last experiment. Not a chance of getting the grant without those results.”
“I thought you did the grant last week,” Lydia said.
Grace didn’t want to say anything to Lydia about the events of the past few days. There was already too much to think about, and it was interfering with her work. Time to buckle down
and get the grant application finished.
After Lydia left, she shut the door. She could usually count on quiet, except for the intermittent clamor from the boiler room by the stairwell. Her office, which adjoined her lab, was the last in the long west-side corridor on the fourth floor of Gannon Hall. When Duncan had worked at St. Casilda College, the view out of her single tall window had been comforting, assurance that her job was not that much better than his. It was a view he would have disliked having, with no trees in sight.
She checked her email. Still no response from whoever it was that had asked to meet in Paterson. She wondered again if the person had got shot. On impulse, she looked up Habib’s Café online and dialed the number listed.
After three rings, a thickly accented voice said abruptly, “Habib’s, we’re closed.” There were thumping sounds in the background, other voices calling out in what sounded like Arabic.
“Did anyone get hurt yesterday?”
A pause, and then the voice said sharply, “Who is this?”
“I just . . . I was supposed to meet someone there yesterday, and then there was the shooting,” Grace said. “I was just wondering . . . Was anyone shot?”
“No one shot,” the voice said. “Tomorrow we open. You come back then.” The phone slammed down.
Maybe the whole thing had been a hoax, Grace thought. It was good that she hadn’t bothered Duncan with the real reason she’d gone to Paterson. She needed to put these distractions aside. She was about to call Gigi, the graduate student who had carried out the last experiment, when the phone rang.
It had to be Gigi with the information she had requested. But when she picked up the phone, it was Mo’s voice she heard.
“You busy? Do you have a minute to talk?”
The Mask Collectors Page 10