People spoke. She did not listen. Then, a familiar voice. “Masako.” Another hand on her arm. Gentle. She allowed her eyes to see.
“Masako.” The arm around her shoulder. “Masako, look at me.”
The doctor. Robert’s friend. Franklin Wright.
The smell of medicine. The hiss of oxygen.
“Masako”…A weak, ill voice.
Robert? Robert! Robert is alive!
“Bob needs you.” Franklin gestured toward the bed.
She felt the world flood in on her. Too bright. Too loud. It hurt her head. The humming of fluorescent light. The sighing of some big machine. The smell of antiseptic. The gleaming hood a nurse had pulled back from Robert’s face. A face slumbering now, as still as a death mask.
“Oh, Robert, I’m here,” she said, skimming forward and half-falling across the sheets. Her husband was so thin, his skin so pale, like a wilted plant, etiolated. And yet he was fighting to move air into his lungs. She brought one of his white hands to her lips, whispering. “My love, I thought I’d never see you again.”
She recalled hearing from the Christian Bible a story about the scales falling from a blind man’s eyes. That was how it felt to her. In an instant she had been jerked back into the real world. And Robert, her beloved—so ill, so very ill. But she was touching him, stroking his hands. His eyes were closed now, but they had seen her. He had called her name, and that one word had begun her life anew.
Franklin pulled the folded tent forward, then he positioned a chair for her at the bedside.
“What can I do?” Masako forced her gaze away from her dear one, searched the doctor’s solemn expression. “What can I do?”
“Bob’s fighting for his life. We’ve given him medicine, oxygen, but it’s his struggle, now. All you can do is let him know you’re here.”
Her arm ached from the heavy grip of the men who had brought her. She whirled her head around. Yes, there they were, flanking the door like the hangman’s minions.
The doctor caught her look. “Don’t worry. You’ll be allowed to stay as long…as long as you’re needed.”
“How?” she asked wonderingly. “Who has arranged this miracle?”
Nurse Louise spoke up from the other side of the bed. “Your lawyer, Abe Pritzker. Somehow he rammed it through the FBI.”
“The scrawny one with the eagle’s eyes who asks so many questions?”
“That’s him.” Louise nodded.
Masako bowed her head. “I may stay until I am no longer needed.” She shuddered, as if someone had stroked her back with the tip of an icicle. Until I am no longer needed. She knew what that meant.
She raised her chin and stared at her husband through the glistening folds of the breathing tent. The days of dull apathy—of shame, yes, shame and apathy—were behind her now. The long muscles of her arms and legs contracted reflexively. Fingernails dug into her palms. She had become a tiger. Ready to fight. Fight for Robert. Fight for herself.
“Nurse Louise,” she said, not taking her eyes off her husband. “This lawyer? Will you bring him? I must talk with him. Now.”
Chapter Eighty
Pritzker’s call had been a surprise, a real corker. “Lieutenant,” he’d said, “Mrs. Oakley is now prepared to answer questions. Meet us in the doctor’s lounge up here at Columbia-Pres, a.s.a.p.”
That Jew lawyer was a smart one. McKenna didn’t need to ask why he was extending the olive branch. The little Jap was caught in the crosshairs of some real big guns. If the fire from the homicide division could be silenced, Pritzker would have a better chance of neutralizing the Feds.
McKenna, with Brenner in tow, showed his credentials to a burly federal marshal and entered a lounge furnished with much-used leather club chairs and coffee-ringed wooden side tables. The cold rain battered tall windows draped in a dark-green woven fabric. The room seemed to have been commandeered by the lawyer for the exclusive purpose of this interview; other than Pritzker, Nurse Hunter, and Mrs. Oakley sitting in a corner, it was empty. The lawyer was tapping the ash from his pipe into a chrome ashtray stand.
McKenna couldn’t help but gawk at Mrs. Oakley. The tiny woman who’d been so silent and lethargic at Ellis Island had suddenly come to life, her face animated, her dark eyes gleaming. She held the nurse’s hand in a tight grip, causing the young woman to grimace. The hovering lawyer eyed the Japanese woman as if she were a wild mustang that, at any moment, might snap its halter and make a break for the mountains.
“Mrs. Oakley,” McKenna stubbed his cigarette out in the white sand of the ashtray and sat. Brenner got out his pen and notebook, leaned against the windowsill. The lieutenant took a deep breath and got right to the point, “What were you doing at the Shelton gallery the night Arthur Shelton was killed? And don’t give me any guff about it not being you in that cab—we have witnesses.”
“Inspector…Is that what I call you?” Mrs. Oakley asked, in a high, fluting voice.
He grunted. What was this? An Agatha Christie novel? “Lieutenant will do. Well, Mrs. Oakley?” Trying to keep cool, McKenna made himself relax into the worn leather armchair. He thought of Joe Dwyer’s order to have the Shelton case wrapped up by Monday morning. Would the information he hoped to gain from Mrs. Oakley nudge things into place? Or set him off on another wild chase? He knew that his continued presence on the force hung in the balance.
“Yes, Lieutenant, I was there that night—for a short time. My show had been up for a week only. Imagine, an entire year’s work—one week only! My heart was broken. I said to myself, I must see my friend. I must talk to him.
“So I went to the gallery and Arthur was very kind. He told me of demonstrators and people yelling. He told me about nasty letters and articles in the newspapers. He said he had risked too much money, he could take no more chances, but when things calmed down, he would put up the show again.” She grew silent, twisting intertwined fingers.
McKenna waited. Brenner’s pen remained poised. The nurse patted Mrs. Oakley’s hand. Pritzker tamped down fresh tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He hadn’t said a word since McKenna had entered, had just sat there with his pipe stem in his mouth, watching and listening, taking it all in, looking wise.
“And, then?” McKenna asked.
“And then I left. It made no sense to stay. He would not change his mind—I could tell.”
“Did you believe him?”
She lifted her eyes to the detective and frowned.
“When he said he would give you a show at a later time.”
“Oh. I knew there would be no ‘calmed-down’ time. I did not expect my father’s country to attack just two days later, but things, I knew, were not to be…amicable…for a long time. I was resigned that the paintings would go back to my studio. I could show to one person at a time. But…”
“But, what?”
“But, I did not hurt my friend. I say goodbye and leave. I did not wish to stay away from Robert any longer.”
It had the solid gold ring of truth. Nothing exaggerated, nothing defensive, nothing that smelled like a lie. McKenna had felt all along that this lady was innocent. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when I asked before?”
She lowered her gaze to her thin, twisting hands. “I was in the Slough of Despond.”
“Huh?” He caught Brenner rolling his eyes.
“Did you never read Pilgrim’s Progress, Lieutenant?”
He shrugged, scowling. “Way back in high school…”
Nurse Hunter turned to McKenna. “I understand her. It’s very clear that, during her detention, Mrs. Oakley experienced a severe depressive episode. Depressed people often withdraw from an unbearable reality to the point where they are unable to function.”
“Yeah.” McKenna knew about depressive episodes. Taking a deep breath, he let it out and sat back in his chair.<
br />
“Okay, Mrs. Oakley. Do you think you could take yourself back to that gallery, back to those moments?”
“My memory?” she asked.
“Yes, your memory. You’re talking to Mr. Shelton, okay?”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
“You realize any further argument is futile. Okay?”
She nodded.
“You gather up your things. You rise. You head to the door. What can you tell me about those moments? What did you see? What did you hear? What did you—”
“Footsteps. Someone is moving in the upstairs gallery. Very quiet. But I had the sense all along that someone was in the gallery. Arthur seemed…I do not know…antsy? Is that a word?”
“Yes. He seemed nervous?”
She nodded. “Then I could swear I heard the sound of metal on metal, like someone wearing a ring touched the banister of the circular stairs. I looked up and saw the sliver of a shadow, retreating. I asked Arthur, ‘Who is up there?’”
“And?” McKenna was aware that his hands were tightly clenched.
“‘No one,’ he said, and I thought—what business is it to me?”
“But you’re sure someone was there?”
“Yes. The sounds. The shadow. And an aroma. Very light. Like jasmine or some flowery scent.”
Hmm. Sounded feminine to McKenna. “A woman?”
“Perhaps,” she answered, seeming not at all certain.
“Okay. I got one last question for ya. Do you know what a brush pot is?”
She gave him a wide-eyed stare. “Of course, I do.” And, before McKenna could reply, she rushed on. “And Arthur had one. Very old. Very precious. Jade, I think. Edo period. It sat in a case on the reception desk. Ugly and beautiful at the same time.”
Yes! McKenna nearly hit one fist into his palm. “Was it there that night?”
“Of course. No. Wait. He’d taken it from the glass case. He must have been going to pack it, because there was a wood box and those…how you call? Curly shavings?”
“Shavings?”
“What you pack breakable things in? How do you call it?”
“Excelsior?”
“Yes, that’s it. And—”
The door to the doctor’s lounge flew open. As if a mighty wind had disrupted the room, everyone rose or stepped forward.
Dr. Wright rushed in past the guard. “Masako,” he said. “Robert has turned the corner. He’s very weak, but he’s asking for you. Come. Come quickly.”
Chapter Eighty-one
Several hours later
The taxi raced back toward Brooklyn, one refrain echoing in Helda’s mind: My son is safe.
Howie sat on the jump seat across from her, keeping up a joking conversation with Fraulein Furnish, who had offered to accompany Helda to Grand Central Terminal to meet the late train. The boy was making light of the bump on his head and describing the men he’d met along the railways as if he’d set off on a vacation excursion, rather than on a quest to become a soldier.
Helda put a hand to her forehead. The pain Howie had caused her! Did he have any idea?
It was well after midnight, and Lexington Avenue was almost completely free of cars. Store fronts were brightly lit, and Christmas lights shone in apartment windows. But Helda couldn’t dredge up any Christmas spirit. What was she going to do about her wayward son? Even now he was bragging to Fraulein Furnish about how he’d made it all the way to Kentucky on five dollars. The girl responded by smiling and widening her beady eyes in admiration, like Howie was some kind of big shot. For some reason, die Maus seemed to get along with the boy better than any of the other boarders.
But for all Howie’s big words, the boy couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes. He is ashamed, Helda thought, as well he should be, but—she let out a tremendous sigh—that was all right for now.
She’d seen her husband again that morning, out the back window as she’d dressed. He’d been standing by Mr. Lampton’s shed across the alley, smoking a cigarette, hat brim shading his face so completely that she almost hadn’t been sure.
It was the set to his shoulders that had convinced her. People who took pains to hide eyes, nose, and mouth rarely thought to change the way they stood. Ernst had a habit of hunching up his sloping shoulders to make them appear broader. Jah, that was him.
Helda lowered her chin into her rabbit fur collar. Why hadn’t she called the police, right then and there? There was no love in her heart for the man she’d married—his betrayal had extinguished any remaining flame. No, the problem was the police themselves. They would not understand. Even if she informed on Ernst, he was still her legal husband, Howie’s father. Her call might get them all in trouble, like that poor Japanese lady Nurse Hunter worked for. Helda needed to lay low, not come to the attention of the authorities. If they took her to Ellis Island, who would care for Howie?
On the other hand, Helda thought, not all police were bad in America. At Grand Central she’d been surprised to find that nice Lieutenant McKenna leaning up against a pillar near the track. “Just wanted to make sure the runaway made it home,” he’d said with a kind smile. He even offered to drive them to Brooklyn. Miss Furnish seemed inclined to accept, but Helda had declined in horror. It was so late! By the time he got back to Manhattan it would be almost morning. The most she had allowed was for him to walk the three of them to the cab stand on Vanderbilt Avenue and give the driver her address. A nice man, that policeman—but he seemed so sad.
Fraulein Furnish’s silly giggle pulled Helda out of her thoughts. She and Howie were both laughing at one of his jests. Helda leaned over to pat Howie’s knee, and his ears grew red with embarrassment. It’s all right, she thought, laugh and joke all you want, my son. I will not let Ernst get you.
Now they were downtown. In the darkness, Helda settled back against the seat and listened to the taxi wheels singing a wordless tune as they sped over the bridge. “My son is safe. My son is safe.”
Chapter Eighty-two
Sunday, December 14, after breakfast
McKenna draped his overcoat over the banister of the corkscrew staircase and laid his hat on top. The walls around him were bare of paintings, making the gallery seem both smaller and more impersonal. It reminded him of an empty house, a nice white Cape he and Gayle had once looked at, back when they’d expected to spend his retirement out on Long Island. All the things that made a house a home had been missing, and it’d been hard to imagine anyone living there, especially themselves.
Today was cloudy, the light coming through the arched windows of the front gallery dull and listless. It barely reached McKenna as he stood at the former site of the corpse spread out beneath “Lion after the Kill.” But he didn’t turn on the lights. He was looking for a ghost—the ghost of the presence Mrs. Oakley had described—and the raw brightness of the electric fixtures that had illuminated Shelton’s display galleries might chase it away. What he needed was for the ghost to materialize and make its motivation known. Pronto.
In less than twenty-four hours a report would hit the DA’s desk. It could either be his, or, he realized, someone’s trumped up facsimile that would implicate Masako Fumi Oakley and further the careers of several G-men and police officers. If that’s the way it went down, the report would be the last thing to bear his official—valid or not—signature before the Captain handed him his gold watch, slapped him on the back, and kicked his butt out the door. The last thing before an all-too-willing Brenner was promoted to his job.
Unless he could come up with the real goods.
McKenna made a slow circuit of the terrazzo floor, avoiding the stained traces of the winding blood trail where Shelton had been dragged from the front gallery to this one. His policeman’s sixth sense told him Shelton had been a pawn, a means to an end, and that end had involved the fate that now stared the Japanese artist in t
he face. Light footsteps, Mrs. Oakley had noted on the evening of Shelton’s death, a flowery scent, a slender shadow. A feminine ghost.
But a ghost solid enough to hire Herman Rupp to do its dirty work.
McKenna stopped at the windows and looked down out on the quiet, gray Sunday morning street. He pushed the heels of his hands into the window sill. Across Fifty-seventh, his idling squad car belched a wisp of exhaust into the cold air. Dolan was at the wheel, munching on a doughnut. Okay, he thought, a woman for his ghost and Rupp’s employer. Perhaps.
But why not a man who was not quite a man?
McKenna heaved himself away from the window. He had to move.
He thought of a graceful young man who enjoyed weekend getaways where he dressed as a woman. Sure, Desmond Cox seemed to have an ironclad alibi, but McKenna had to wonder. Those fruits were thick as thieves—what if they’d all gotten together and concocted the story of the house party to protect him. Then he considered an older man who’d been a drama club stalwart in college, even taking women’s parts on occasion. Smoot had no alibi at all.
Both men had had potential problems with Shelton. Cox seemed to want more out of his employer than Shelton was willing to give—in every way. Smoot had sunk a lot of money in the gallery and may have been cottoning onto the fact that Shelton was more interested in his wallet and influence than in his company. But what did either of the men have against Mrs. Oakley? Except that she made a damn convenient cover for murder.
Tiffy De Forest had plenty against the artist—she hated her for who she was, the tint of her skin, the blood that coursed through her veins. And speaking of alibis, Tiffy and Fairchild’s was still up in the air. The couple who had gone nightclubbing with them in Harlem the night Shelton was killed had taken off for a winter vacation in Havana. No telling when they’d get back—what with the boat and plane schedules now on a war footing. But if they had visited the gallery that night, why would Shelton have hidden their presence from Masako Oakley? Why would he have opened the door to them in the first place?
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