Forgotten City

by Carrie Smith

  “Spare the bullshit, Detective.” He sat in his Herman Miller executive throne. “What’s so important that you had to interrupt my schedule?”

  He was hardly a man softened by mourning, she thought. Her instinct was to lash back, but she swallowed the impulse. “I apologize for the interruption. I’ll make this as brief as I can.” She sat across from him, although he had not offered a seat. “Your daughter came to see me yesterday afternoon—”

  “My daughter came to you?”

  “That’s right. To my office at Manhattan North. She asked specifically for me.”

  “Why?”

  “She has some concerns about the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Merchant’s death.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “She told you about a videotape.”

  “She played it for me, in fact.”

  Merchant shook his head and wagged an accusing index finger at her. “You should have called me right then, Detective. You should have picked up the phone and dialed my office then. I could have put things into perspective for you.”

  “Why don’t you do that right now.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Detective.”

  “But your daughter—”

  “My daughter is—” He paused to consider his words. “She’s understandably upset by her mother’s death, and quite frankly, she is imagining things.”

  Codella crossed her legs and took her time before speaking. “You know, I thought so too at first. But now I’m not so sure.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “There are a few irregular circumstances surrounding Mrs. Merchant’s death. They warrant a closer look.”

  “What irregular circumstances?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose those right now.”

  “Look, I’m her husband.” His forefinger stabbed his desktop with so much force that the thick glass vibrated. “You have to tell me.”

  “I’m sorry.” She watched the anger percolate on his face. “But I can’t. You just have to trust me on this. The evidence is circumstantial, but it’s compelling.”

  “What are you suggesting, Detective? That someone killed my wife?”

  “I’m not ready to make a definitive statement quite yet,” Codella said.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I need your help.”

  “You won’t tell me anything, but you need my help?”

  “To put some questions to rest. An autopsy would do that. I’d like you to request one.”

  Merchant leaned back and brushed at his lapel. “Absolutely not. Now get out of here.” He pointed to his door.

  Codella didn’t move. “A postmortem could put everyone’s mind at ease.”

  “Julia’s, perhaps. But not mine. I have enough problems with the press. I don’t need them speculating on whether I killed my wife. I’m not naïve, Detective. I know what’s in your head. You won’t tell me the details because the husband is always the suspect. Right? You know what would put my mind at ease? If the NYPD had the decency to send an experienced detective to see me, not one who swallowed my daughter’s paranoia hook, line, and sinker.”

  Codella willed herself not to respond to the insult. Merchant was just one more angry man—like McGowan, like her father—who needed to flaunt his supremacy. But in the aftermath of cancer, she didn’t fear the threats she could see coming at her, and she calmed herself with the comforting reminder of what Dr. Abrams had said this morning. You’re boring. Don’t come back for six months.

  “How long have you even been on the job?” Merchant asked.

  “Long enough.”

  He leaned over his desk in a way she knew was meant to unnerve her. “How long?” he demanded. “I want to know.”

  He wanted her to cower. But she wouldn’t do that. Maybe she was about to commit “career suicide,” but she was suddenly done letting him have the upper hand. She placed her elbows on her side of the desk and leaned toward him instead of away. “If you’re that interested in the trajectory of my career, Mr. Merchant, why don’t you have Ms. Ruffalo Google me. You’ll get all the answers you want. But let me clarify one thing: I don’t swallow people’s stories hook, line, and sinker. I follow a chain of evidence. That’s my job. And I came here because I thought you’d want to know what happened to your wife. I think the press will be more interested in the fact that you don’t want an autopsy than they would be if you did. I think your analysis of the situation is entirely foolhardy. But then, what do I know?”

  Merchant leaned back. “I did not kill my wife.”

  She thought of Muñoz’s phone call five minutes ago from a street in Pelham Manor. She was tempted to say, And I suppose you didn’t rape Jackie Freimor, either? Instead, she said, “If you didn’t kill your wife, then you have nothing to fear.”

  “Bullshit,” he said again. “The media doesn’t care about the truth. They’ll use anything they can to eat me alive.”

  “Including the fact that you turned me down.” Codella took an autopsy authorization form out of her jacket pocket and placed it on his desk. “Don’t you want to be on the right side of this investigation?” She stared at him. “I’m going to get an autopsy one way or another. You can sign this form and make it easy or I can go to the DA and show them what I’ve got.” She pitched her bluff with as much casual confidence as she could muster. She felt him watch her closely. She blinked naturally. She didn’t look away. When enough time had passed, she said, “Sign the form, Mr. Merchant. And call the Office of the Medical Examiner. Your wife is an icon of the musical theater world, and you are a man of influence. A call from you would expedite things. And then we could put this issue to rest.”

  She slid the paperwork across the glass without looking away from him. He stared at the form for several seconds. Finally the hardness in his eyes gave way. He picked up his pen and scrawled his signature next to the X she’d drawn. “Satisfied?” He pushed the form back. “I didn’t kill my wife.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Julia Merchant’s phone rang. She paused her Netflix movie and waited for the ringing to stop. When were they going to quit harassing her? She’d spoken to at least five of them, and they all asked the same questions. Which of your mother’s shows was her favorite? Who were the performers she admired most? Is it true Gordon Kahn helped her get her first audition? Are there any backstage anecdotes you can share with us? Who did she consider her best choreographer?

  Julia had obliged each reporter with the sound bites they sought when what she really wanted to do was tell them, Leave me the fuck alone! They were all piranhas feeding off the scraps of her mother’s life. They never even pretended to care about what Julia was going through.

  And then one reporter had dared to broach her most painful subject. “Your mother acknowledged that she was a carrier of a presenilin mutation that caused her early onset Alzheimer’s. Have you been tested for the mutations? Are you concerned that you’ll share her fate one day?”

  “Oh my God, you fucking asshole!” she’d screamed into the phone before ending the call. She didn’t intend to speak to any more reporters.

  The ringing stopped and her answering machine switched on. She waited for the hang up—reporters never left messages; they liked to catch you off guard—but her father’s voice blared through the speaker instead. “Pick it up, Julia. Now.”

  She lifted the phone from its charging station.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You went to the police and didn’t tell me?”

  Julia closed her eyes and cringed. For an instant, she felt only fear of his explosive temper. Then she took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was in the right—not him. “You didn’t pay attention to my concerns. You didn’t believe me.”

  “Because it’s nonsense.”

  “How do you know it’s nonsense?”

  “Because no one would kill your mother.
I’m sorry, but what would be the point? I hope you’re happy that you’re going to get your autopsy, but do you have any idea what my life will be like when the press gets their hands on this little tidbit? I’m already getting butchered in the Business Times. Now I have to be in the tabloids, too?”

  “Why? You’re afraid of what they’ll find when they comb through your closet?” Julia couldn’t resist the taunt.

  “Is that why you’re doing this, Julia? To embarrass me?”

  “I did it because something happened to my mother.”

  “You’re right. Something did happen to her. But it wasn’t murder, honey.”

  “She should never have married you.”

  “Maybe not.” He laughed. “But you’d still be my daughter.”

  “I wish I weren’t.” She knew she sounded like a five-year-old.

  “Does that mean I should stop those transfers into your account every month?”

  “Those transfers barely pay my expenses anymore,” she blurted out angrily.

  “Well that’s too bad, because I’m no longer going to pay for your clubbing and your trips. You almost got yourself killed last year. You need to get a job and do something with your life.”

  Now he sounded like Pamela, she thought. “You don’t know what it’s like to be your daughter.”

  He sighed. “Well, you don’t know what it’s like to be your father, either. Get yourself a therapist, Julia. I’ll pay for that.” He hung up.

  CHAPTER 40

  Haggerty was there when she arrived, and he’d brought them takeout Indian.

  “How did you get in?”

  “Your doorman gave me the key.” He smiled. “How was your day?”

  She pushed back her annoyance. “Muñoz was really helpful. He dug up some pretty damaging dirt on Merchant. Can I borrow him again tomorrow?”

  He came up behind her. “You’re abusing your personal relationship with me, Detective.”

  “Maybe.” She pulled away and turned to face him. “But we’re making progress. Merchant signed the autopsy authorization. McGowan is pissed, of course. He knows he’ll have to give me a team.”

  “Grab some plates,” said Haggerty.

  She reached into the cupboard. And then it occurred to her: What if she hadn’t wanted to eat Indian? What if she hadn’t wanted him to be here at all tonight? Was he going to show up like this whenever he wanted to? “The only way I could get on his good side is to get another round of cancer.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? It’s the truth.”

  “Well, I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Maybe you should,” she said.

  His hand was pulling a white cardboard carton of rice from the takeout bag. He stopped and faced her. “Why are you saying that?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly a good risk, now am I?”

  “Did you get bad results from the scan, Claire?” His expression looked suddenly alarmed.

  “No. I’m fine. I don’t have to go back for six months, but . . .” She shrugged.

  He sighed his relief. “But what?” He set the rice carton on the counter. “What’s with you tonight?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. “I’m just tired. I’m not good company right now.”

  He moved closer. “Are you trying to say that you want me to go?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She peeled out of her jacket and hung it on a stool by the counter across from the sink.

  “You’re not being honest.”

  “Okay,” she admitted. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be here right now. I—look, this—us—it’s all just happening a little fast for me.”

  He crossed his arms. “You’re scared.”

  Codella combed her fingers through her hair. “I’m not scared. I just know how these things end.”

  “These things?” he repeated. “What things?”

  “Relationships.” She pictured her father and mother fighting in the kitchen on Pleasant Street. She thought about McGowan always flirting with female uniforms fresh from the academy and Fisk bitching about how much his wife was taking him for in their divorce. Where would she and Haggerty end up if this went any further?

  “You know as well as I do that we would never last.”

  “How can you know that? I don’t know that.”

  “Trust me. We’d be happy for a couple months. Maybe even a couple years. And then you’d get bored or I’d get bored or you’d start drinking too much or I’d get too wrapped up in a case and before you know it, one of us would end up wishing the other one wasn’t there. We’d fight or ignore each other or cheat on each other, and all the good things we ever had as partners and friends would be gone. History. Just because we got greedy and tried to make us into something we were never meant to be.”

  Haggerty threw up his hands. “Jesus, Claire. I’m not the other asshole men in your life! I’m not your father. I’m not McGowan.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t think you do.” He shook his head. “You know, I’ll always remember the time you shoved me up against the interrogation room wall because you were so pissed that I didn’t trust you to keep my secret. You remember that?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, now it’s my turn. Now I’m pissed. Because you don’t trust me. You’re looking right at me, and you’re seeing someone else. So why don’t you take some time and think things over.” He walked out of the kitchen, and the next thing she heard was the front door opening and slamming shut.

  Let him go, she told herself. It’s better this way. But was it? She imagined him not in her kitchen, not in her bed, not in her life anymore, and she realized—with uncomfortable jolts of regret and trepidation—that she had changed in some fundamental way and that being with him might now feel more natural, more right, than being alone.

  She moved quickly to the door. When she opened it, he was still standing on the landing waiting for the elevator. He could have disappeared down the fire stairs, she reflected. He had chosen to give her time to come after him. He had wanted her to come after him. “I’m sorry.” She grabbed his arm. “Come back inside.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Please,” she said.

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Because you got all that good food. We should eat it.”

  He squinted. “You know that’s not the answer I want.”

  He was going to make her say it. “Okay. Because I’d miss you.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not a good enough reason, either.”

  The elevator doors opened. He stepped forward. She pulled him back to her. “No!” She almost never cried, but now she started to.

  He let the doors close behind him, and he clasped her tightly against him, kissed her mouth, and whispered, “I love you, Claire. And you love me. Just deal with it, okay?”

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 41

  Rudolph Gambarin was a workaholic, and he liked to start cutting bodies early in the day. Lucy Merchant’s examination had begun by the time Codella got there. From outside the room, she heard the whirr of a precision saw. She could almost feel the high-speed blade grinding into her own sternum. She waited for the sound to stop. Then she opened the door, stepped inside, and silently worked her arms into a gown and tied on a mask. She positioned herself at the foot of the stainless table, opposite Gambarin. She’d been in his exam room enough times to know that he didn’t like to talk while he worked.

  As usual, the ubiquitous odor of decay was unpleasant. Codella always avoided taking deep breaths during postmortems. When she inhaled the smell of putrefaction, it felt as if someone else’s death were infesting her lungs. She had never been repulsed by the clinical dissection of a body, but as she watched Gambarin pull the chest flap up, exposing blood-red tissue and organs, she felt the familiar heaviness that always invaded her arms and legs in an autopsy room. The sensation was like an unearthly gravity pulling her right into the ground.


  She focused on Gambarin’s delicate gloved fingers severing arteries and ligaments, and then in her mind she was back at the side window of Joanie Carlucci’s house, staring through the glass at her father’s fat gloved hands gripping the handle of the baseball bat. And for the first time, she realized why she always felt this strange paralysis during autopsies. Here in this room of stainless steel and cold tile, her muscles and tendons remembered that first time she had met death. Now she pictured Joanie Carlucci holding her arms in front of her face as her father adjusted his grip like a designated hitter heading to the plate. If Claire had fled from the window in that moment, she would not have seen his act of violence. He might have gotten away with murder. But she hadn’t been able to move. Her legs had felt glued to the driveway of that house the same way they felt fixed to Gambarin’s autopsy room floor right now.

  The precise, methodical medical examiner detached Lucy Merchant’s organ set. One at a time, he cradled each organ like a newborn and transported it to a scale where his assistant weighed it, recorded its measurement, and took tissue samples. And all the while, Codella gripped the edge of the table the way she had grasped the ledge below Joanie Carlucci’s window, and she reflected on the consequences of her father’s violent act. At the age of ten, she had become a foster child to a jewelry manufacturer’s rep and his wife in Meshanicut. Throughout her father’s trial, the couple devoured the local news coverage at night when they assumed she was asleep, but she hardly ever slept in those weeks and months, and she heard the live reports from her bedroom at the back of the first floor. Organized crime experts described her father’s ties to Rhode Island mob families, panels of forensic psychologists diagnosed his abnormal psychology, and notable child psychologists predicted her fate in brashly clinical terms. She would suffer paralyzing post-traumatic stress disorder, severe depression, attachment issues, and sleep disorders. “That monster didn’t just murder a woman; he murdered his child’s future,” one expert concluded.

  When Gambarin and his assistant finished with the organs, they placed a body block behind Lucy Merchant’s head. Codella watched as Gambarin picked up his saw. Had she been psychologically damaged? Was she depressed? Did she have attachment issues? She thought of Haggerty and his own family of alcoholics and how the two of them had finally, after so many years, stumbled their way into cautious intimacy. Well, wasn’t everyone in some way or other fucked up by their childhood?