“Episcopal?”
“You got it.” Sal leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Didn’t join in much beyond that. Folks knew he was a doctor in research at Hopkins but that’s about all. It’s a private kind of place to begin with, so he seemed like everybody else. They’re all in for a surprise when this all comes out. Only bits and pieces in the paper so far.”
“How come Wellstone didn’t offer this up?”
Sal grimaced. “I don’t think she heard me right when I first approached her. She’s a little deaf. But I talked with a maid this morning—walking some dogs—and she didn’t know no Lowenstein, only Lowe. She told me how Wellstone’s maid looked after his house when he went away every year and gave me his cleaning lady’s name.”
Sean filled him in on his other talks and his need to reach Jansen and the law firm that handled Lowenstein’s private affairs.
“I’ll give them a call,” Sean said. “Patelson and Moore.”
“That’s an old Baltimore firm.”
“Exactly. Not the kind that deals with a Lowenstein, if you know what I mean.”
“Anything else?”
“Why the two names? I mean, I can figure the Lowe part out, but why go by Lowenstein at work if he ain’t… a real Lowenstein? I’d also like to know who tried to talk to him yesterday morning, who called him.” Sean stood and brushed off his jacket. “But I’ll get on that after lunch.”
“I can join you.”
“Don’t think so.” Sean said. “I’m meeting your sister.”
Sal smiled, then sat up, remembering something. “I ran into that Susan secretary at the victim’s house,” he said, telling Sean about the encounter. “She mention it to you?”
“Nope,” said Sean. “That’s fishy.”
“She’s hiding something.” Sal frowned. “Maybe we should talk to her husband.”
“Maybe we should just tell her we’re going to talk to her husband.” Sean smiled. “My guess is that would open her up a bit more.”
“I’ll get on it. You shouldn’t keep Brigitta waiting or I’ll hear about it, partner.”
Chapter Six
BRIGITTA LORENZO SAT in a booth of the Old Towne Diner off of St. Paul Street near Lombard deciding how long she’d wait before heading out. Fifteen minutes, she decided—a polite enough interval should he be legitimately delayed, but a short enough period to provide her with time to run errands before her lunch hour was over.
She wore a navy blue suit with a cropped jacket, one of her favorite outfits. It and the silky, draping polka-dot blouse accented her good figure and set off her umber complexion. She eschewed the shorter hairstyles of the day and kept her full, dark hair brushed in heavy waves just below her shoulders. Men liked long hair and so did she. She’d recently discovered she could achieve a neat look by wetting her hairbrush in the morning and running it through her thick locks for at least fifty strokes, then lightly combing her fingers through it using men’s brilliantine. She tempered its masculine odor with a spritz of lavender perfume. It was a relief not to have to deal with metal curlers that kept her awake half the night just to make sure her hair wasn’t too curly. She wished she’d thought of it earlier.
Although Brigitta was a widow, she’d packed away her sorrow with her lacy wedding gown the year after hearing of her husband’s death. She’d only been eighteen at her wedding, nothing more than a child, really. She’d thought at the time that her wedding night had initiated her into the full bloom of womanhood, but as time went on she realized that even that much-anticipated act—one she’d come to enjoy—had not completed the task.
No, she marked her transformation from girl to woman the day she refused to move back in with her family despite many tearful entreaties on the part of her mother and muttered curses on the part of her brother Sal. That had been the day she’d decided to stay in the little apartment she’d shared oh so briefly with Ernie, her husband, and to learn to provide for herself. That had been the day she’d packed her wedding dress in fine blue paper, and placed the box on a top shelf in her closet along with her regrets and her girlish dreams. The next day she’d enrolled in a typing class, paying for it with the last of Ernie’s army life insurance, and six weeks later she’d landed her first job as a clerk for Carroll Shipping at the harbor. She’d left them five years later and now worked as a full-fledged secretary for Ryan, Dennis, and Smathers, a law firm on St. Paul Street.
Until a month ago, she’d been the mistress of Gavin Smathers, the attractive—and married—junior partner in the firm. But Brigitta was ultimately no fool, and when it had become clear that Gavin had no intention of leaving his wife, she’d neatly and simply ended their affair, thanking him for his gifts and his time but making it absolutely clear she was no longer available for his bed.
She’d realized after breaking with Gavin that she’d given up on him months before. She’d been surprised and pleased to feel a sense of relief that she didn’t need to keep hoping things would change. It had tired her out, all that baseless hope. She was much better at facing the world as it was, not wishing it were better. Now she had her eye on the office manager position, which was opening up because Diane Rivers was expecting her first child. Diane liked Brigitta and was going to put in a word for her. Once Brigitta received that promotion and the resulting raise in pay, she might even think of moving. She’d saved her money wisely over the past ten years—not just her salary but the extra cash Gavin had slipped her on occasion. She thought she had enough for a down payment on a house—if she could get a mortgage as a single woman. But she didn’t like to think about that too much—hope too dearly and you put dreams at risk. No more wishful thinking. She’d keep her joy locked away until that plan was closer to fruition.
Brigitta pulled the hem of her white glove back and looked at her watch. Five more minutes. And then she could tell her brother Sallie—he’d always be Sallie to her even though he used Sal at work—she’d tried to meet this latest fellow.
“Excuse me, are you Brigitta Lorenza?” A muscular man stood near her booth.
“Lorenzo,” she said, smiling up at him. “That’s me. You must be Sean.” She gestured to the seat across from her and looked him over as he slid in. Tan face, tough look about him, a little on the disheveled side, sad eyes. Sal had told her about his wife.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he began.
“I only just arrived myself.” She pulled off her gloves and picked up the menu, even though she’d already studied it and knew what she would order. Chicken salad and coffee.
He followed suit and pulled out a menu, too. Brigitta had been on enough of these set-up dates to feel some pity for the poor guys involved. They always looked so awkward and uncomfortable. Try as she might, she couldn’t get her brother to understand that he really didn’t need to introduce her to men. Even when she’d been with Gavin, she’d met her fair share of eligible men willing to give her more than a second glance—and a depressingly large number of ineligible men willing to do the same.
“Sal tells me you’re working on an interesting case,” she began. “Can you tell me about it?” She set her menu aside, signaling she was ready to order.
Grateful for the opening, he looked up and shared some information—really only what she’d already read in the paper. But this seemed to relax him, and by the time the waitress took their orders he was talking quite easily about his children and his house. At this last bit, she perked up, asking him questions about its style and how long it had taken him to buy it.
All in all, it was an enjoyable lunch, and when he suggested going out for a movie “sometime soon,” she didn’t offer her pat excuse—I’m afraid I’m heading out of town for a short while—that she used for the candidates her brother sent her way. She looked him in the eye, smiled, and said, “I’ll look forward to your call.”
***
Sal decided not to confront Susan Schlager directly but to watch her for a while first. It seemed like something Sean, with his longer expe
rience as a detective, would do.
He sat in his car, keeping an eye on the door to the Hopkins labs, the door that a friendly nurse had told him was the one used by everybody because it was close to the parking lot down the street. If Susan Schlager had been unsuccessful in her attempt to retrieve something from her boss’s house that morning, maybe she’d try again at lunch. Sal was going to give her fifteen more minutes before going in to pry more out of her.
Just as the sand drifted through the hourglass of his self-imposed time limit, she appeared, walking with speed and determination toward the lot at the corner. He slid into an upright position and turned on the motor. Within a few moments, she was heading out of town, and he was following her.
Sure enough, she made her way north to Lowenstein’s neighborhood. Because it was a quiet place with little traffic, Sal hung back, parking his car way up the block from the victim’s home, behind a couple of thick-trunked trees. He eased out of his car and slunk into the shadows of one of the trees, watching.
She didn’t disappoint. Once again, she went up to Lowenstein’s door. But unlike in the morning when she seemed unsure and overwrought, she now walked with confidence. From her purse, she pulled a key.
Sal straightened. Of course. Lowenstein had probably left a key at the office, maybe even left it with her for those times when he needed something from home or needed…her. Had the two been a couple? Nosy Mrs. Wellstone surely would have picked up on that bit of slanderous gossip. Maybe they’d been discreet…
After Susan let herself into the house, Sal followed, mentally debating whether to surprise her inside or to wait. Wait, he decided, and see what she brings out. He walked slowly, hands in pockets, toward the home as if he were on a meditative stroll. When he passed Susan’s car, he decided to take a side trip and investigate there first. After quickly glancing up and down the street, he opened the passenger side door.
She’d foolishly left her purse on the floor. He didn’t move it, but opened it with a flick of his fingers. It, like the car, was neat as a pin, holding a change purse with a few bills and more coins, a lace-edged handkerchief, a lipstick and compact, and a slip of paper on which were written “bread, eggs.” The glove compartment was equally tidy, with car registration and a few maps in rows. The only item carelessly strewn in the car, in fact, was a map of the city open on the passenger seat. Its crease ran through the Hopkins campus, so that the only square visible was of the very neighborhood they were now in.
With a quiet click, he closed the door and ambled down the street toward the Lowenstein home, eventually leaning against the wall by the door, out of sight should Susan glance out the window, and hidden from neighboring houses’ view, safe from the smiles and jabber of Wellstone.
***
Something troubled Julia.
Dr. Jansen had returned from his meeting at the university almost immediately after Detective Reilly had left. He’d glided into her office so quietly, looking over his shoulder as if he’d been waiting for the detective to leave. In fact, it occurred to Julia that it was awfully odd how quickly he’d returned. She’d mentally calculated how long it would have taken to travel to and fro, and that had hardly left time for any meeting at all. It was as if he’d just made up the meeting—she certainly hadn’t had it on her copy of his calendar—to avoid the detective.
And when he had turned up in her office, things were odder still. Linda and Susan were out—Linda to an early lunch and Susan to speak with Mrs. Wilcox about “her situation” before heading to lunch herself—leaving Julia all alone. Standing in front of her desk, Dr. Jansen had talked to Julia quite a bit about Dr. Lowenstein’s death. Dr. Jansen wasn’t usually a talkative man, certainly not to the secretaries. And while the occasion of Dr. Lowenstein’s death was extraordinary enough to lead to unusual behavior, it was the questions that Dr. Jansen had asked, the comments he’d made, that had unsettled her the most.
“Did the police check his calendar?” he’d asked, nodding toward Susan’s desk.
“Why, yes, I think so.”
“Not that that would necessarily show anything out of the ordinary,” Dr. Jansen had quickly added.
But when she’d agreed with him, he’d come back to it again, even suggesting that he take a look at it in case the police missed anything. And he’d walked over to Susan’s desk, asked Julia where he might find the calendar, and quickly skimmed it when she’d pulled it from Susan’s upper left drawer. After satisfying himself with this piece of detection, he’d seemed unusually nervous, even laughing a little at how “this business has us all on edge.”
He’d left the room after that, only to buzz her a few minutes later, asking her to come in to see him. He’d been sitting at his desk still in his overcoat, a fact which he’d seemed to notice only when she’d entered. While he’d removed it and hung it up, he’d asked, in what had sounded to her like an artificially aloof tone, if she knew where Dr. Lowenstein kept his notes on his latest experiments. “You’ve done a few jobs for him now and then, haven’t you?” he’d said in a high, cheery voice. She’d told him she knew nothing about his research and suspected Mrs. Wilcox was the one to talk to about that. She probably arranged with the other doctors involved to decide how to handle his papers.
“But what if they’re important to the police?” Dr. Jansen had asked her. His false cheer dropped, replaced by his usual sharp tone.
“Then I’m sure she’ll turn them over.”
“But perhaps she won’t know if they’re important!” He’d sounded frustrated and upset and dismissed her soon after. She swore she saw him enter the lab where Dr. Lowenstein had been killed.
It was this that triggered her desire to call Detective Reilly. Dr. Jansen shouldn’t be rummaging around in there. No one realized how terribly competitive some of the doctors were, almost more interested in beating each other to a discovery than in the discovery itself. She sometimes thought of them as opera divas. Certainly Dr. Jansen fit that bill. She’d typed some letters for him to colleagues that could only be described as petty fits of jealousy disguised as “advice.” Early on, she’d gently suggested he rethink sending such letters, but he’d sharply informed her that she was to type the letters, not analyze them.
She pulled out a telephone book and began flipping through pages looking for the number of the police. Shouldn’t it be easier to find? My god, what if it were an emergency?
She removed her hand from the receiver. Calm down, Julia, don’t be stupid.
She took a deep breath. She’d investigate this on her own.
She reached for her cane and went into the hallway. If Dr. Jansen was in Dr. Lowenstein’s lab, the commonsense thing to do was to go there and tell him he should leave the room alone.
She also wanted to ask him if he knew what had happened to the vaccine trials. Mrs. Wilcox hadn’t said yet what Dr. Bodian had discovered on his trip to the National Institutes of Health.
As she approached the room, she heard her boss muttering to himself, not unusual. He occasionally talked a problem out loud.
She thought she heard him saying, “where is it, what did you do with it,” over and over again in a voice that bordered on frantic. This was not his usual tone with himself—he might be sharp with others, but he used a good-natured voice when talking to himself.
She shook her head and limped forward, catching Dr. Jansen by surprise when she entered the lab.
“Dr. Jansen,” she said, firmly and quietly, “you really shouldn’t be in here.”
Startled, he turned quickly to face her. In his hand was a gun.
Chapter Seven
WHILE SAL WAITED for Susan Schlager to leave the Lowenstein house, he listened. It was quiet outside, only the chirping of birds and occasional barking of a dog breaking the silence. But inside, he heard her footsteps up the stairs and down again, cabinet doors being opened, drawers pulled out and shut, and then, the muffled sound of weeping. He thought he heard her say something to herself, too, something like, “What
now? What now?”
After a few minutes of this, Sal’s attention was pulled elsewhere as the postman made his way down the street. The detective retreated to the side of the house before the mailman saw him, reappearing when the man had slipped the day’s mail through the door slot and moved on to the next house, gaze fixed on the addressed envelopes in his hand.
It was barely a minute before the door opened, and Susan Schlager appeared, eyes red from crying, her attention on the stack of envelopes in her hand as she walked down the front steps. She quickly leafed through each one, scanning the addresses.
“Mrs. Schlager,” Sal said, coming from the shadows.
She jumped, the envelopes falling from her hand. Looking over at Sal, she opened her mouth in surprise, and he could tell her first impulse was to run, but she stopped herself from pursuing that guilty-looking path.
“You followed me!” She tried to sound indignant.
He stooped to pick up the envelopes. “What are you doing here again, ma’am?”
“I told you before. I—I was looking for some research papers of Dr. Lowenstein’s. He was working on some important…things…and was writing a paper. I thought maybe the paper could be published posthumously.” She pronounced it posthumously, a mistake Sal himself had made once, only to be corrected by a college-educated girlfriend. Former girlfriend.
“Did you find them?” he asked, looking through the mail himself.
“No, I didn’t!” Again she tried to act indignant, but she wasn’t a good actress, and even if she were, she was too nervous to give a decent performance.
“So you decided to take the mail instead?” He held up the day’s pile.
“I handle his mail at the office,” she said after a pause.
He looked at her. She didn’t have her purse, and her suit was too thin to hide a file or other papers. The only thing she’d come out of the house with was the mail. Had she been waiting for it?
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