***
The house was quiet, the living room dark. Where was Mrs. Buchanan?
“Danny?” Sean called as he rushed to the right, down the short hall to the two bedrooms. Blood pounded at his temples, his hands turned cold. Had there been an emergency? Had Mr. Buchanan come by to drive them all to the hospital? Oh Jesus, not this…
“Daddy!” The boy came scampering out to him, clad in his pajamas. His face still carried a smear of jelly and his eyes were red and watery. When Sean tousled the boy’s head as he hugged his father’s leg, Sean noticed Danny was hot.
Dr. Spencer came from around the corner, too, black bag in hand, followed by a dour-looking Mrs. Buchanan.
“I called him when Danny was ailing late today,” Mrs. Buchanan explained as she rushed by. “But I really must go now that you’re home.” She said it as if there’d been no agreement for the longer day. As she retrieved her coat and hat and left, Sean lifted Danny up and stroked his head.
“Just have to share everything your brother has, do you?” He kissed his son on the cheek.
“Afraid so,” Dr. Spencer told him. He heaved his bag onto a table and handed Sean a bottle. “Here. You won’t need to run to the pharmacy.”
Sean smiled his gratitude. “You’ll send me a bill?”
Dr. Spencer nodded. “Of course.” He reached for his heavy dark coat, draped over the back of the sofa. Sean helped the older man as he struggled with the sleeves.
“A secretary at Hopkins gave me the hardest time about my coat yesterday. Said she couldn’t stand the smell.” Sean chuckled. “She’s a polio herself.”
“A wool coat like mine? It probably reminds her of the hot packs from rehabilitation, poor soul.”
When Sean looked perplexed, Dr. Spencer continued. “After the polio patient recovers from the fever, they use hot packs—hot, wet wool—to loosen up the muscles for stretching exercises. They place them on the muscles—on the back, the legs—and let them rest there until they lose the heat. At first, they’re burning hot but eventually they become clammy. It can be quite uncomfortable, even painful. And then the exercises themselves—as they try to determine which muscles will recover—hurt as well. One of my patients told me. I’m sure it’s not a pleasant memory for any polio.”
So she hadn’t been snobby, thought Sean. He was too quick to judge.
Dr. Spencer buttoned his coat.
“I saw the photograph of Dr. Lowenstein in the paper,” he commented, putting his hat on and grabbing his case. “Didn’t recognize him—I must be getting old.” He laughed and headed toward the door.
Sean followed him there, hugging Danny close. The boy was sucking his thumb and falling asleep on Sean’s shoulder, creating a warm spot that radiated peace.
“What was different about him?” Sean asked.
Dr. Spencer stopped at the door and looked out at the street as if seeing his past there. “I remembered him as a tall, thin man.”
“People pick up weight over the years,” Sean said. Lowenstein, in death, had been stocky.
Dr. Spencer turned and smiled at him. “I know. But they don’t grow back hair. For the life of me, I remembered Dr. Lowenstein was balding.”
The doctor left. Sean put Danny to bed in the small twin opposite his sleeping brother, after first determining that they’d eaten supper. He then went into the kitchen and pulled out the morning’s paper. There was Lowenstein’s photo all right. A stocky, nondescript man with even features and a full, bushy head of hair.
Dr. Lowenstein wasn’t Jewish. He wasn’t even…Lowenstein. Who was he? Why’d he take Lowenstein’s name?
Sean reheated some coffee from the morning—Mrs. Buchanan never cleaned that pot, knowing he liked a cup some evenings—and read the rest of the paper while in the back of his mind he tried to figure how to determine who the victim really was.
An hour later, Sean remembered his groceries and ran to the car to retrieve them. The ice cream he’d bought for the boys was ruined, but he managed to salvage the rest.
Chapter Nine
“SUSAN DIDN’T CALL YOU at home to say she’d be late, did she?” Linda looked up as Julia entered the room.
“No, she didn’t.” And it was unlikely she would have, considering their encounter yesterday, Julia thought as she stowed her purse in her lower right desk drawer. “Why?”
“Dr. Morton has some meeting this morning and he asked me to pick up some pastries for it yesterday. Susan said she’d do it.” Linda looked at her watch. “The meeting starts in a half hour. I thought she’d be here early.”
Given how anxious Susan was about maintaining employment, it was odd she’d be late. Julia sank uneasily into her chair.
“She’s probably just delayed by the errand,” Julia said unconvincingly.
While Julia readied herself for the work day, Linda continued to talk. “My aunt called last night all upset. Their little boy’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, no! The one in Virginia?” Julia searched for and found a memory of Linda talking about her family.
“Went fishing with some friends and it was warm so they peeled off their clothes…”
Linda didn’t need to say more. Julia knew the rest of the tale. He’d come home feeling tired and by morning he couldn’t walk across the room to go to the bathroom.
“It might not be polio,” Julia said, and the obvious falsehood of her statement embarrassed her. She turned back toward work, became businesslike. “It’s early.”
“If those doctors don’t figure this out soon, somebody will have to pay,” Linda said with unusual bitterness.
She walked to the door and looked down the hall. “I might run down to the cafeteria and get a few things, just to be on the safe side.” She looked back at Julia. “If Sue brings in stuff, we’ll have ourselves a treat.”
***
“But if I have enough capital, why shouldn’t I be able to get a mortgage?” Brigitta Lorenzo sat comfortably in a sleek light chair in front of her boss’s desk. Unlike the other partners, Gavin eschewed the heavy cherrywood desks and chairs that made their offices feel like anterooms to funeral parlors. Gavin had had an interior decorator do his in light woods and yellow-and rust-striped chairs, all clean, straight lines with no ornamental carving. If it was new, he wanted it. Which, Brigitta often thought, was one of the reasons he’d probably wanted her when she came to work for him. He was the first in the office to use an intercom for his secretary and to regularly use one of the newer Dictaphone machines instead of asking her to take dictation by shorthand.
Morning light streamed through the windows behind Gavin’s desk, causing her to squint. She changed position, crossing her legs under her cream and blue tweed dirndl skirt, showing off her shapely ankles clad in delicate blue pumps. With the end of the war had come softer, more feminine clothing, and Brigitta enjoyed every new fashion that appeared on the scene. No more military-like shoulder pads and suits, no more heavy shoes. Fuller skirts and softer curves were the trend now, and Brigitta had plenty of curves to show off. She especially liked the way this suit emphasized her small waist, not thickened by pregnancies like those of her sisters.
Gavin Smathers leaned back and smoothed his thick blond hair with his hand. “You’re a single woman,” he said as if she were dense. “A bad risk.”
Brigitta silently fumed. Not just at the unfairness of banks arbitrarily deciding she’d be a bad risk for a home loan because they assumed all women would marry, leave employment, and have babies. No, she was angry at Gavin. They had managed to maintain a reasonably comfortable professional relationship since she’d ended the affair, but occasionally Gavin said or did something that indicated he believed she thought too highly of herself. His pride had been wounded. People didn’t reject Gavin. He rejected them.
She’d only sought his counsel this morning on such a personal matter because of her uninhibited excitement about an immediate prospect. A friend, Maria Brody, had called her last night to tell her about a house about
to go on the market in her neighborhood because the owner, a widow, was moving in with her daughter who lived in New York. It was just north of downtown and beyond the very exclusive areas that no one in Brigitta’s family could ever afford. But it was a good neighborhood, a respectable one that would probably make for a wise investment. Maria’s home was a small, shingled cape cod on a tree-lined street in Cedarcroft. Just off of York Road, it was near bus lines and a market. It was precisely the kind of place Brigitta dreamed about—far enough outside the heart of the city to feel “away,” yet close enough to keep her from having to buy a car immediately. That was another dream.
Brigitta yearned for her own house the way some women lusted after diamonds and furs. She’d witnessed how her family’s investment in a row home in Little Italy had provided not only shelter but a barrier against bad times. No matter what happened to them, they had their home. They could sell it, stay in it, rent it—it was to them what stocks and bonds were to people like Gavin. If Brigitta wanted true independence, she had to have her own place. It was yet another immunization against the ills of the future. Her whole life since Ernie had died seemed to be a journey toward this purchase.
“It’s hard for me to believe that every single bank in the city of Baltimore would deny me a loan when I am capable of such a hefty down payment.” She uncrossed her legs and put her hands on the arms of the chair, ready to stand. She’d ask someone else for advice, she thought, or go directly to bankers on her own.
“A lot of people are buying houses.” Gavin leaned forward, his elbows on his desk and his hands in front of his face steeple-style. “Banks don’t need to lend you the money as much as you need it from them.”
She stood. “I’ll make some calls myself,” she said, regretting how snappy it sounded.
Gavin, ever the gentleman, stood as well. “Don’t get angry at me just because I’m telling you the truth.”
She didn’t want to start the day with an argument. She’d learned the hard way that that would lead to peevish assignments and unnecessary overtime.
“I’m not angry—” She heard the phone ring at her desk outside the door. Smiling, she used that as an opportunity to leave.
“Gavin Smathers office,” she said in her perfect mellow greeting voice when she stood at her desk, receiver at her ear.
The voice of Valerie Glickman, a former secretary at the firm, zinged across the line. Valerie had left a month ago to work for Patelson and Moore. They’d promised her more money and the possibility of more responsibility, but Valerie wasn’t happy. Of course, it would take a lot to make the ever-complaining Valerie happy. Valerie would have had a shot at the office manager job had she stayed, and Brigitta immediately felt cautious as she cheerfully said hello to her friend.
“You free for lunch?” Valerie asked in her nasal twang.
“What do you have in mind?” Because she’d gone out to lunch with Detective Reilly the day before, Brigitta had hoped to go shopping on her lunch hour today.
“I’ve got some important stuff to tell you,” Valerie whispered.
Brigitta smiled. Valerie always acted as if she were a spy among enemies. She relished office gossip but wouldn’t dare divulge a word of it over the telephone.
“I can meet for a quick bite at noon.”
Valerie breathlessly designated an eatery—Hutzler’s Tea Room—and when Brigitta hung up the phone, she grimaced. Now she’d be spending money on lunch and be tempted by the latest spring clothes on the way to the restaurant. She resolved to eat frugally.
***
Sean looked over at Sal’s empty desk and frowned. His partner had said nothing about coming in late. Sean craned his head to see if O’Brien was in, but the chief’s door was closed and blinds were drawn. If he was lucky…
He wasn’t lucky. O’Brien’s door swung open, and the man himself appeared, scanning the room, his gaze lighting on Sean. He waved his hand to Sean to come see him, before disappearing again into his office.
As Sean approached, he mentally reviewed the case. This new angle—figuring out who Lowenstein really was—would be a good thing to talk about. It would show O’Brien the case was more complicated than a usual homicide, and it would give Sean a chance to expound on the various approaches he’d take to determining the victim’s true identity. And if O’Brien was getting heat from the docs, Sean was prepared to release the crime scene. It was only one lab anyway. Surely those fellows had work to do elsewhere. Even so, Sean was uneasy as he paused at the door to make sure O’Brien wasn’t on the phone.
When Sean had been promoted to detective years ago, he’d forged a careful relationship with his boss. His first case, a homicide, had been complicated by the wealthy sister of the deceased leaning on everyone in City Hall to solve it before the victim was in the ground. Not a comfortable way to start, and O’Brien had cut him little slack. O’Brien had been understanding during Mary’s illness, though. But eventually understanding wears out, and even the most patient man—which O’Brien was not—decides that it’s time for the world to march on.
“Sit down,” O’Brien said, waving him to a cracked leather chair. He jabbed a cigarette out in a tin ashtray. “I got a letter from Averill Patelson this morning. Messengered over.” He handed the heavy linen paper to Sean.
It was nothing new. Simply what the lawyer had told Sean when he’d called. Lowenstein had left his money to charity. It was an odd letter, though. Odd, too, that Patelson would feel compelled to send it.
“One of your detectives, whose name I’m afraid was not recorded by my secretary, called asking about the death of Dr. Myron Lowenstein. I would like to assure you that I would be happy to cooperate as much as possible in this unfortunate tragedy. But I’m afraid I have no more information to share than what I’ve already provided your detective. My client left his money to charity and has no living relatives of whom I am aware.”
Sean peered at O’Brien over the letter. “My client?” Sean repeated from the letter.
“Why’s that strike you as queer?”
“Seems like he’s trying to avoid saying ‘Lowenstein.’”
O’Brien shrugged. “Is he impeding the investigation?” O’Brien had little patience for lawyers.
“No. What he says here is what he told me.” Sean tapped the letter. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“What else you got?”
So Sean spent a few minutes going over his work so far, telling O’Brien that the first step was determining who Lowenstein really was.
“He wasn’t a Hebe trying to pass, you mean,” O’Brien said.
“Don’t think so. My kid’s doctor didn’t recognize his photo as the Lowenstein he knew. So it wasn’t just a matter of trying to fit in. I think he’s not Mike Lowe either. If he was, why not use that name at the lab? He’s someone else entirely. I have a call into New York University where Lowenstein used to teach.”
“All right.” O’Brien patted his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Pall Malls. He offered one to Sean who shook his head. He’d stopped smoking when Mary was sick. She’d not been able to tolerate the smell after a while. The smell of anything, good or bad.
“You think he was trying to be this Lowenstein to do big work? You know, be famous?”
Sean shook his head. “He wasn’t involved in the ‘big work’ on polio, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
O’Brien nodded. Sean stood to leave, but O’Brien stopped him.
“Where’s that partner of yours?” O’Brien lit his cigarette and took a deep drag.
Sean looked quickly over his shoulder to see if Sal was in yet. “Doing some follow-up at the hospital.”
O’Brien blew a concentrated burst of smoke into the air. “Bull shit.” He crossed his arms and glared at Sean. “He called. He has car trouble. You two try to scam me one more time and your pay gets docked—both of you.”
***
An hour later, Sal straggled in, apologizing for the delay. Sean brought him up to speed wit
h the case and told him about his confrontation with O’Brien.
“He’s just talking big,” Sal said, standing behind his chair.
Sean shook his head. “He’s mad at me.” He looked up at Sal. “Don’t you get sucked into it. I don’t want you covering for me anymore.”
Sal gave a mock salute. “I was going to try finding Lowenstein’s cleaning lady. Wanna come?”
“I’m waiting on a call from somebody at NYU. Where Lowenstein taught.”
“I’ll see you later then.” Sal sauntered toward the door, first ducking into O’Brien’s office. “I’m going out on the case, chief. And I let Sean know.”
Sean laughed and shook his head..
As his partner rounded the corner toward the stair, Sean’s phone rang.
“Is this Detective Reilly?This is Maureen O’Donnell. I understand you called.”
At the sound of her voice, pain pinched Sean’s heart. Mary’d had a voice like that, with a muted brogue soft, sweet, still colored by the land of her birth.
“Thanks for calling me back.” He cleared his throat and sat up straight. “I’m trying to find out what I can about a Dr. Myron Lowenstein and I understood he taught at the university some years ago. I was told you knew him.”
She laughed a little, and here again Sean’s heart was pierced. She had the same gentle chuckle of his Mary, too, a laugh that told the world she knew she was loved and loved dearly, the way a child is loved, with no fear of ever losing it.
“I didn’t know him. I work in the university archives, Detective. So I know how to get information about him. Spell his name for me and I’ll see what I can find.”
In the space of a quarter hour, she determined for him that he’d worked at NYU from 1930 to 1938, a fact Sean already knew from the files Mrs. Wilcox had on him at the Hopkins lab. Maureen also had a list of papers he’d authored, but nothing in their titles pointed Sean in any particular direction. Finally, he asked if there was a photograph of him.
“We have some yearbooks. I could look for his picture.”
“Would you mind letting me know—and sending it to me if you find it?”
LOST TO THE WORLD Page 10