The DeadHouse

by Linda Fairstein

  "But other than the fact that Lola was backing Dr. Lavery, was there anything else to suggest an attachment between them?"

  Sylvia gave it a few moments' thought. "Nothing unusual. Good friends, neighbors-"

  "Whaddaya mean, neighbors?" Mike asked.

  "Claude lived in the same building that Lola did: 417 Riverside Drive. He lived one flight above her. Directly overhead, if I'm not mistaken."

  I looked at Mike and could tell that our wheels were spinning in the same direction. I did a mental run-through of the police reports of the canvass of the apartment house that detectives had conducted the day after the body was found. I couldn't call up a memory of any particular names, but it should have been obvious that a building that close to the King's College campus would have been full of residents who were faculty members or staff. Had the cops talked to anyone named Lavery? Had they accounted for his whereabouts the afternoon Lola Dakota was killed? Had they cross-checked names of tenants with Lola's family or friends to see what her relationships were with others in the building?

  Chapman's impatience was more obvious than my own. "Where's Lavery now?"

  "I have no idea, Detective. The last time I saw him was at the vigil on Friday evening. So many people have gone out of-"

  "Who can tell me where he is this very minute? Today." Chapman was standing now, ready to be unleashed from the polite tether of administrative interviews and get his hands into the dirt.

  "He has been suspended from the college. He doesn't have to report to us or tell us his whereabouts. Dr. Lavery continues to receive a paycheck from us until this is resolved, and if the feds come down with an indictment, I assume the rules may be somewhat different for him."

  "How about this other guy, the biologist?"

  "Professor Grenier? What about him?"

  "He's another one I'd like to talk to."

  Sylvia pushed some more papers around. "Grenier's on sabbatical until the beginning of the new year. Can you be patient another week or two, Detective?"

  "Frankly, Ms. Foote, I can't be patient another damn minute." He towered over her, shaking his pen in her face as he talked. "You get a forty-eight-hour reprieve 'cause Santa's coming to town and there's nothing I can do about that. These guys are on your payroll; you just said that. Lola Dakota is colder than a stone and six feet under. Find these guys, understand me? I want to see Skip Lockhart, Thomas Grenier, and Claude Lavery by the weekend. Move heaven, earth, and unlock your unsmiling frozen jaw to make it happen."

  Sylvia's papers were sliding off her lap as she listened to Chapman's booming voice. They scattered to the floor, and I helped her organize them while he continued to list instructions. By the time she left us, she was walking so unsteadily that I had to hold her arm all the way out to the reception area.

  "When are you coming back from the country?" Mike asked as I walked toward his desk. I looked at his calendar. This was Tuesday and tomorrow was Christmas Day. "I'll be back on Thursday unless you want me to change our plans."

  "Don't bother. Nobody's here to work with. Just figure we'll be scrambling all next weekend on this, if Foote rounds up her troops and if the lab is good with any test results." He picked up the phone that was ringing on his desk. "It's Laura, for you."

  "The superintendent of your building just called, Alex. There's a problem."

  "What kind of problem?"

  "Seems like there are two workmen who were found in your apartment. The super needs you to come home right away and see if anything's missing."

  I slammed down the phone and told Mike I had to go home.

  "Not without me. I'm driving."

  "You've got things to do. I'll grab a cab."

  "Not with that chubby little whackjob whose ID you glommed running around looking for you. You live twenty floors up, with two doormen on every shift. How the hell did anyone fly into your little love nest? I can't get there on my best day, best behavior."

  We drove downtown and parked in the garage in my building. The woman from the apartment below me was standing in the lobby, with her Boston terrier, when we walked in.

  "The management's security guys are upstairs, along with a detective from the precinct," Jesse said, following us into the elevator.

  "What happened?"

  "You know the guys who've been working on the scaffolding? Well, you don't see them much, 'cause you're at work all day. But once my kids leave for school, I'm around the house in the morning, and then I'm in and out all day. It's been really creepy to have them around. They seem to be looking in the windows all the time."

  For the past six weeks, scaffolding had been erected around the entire high-rise apartment building as it was undergoing repairs to the brickwork and the replacement of some of the windows. Workmen arrived early and spent most of their days hanging off the roof, being raised up and down by a series of pulleys as they went about their business.

  "This morning," Jesse continued, "I left about an hour ago to do some errands. Got all the way up to the avenue and realized I had forgotten something, so I turned and went back. When I got inside, the first thing I noticed was that the windows in the living room were wide open and my dog was barking. Then I could see the scaffolding platform rising on the ropes. I grabbed the dog and ran down to the door.

  "I told one of the guys on duty what had happened, and Vinny took a run up to check your apartment, since it's right above mine. He must have your passkey." "He does."

  "He opened the door, and the two workmen were standing in the middle of your living room."

  We stopped on twenty and got off. My apartment door was ajar and I could hear the loud arguing between the detective and one of the workmen as the three of us walked in.

  "Not the traditional way to enter someone's home, but thanks for having us, Alex." The guys from the Nineteenth greeted us as they sat in my living room, trying to talk to the two interlopers. "You heard the story?" one asked, looking over at Jesse. "Yeah. What's their version?"

  "They say the wind was so bad that they had to get inside, or they were afraid they'd be blown off." It was the first thing I had heard that seemed logical. "They kicked the window in and came through that way," Detective Powell said, pointing to the marble-topped counter on my cabinets behind the dining table. "Looks like they broke some of your china."

  I glanced over to see that several of the decorative antique plates that were displayed on the sideboard had fallen to the floor splintered into pieces.

  "So how come, if they were so terrified, they broke the window downstairs but didn't go in?" Mike asked. "Doesn't make sense if all they were worried about was saving their asses."

  "The story they're giving us is that when the dog started barking, they backed out."

  Jesse wasn't buying it. "They were more frightened of a weeny terrier than of being blown off the side of the building? That one's hard to swallow. I think they saw me returning and just panicked. Why'd they go up and not down?"

  Powell answered again. "Their boss says that when it's windy, it's actually more dangerous to be lowered than to go up higher. If they drop, it means they have to let out more rope, and that causes them to swing more, and that makes it riskier for them."

  He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me off into the den. "I don't want to make a scene in front of your neighbor, but you gotta know that since the scaffolding went up, there have been three burglaries in the building."

  I turned to look at Powell, surprised by the news. "Nobody's mentioned it to me."

  "Needless to say, management would rather not have it known. There's no forced entry, so we've been looking at them as inside jobs. We actually started with the house staff as suspects-"

  "Hey, I'd start with these guys on the outside. I'd go to the mat for the men who work in the building. Every single one of them." "Well, today seems to prove the point. You want to look around for me and tell us if anything's missing? I patted them down, and they've got nothing on them. Of course, since your neighbor was
so quick to act, these guys never got out of your apartment. So if they didn't drop stuff out the window, they probably didn't have a chance to take anything.

  "And you might want to know, just for your comfort level, that these mopes who've been staring in everyone's window the past few weeks? They've both got sheets a mile long. The short one standing near the kitchen door, he's on parole in the Bronx for armed robbery. The taller one, who pretends he don't understand English? He's had four collars for larceny.

  "One of your neighbors in the C line moved in on a Monday night, and woke up the next morning to see him standing in her bedroom doorway. She screamed her guts out."

  "And he's still working here?"

  "The guy backed right out. Said he thought the apartment was still empty, didn't know she'd moved in. He'd been using the bathroom as his Porta Potti all month. Apologized and left. Hard to know what to do about him."

  "Would you mind getting these guys out of here while I check around for you?"

  "We're taking 'em over to the precinct. Gonna print both of them, to compare against the other cases. I won't charge 'em with anything here unless you tell me something's gone, okay?"

  The two detectives walked the men out of the apartment while Mike, the super, and I surveyed the damage. Broken glass was everywhere, mixed in with the shattered china.

  "Is Powell locking them up?"

  "I can't see it, for this. What if their lives really were at risk and they had to come inside? I'm not going to second-guess anybody on that. They don't seem to have gotten out of here with anything. All they did was make a mess." We were standing by the window, and even though there didn't seem to be much wind today, the frigid air streamed into the room.

  "Yeah, well, I think it's bullshit and they're lucky they landed where they did. Nice to know you're so forgiving about guys who crash into your pad. I may bank on that. What are you gonna do about this mess?" In one corner of the room stood my cheerful little Christmas tree, while here at my feet was a pile of debris.

  The super spoke. "We'll take care of it for you, Ms. Cooper. We'll clean all this up by the end of the day. Just make a list for us of the things that were broken and we'll submit it to the insurance company."

  He looked at the giant hole in the glass. "I doubt I can get the window replaced before tonight. Were you planning on being here for Christmas?"

  I shook my head.

  "Then you'll have a new one by Thursday, I promise."

  When everyone left, Mike and I knelt on the floor to pick up some of the porcelain pieces. "Now I've got something new to worry about. I can't think of many places I've felt safer than behind the doors of this apartment, once I get inside at night and turn the locks. No fire escape, no back entrance, no way in unless I open the dead bolt." I tried to laugh. "Now I've got to worry about men climbing in off scaffolding twenty stories above the street?"

  "These guys were trying to give you the same message I was the other night. Time to settle down and develop a more stable lifesty-"

  "Don't go there, Mr. Chapman. Get up off your knees. There's nothing to salvage in this pile. I'm just going to check with the office and then I'll take a cab out to the airport."

  "But they wrecked the joint."

  "Puts things in perspective, though, doesn't it? Lola Dakota is dead, and all I've got to complain about is some broken china. Want to open your Christmas present?"

  "Nope. Let's celebrate when you come back. Maybe we can get Mercer in for dinner one night and have our own little holiday, okay?"

  "Pick the date. That's fine with me."

  I dialed my office number and checked with Laura to see if there were any messages that had come in since we last spoke. She told me no and patched my call through to Catherine Dashfer, who was supervising the unit while I was uptown. "Thanks for covering for me. Anything going on today?"

  "A new case just came into the complaint room. Looks like we're going to have to do a hospital hearing at the end of the week, to hold the perp in. Do you think you can get Leemie or Maxine to cover it on Friday? Paul and I are still planning to be at my sister's house through the weekend."

  "Sure. Let me make some calls. Why a hospital hearing, though?" There could be several reasons the proceeding would be held in an institution and not at the courtroom. It was frequently done when the defendant was confined with an injury or an illness, or if he had a mental condition that required detention at a long-term-care facility. In that case, the judge, lawyers for both sides, court officers, and an official stenographer trouped to the site to conduct the arraignment or probable-cause hearing. "What hospital?"

  "Bird S. Coler. The one on Roosevelt Island."

  "Even better. I'll do this one myself. Tell Laura to have the file messengered to Jake's doorman." That way it would be waiting for me when we came home from the Vineyard on Thursday evening. "What's the case?"

  Catherine repeated the facts that the officer had told her. "Perp's name is Chester Rubiera. He's a paranoid schizophrenic with a history of substance abuse. Assaulted one of the other patients. I'll get a facilitator for her, too. The victim has a severe mental disability. You may need someone to help the court understand her testimony. Friday at ten, okay?"

  I turned to Chapman and explained the situation. "How about if I ask Nan to show us around Roosevelt Island on Friday afternoon? I've never been there. The new case happened at Coler." A chronic-care facility located on the north end of the island, the hospital was home to many patients with physical ailments, and had a large psychiatric unit as well. "I can do the hearing in the morning, and you can meet me over there at lunchtime. Maybe we can get a sense of the place."

  "You're living in the past, blondie. Your fascination is with Blackwells Island. There's no such thing anymore, and there's no evidence, at the moment, to think that Lola's death is connected to what's going on over there today."

  "You're right. But I'm just interested in what had Lola so engaged in that project. If there's something more important to be done on Friday, I'll skip it. If not, I'll exorcise my curiosity." "You know what curiosity did to the cat, Coop." "It's a perfect place to be, under those circumstances," I said, smiling. "At the deadhouse."

  16

  Jake Tyler was waiting for me when the shuttle landed at Logan Airport. I dropped my bags and threw my arms around his neck. "I was so afraid that something would happen to get in the way of these forty-eight hours. More murder and mayhem. Or a snowstorm."He picked up my tote and we started walking to the Cape Air counter. "You got lucky on the first two. There's a front coming through Boston in about three hours, headed for the Cape and islands. So if we don't get out of here soon, we're likely to be stranded."The gray sky was thick with clouds, and had dimmed to charcoal before we boarded the five o'clock flight to Martha's Vineyard. The nine-passenger, twin-engine Cessna took off after a long runway delay, and the heavy chop in the air slowed the usual thirty-three-minute passage to almost forty-five. The wind bounced us around in our narrow seats in the rear of the plane, and we circled out over Nantucket Sound until the tower cleared us for landing. The pilot lowered us out of the fog to see the white-capped surf pounding the island's southern shore and guided us into the airport, surrounded by the tall pines of the state forest.

  I had been talking throughout most of the ride about the case-Lola Dakota's life and the tragic circumstances of her death. Jake had listened carefully, and interrupted from time to time with the skilled cross-examination of a good investigative reporter. "I'm letting you get this out of your system now," he chided me. "I'm putting a two-day moratorium on all autopsy results, serological reports, and police investigations. World crises, too."

  He leaned over and kissed my lips as we taxied to the small terminal, and then the pilot stepped out on the wing to come around, open the door, and lower the exit stairs. "Is that acceptable to the People, Ms. Cooper?" "Yes, Your Honor."

  I had asked my caretaker and his wife to set up the house for us-turn on heat, make up the bed, a
rrange flowers that were delivered a day earlier, stock the groceries that I had ordered, put champagne on ice, and lay a stack of logs in the fireplace. He had also left my car at the airport lot so that we could drive ourselves home whenever we arrived.

  A thin dusting of snow coated the parked cars. We let the engine warm up and put the defroster on to melt the ice that had formed on the windshield. I had dressed warmly in slacks and a sweater, topped by my ski jacket, but the bitter cold worked at my nose and ears and within seconds gave both of our cheeks a ruddy glow. The local radio station played generous helpings of the island's musical treasures, James Taylor and Carly Simon, and I tuned in as she was singing the chorus to "Anticipation." Like Carly, I was thinking about how right tonight might be.

  The twenty-minute ride up island was quick and quiet. There were no reminders of the traffic of the summer people, who poured onto the Vineyard between Memorial Day and Labor Day, renting beach houses, filling the small inns, and crowding the tiny streets in town. My old farmhouse, way out on a hilltop, overlooking an endless expanse of sea and sky, was one of the most peaceful places I had ever known. Whatever the horrors that crossed my desk every day, this was where I came to be restored.

  South Road's wintry darkness gave way to the high beam of my headlights. Without the leafy fullness of the summer foliage, houses set back from the road were visible this time of year. Many were lighted for the holiday season, decorated with garlands of greens, ribbons of red and white velvet, and candles set on windowsills in the traditional New England fashion. I had bought this home with Adam, in the months before our wedding was to have been celebrated. For almost ten years thereafter, it had been impossible for me to think of it as my own. Then, with the tragic shooting of my friend Isabella Lascar, I had questioned whether I could actually come back here at all. I renovated and redecorated, knowing those changes were merely cosmetic and couldn't reach the soul of my trepidation. But since the summer, the great joy I had found with Jake had renewed my excitement and my love for this unique place.