“I’m sorry,” I confessed as I reached out for his hand. “You remind me of Teddy, and I’m hating you for it. I’m mad because you resemble Teddy but you get to live.”
“If it makes you feel better, I apologize,” he said squeezing my hand lightly.
“Unnecessary.” I searched for the right words to explain myself. “It’s just that what you said about conviction struck a chord, a familiar one. Teddy and I were dissimilar in so many ways, but we both shared a strong belief in the potential to change the world for the better. Our paths were different—science and Freeganism—but the goal was the same.”
“And is there only room for you and your brother in this world?”
“No. In fact, he would have liked you.”
DeRosa let my comment lie, but I could see he itched to ask me something. He gathered up the YWS statements that had fallen to the ground, then he pulled me to a clearing near the corner of a high-rise building.
“CeCe, how did you know how to read the YWS financial statements? I thought you were an art major.”
Revealing my mathematical savvy was a red flag for DeRosa, but I couldn’t contain myself after viewing the YWS tax returns; the documents were so obviously false. The fraudulent setup was recognizable by anyone involved in charity work and my knowledge of nonprofits, unbeknownst to DeRosa, made my hair stand on end. I prepared to explain my accounting acumen when I saw a familiar profile in the crowd. The telltale low brow, flat nose, and thick nape surfaced no more than fifty yards from where we stood.
“Shit,” I said with unusual composure. “I just saw Igor.”
“Quick, which direction?”
I pointed south on K Street toward an entrance to the subway station. With my arm extended outward, my legs kicked into high gear, and I started jogging forward to the last place Igor’s head had appeared. As I moved rapidly through the crowds, people recognized a sense of urgency in my movements. Pedestrians parted and in a fleeting moment, I caught another glimpse of Igor looking over his shoulder. He glared at me, just a little too long for comfort and although my body was moving forward, I had not planned step two.
“Move it,” I shouted as I tore through the crowd. I heard but ignored DeRosa, who could not run as quickly holding the stack of accounting papers. I’m sure he yelled for me to stop, but I was on a tear. My arms began to pump and my knees swung higher, practically grazing my elbows in rhythmic motion. The back of my neck flooded with pressure, preventing DeRosa’s pleading strains from reaching my eardrums.
I spotted Igor once again as he made a dash for the Metro entrance. He moved shockingly fast for a stocky man with short legs. Having just exited the same station, I knew a very steep escalator lay ahead and ended in a cement floor. Regardless of the danger, I sprinted like a gazelle toward Igor.
With his squat frame in my sights, my hamstrings began to tighten as gallons of oxygen filled my lungs faster than I could exhale. A pair of elderly, lawyerly looking men passed slowly by the first step of the escalator. I knew it was the only chance I had to connect with Igor. I hoped that somewhere deep in the recesses of his twisted criminal brain, he had an ounce of good manners. And there it was. He hesitated ever so slightly to avoid plowing over the two gentlemen, providing me with the extra strides to close the gap between us.
As Igor’s foot hit the first rung of the stairs, I threw myself onto the moving rubber hand rail. I stretched my arm, imagining it to be as flexible as Silly Putty, and formed a claw with my fingers. As the railing carried my body forward, I lengthened my core until my shoulder practically dislocated from its socket. With a last ditch effort, I dragged my nails into the back of Igor’s neck before plummeting sideways off the escalator.
DeRosa discovered me, tangled in a ball of my own body parts, my hand raised proudly like the Statue of Liberty. He knelt down next to me, resting the back of my head in the palm of his hand, my outstretched arm resting on his shoulder.
“I did it,” I croaked. “I did it.”
“Did what?”
“I got Igor’s DNA.”
twenty-one
Officer McDonald picked us up shortly after the hordes of onlookers began to lose interest and started drifting away. With rivulets of blood dripping toward my wrist, at least a few bystanders seemed relieved that I appeared to be safe and coherent. DeRosa and I piled into McDonald’s black and white, with me stuck in the back seat like a common criminal.
“I knew y’all were trouble,” McDonald joked.
“Can you do us favor?” DeRosa asked.
“I think you mean another favor,” I noted from the back seat.
“As long as you don’t use my name at the stationhouse. Remember, I’m gunning for promotion, not demotion.”
“Can you get us access to security footage from the station? I’d like to see if Igor made contact with anyone before or after the incident.”
“I can do that. What else?”
“Hello?” I said holding my hand like an Olympic torch. “I’ve got Igor’s DNA dripping down my arm.”
“That’s the problem with television crime shows,” DeRosa grumbled. “Everyone thinks there’s some master database of instantly accessible DNA.”
“Humor me,” I replied.
“Officer McDonald, can you set CeCe up with an evidence swab while I head over to the NIH?” DeRosa asked and then he turned to me, speaking through the police-grade chicken wire. “CeCe, I’ll pick you up at the station on the way back, but you have to promise to stay put. Do not move until I return. Igor was sizing up his opportunity today, but it wasn’t the right scene for him. He’ll make another attempt because this is his job and he doesn’t get paid until you’re dead.”
“Why can’t I come with you?”
“Because I’m no match for your impulsivity.”
“I’ll be bored,” I whined.
“And alone,” DeRosa answered. “You can kill time on the phone with Charlie. You owe him a call. I’ll be back later, and we’ll catch an evening flight.”
“You’re too tough on her,” McDonald remarked. “You never know with a DNA sample. It could turn something up.”
“See?” I said.
DeRosa adjusted the rearview mirror to catch my reflection. “I do see, but I’d like to return you to Long Island in one piece.”
“So I guess my death would be bad for your reputation?”
“Actually, I’m referring to your brains. Your insight is becoming invaluable.” He smiled into the mirror before turning to McDonald. “Keep her safe. You don’t want to deal with her father. Something goes wrong, he’ll have you transferred so far south you’ll be directing traffic in Puerto Rico.”
“I’m on it,” McDonald said, tipping his head once more.
twenty-two
Defying all odds of air travel statistics, DeRosa and I ended up with the same seating arrangements on the flight back to New York as we had the way down. Once again, I piled between the two children from the annoying family of five, now cranky and exhausted from touring the capital’s monuments. DeRosa fared no better seated in front of me. I could see his broad shoulders shifting uncomfortably so as not to agitate the kids on either side of him.
As the flight taxied down the runway, he attempted to twist his girth over the seat to ask me a question. “What did Charlie want?”
“Plenty of drama at home.” I inched forward and spoke through the crack between the airplane seats. “Jonathan and Trina are heavy into their own version of couples counseling sans counselor, and Charlie feels stuck in the middle.”
“Would he rather be chased by the Russian mob?”
“Hands down,” I replied, knowing full well Charlie was not a source for relationship advice—unless you wanted tips on breaking up or cheating. “Then there’s Becky. Charlie thinks she’s planning on moving out. Too much upheaval.”
As I�
��d told Charlie, Becky was never a perfect fit for the house, and I couldn’t blame her if she wanted out. Not that she paid rent, but free room and board wouldn’t seem all that attractive in the midst of a murder investigation. Even if she could handle the constant police presence, I thought the real reason she wanted out was that she had caught on to Charlie’s sudden interest in his old flame.
“What evidence does he have?”
“She borrowed the Gremlin a few times and she’s been on Craigslist. Good signs she’s shopping around for a new apartment.”
“Did she say anything to you?” DeRosa replied.
I didn’t feel comfortable explaining that Becky had probably figured out I’d slept with Charlie recently. If I were her, I’d want to leave too. “No, she never mentioned it to me.”
“That’s because she’s avoiding you.”
“Why would Becky avoid me?” I said.
“Because you slept with her boyfriend,” he answered.
“What are you,” I asked, “a cop?”
“I’ll speak with her tomorrow. She’ll need to leave a forwarding address in case we have to contact her.”
“I’ll see if I can talk to her when we get back,” I said, wondering how I could make amends with Becky. I tried to switch the subject. “So what happened with Naomi’s boss at NIH?”
“Not much, and I grilled the guy pretty hard.” He sounded frustrated at hitting a wall. “It was like interviewing a cop about another cop.”
“I’ll bet the NIH works just as hard as the Sound View labs at quashing negative press. Naomi’s boss probably prepped ahead of time and stuck to the script. Frank, try to remember that for all the amazing advancements these scientific organizations produce, getting there requires them to push the boundaries. Think about the controversy over stem-cell research. These guys are experts at managing perception. If Naomi was involved in something scandalous, it’s being managed internally at a very high level.”
“Then I need to find one disgruntled employee to blow it up.” DeRosa turned his back to me. I suspected he could devise a way to infiltrate the NIH—no simple challenge, but one his strategic brain would welcome.
I sat back and glanced at the child next to me. I should have known better than to make eye contact. Engaging fussy children on an airplane is like catching the eye of a deranged person in Central Park; both actions have negative endings.
She was a tiny spot of a girl with old-fashioned pigtails that had worked their way into enormous knots. I had rather un-fond memories of my own bristled hair being torn at by one nanny or another. I imagined the little girl crying in frustration as her mother tugged at her hair bands. Without asking, she handed me her coloring book and a few crayons. I quickly sketched an exact replica of the youngest brother, whom I had identified earlier as the bastard child. I handed the page to her, and she giggled loudly. Stretching her arm around the chair, she handed my drawing to the brother seated next to DeRosa. The drawing came back with a big red X through it. We played this game for a while, with me drawing all her family members from memory and the brother crossing them out.
Finally, one drawing came back of an adult with chin-length hair and blue eyes, a cartoon-like character executed by someone with absolutely no aptitude for art. There was an arrow pointed at the face with the word you. DeRosa had tried his hand at a portrait of me.
I always traveled with my sketching pencils in the same worn case I’ve used since junior high school. If he wanted the real thing, he would get it and it would be professional. I claimed a clean sheet of paper from the little girl and the blank tableau generated the same excitement as it had since I was the same age as my airplane companion. For an artist, absence represents the beginning of something wonderful, the opportunity to literally fill in the blanks with a personal interpretation of visual stimulation. In this case, the object was me. I worked through my facial features with ease. Of course it was hard to resist covering up my own physical flaws, yet I tried to be fair without being overly generous in my self-portrait. I showed it to my drawing partner, and she smiled her encouragement. I added an arrow with the word me and let the little girl pass it back to DeRosa. It was returned instantly.
Is this what you think you look like? he scribbled in all masculine capitals.
It IS what I look like, I wrote back.
I saw his arm moving as he wrote his reply. He passed the sketch to the boy, who then passed it on to his sister. Eventually it landed on my food tray.
Give Charlie some credit, the note said.
My cheeks grew red with embarrassment. Did DeRosa just comment on my relationship with Charlie, my physical appearance, or both? Either way, I felt exposed by my own art. Sensing my discomfort, the little girl tugged at my sleeve, and I bent down to hear her secret.
“You’re much prettier,” she said pointing to my sketch. Apparently DeRosa thought so too. Suddenly I felt enormous seated between two preschool children, like a seven-foot woman in a crowd of midgets. Driven by a self-conscious urge, I fled for the bathroom like a wallflower at the school dance, but the tight confines of the water closet provided no relief. I splashed water on my cheeks, delaying the inevitable march back to my seat.
I returned to my row to find DeRosa seated in my chair. The little girl had been placed, in protest, next to her brother. I took her spot under duress, my portrait balanced on the detective’s knees.
“How did you read the YWS financial statements so quickly?” he asked.
“I started a charity in my late teens,” I admitted without hesitation. I lifted the picture from DeRosa’s lap and folded it several times before putting it in my pocketbook.
“The plane lands in twenty minutes. A confession takes less time than an interrogation.”
“There’s nothing to confess because I have nothing to hide. And my charity has nothing to do with the case.”
“Then the floor is all yours.” DeRosa swept his arm welcoming my story. He settled into his beer as I recounted the events of my early life.
At the age of eighteen, Teddy and I gained access to two separate trust funds: one established by my maternal grandmother and the other by the Prentice family. As the days ticked down to my eighteenth birthday, the tension in our house was explosive, and even a minor action like my purchasing a recycling bin was met with an argument. So fearful was my father that I would donate the entirety of my portion of the trust to an obscure environmental foundation, that he engaged a top law firm to extract my name from the Prentice trust fund. On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, my place in the Prentice line was legally removed, as well as that of any offspring I might bring into the world. My mother was helpless to fight the disinheritance and sunk deeper into her bottle.
It was a conversation I had with Teddy shortly after my disinheritance that inspired me to start a charity. He reminded me that I still had access to the other trust fund. Teddy and I discussed a future for the money at length with our grandmother, an open-minded woman who blessed us with unconditional love. With her guidance, Teddy and I decided to tackle two goals at once.
First, I would take the money from our mother’s family and create a charity that funded art programs in the inner city. Art had been my savior all through my school years, and I wanted to give the same gift to underprivileged children. My grandmother’s social reach was impressive, and she became instrumental in recruiting a board with members composed of former art teachers, museum presidents, and school principals. At the age of nineteen, I made myself the executor of the newly formed charity, giving me final signoff on all expenses. It was an exhilarating and heady time for me. It was also a planned fiscal nightmare. Earmarking the trust for art programs rendered me penniless, but that was the crux of the second goal. If I truly believed in Freeganism, what better way to practice it than without the cushion of money? Dumpster diving takes on a whole new meaning when your pocket is empty. My grandmo
ther gave me Harbor House as seed money, and we held back a chunk of cash to renovate the house, with a piece put aside for major repairs. It was almost insane for my grandmother to indulge my passion, but I tried to keep in mind that this was the same woman who had happily allowed my mother to traipse unescorted through Europe a few decades previously. She balanced her whimsy with a piece of solid advice: real estate is always a good investment and ignoring upkeep is the equivalent of throwing money away.
As the plane made its descent, I wrapped up my discourse by listing the city schools that had benefited from my converted trust. “Any questions?” I asked, satisfied that I had answered DeRosa’s initial inquiry concerning my ability to read YWS’s tax statements.
“Yes,” he said. “A decade has passed. Can’t your father see what good you’ve done?”
“He doesn’t know all that much about my charity work.”
“CeCe, that’s short-sighted. You’re purposely driving the wedge between you and your father deeper.”
With my mouth turned down in frustration to hold back years of pent-up resentment, I presented DeRosa with the rationale I had played over and over in my head.
“How can a father not see the good in his own child? Why does my father need unbiased proof? Granted, I was a challenging teen, but I wasn’t a bad person. I’m curious, I questioned, and I debated. That’s how I learn and strangely enough that is how scientists bring new theories to light. He of all people should recognize these qualities in his daughter. How could my own father not see the real me?”
Drawing Conclusions Page 11