by Sandra Block
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning I have my phone back in hand, but no further word on the texting riddler. So I decide to take matters into my own hands. But when I get to Sofia’s cell, it’s empty. Checking the logbook, I find that she’s signed out to “rec.”
So I make my way to the yard. The rec area is depressing, “recreation” being a bit of a misnomer. The place is a mowed-down yard with a few pull-up bars, a cracked cement basketball court with no nets, and an ersatz walking trail, which is just worn-down grass from inmates pacing in circles around the outside. I catch up with Sofia on the trail, her breath coming out in little clouds. She is a shapeless blob in her oversize state-issued winter coat. As I walk beside her, she notices me.
“Ah, my long-lost sister.”
“Nice place you got here,” I say, looking around.
“Be it ever so humble,” she returns.
I bury my hands deep in my coat pockets. “Perhaps you’re wondering why I came to see you.”
Her cheeks are red from the cold. “Figured my little sis just wanted to check up on me.”
“Not exactly,” I say, as we let two inmates holding hands walk around us. “I want to know why you’re texting me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Sofia. I know you sent them.”
“I’m not playing dumb.” She kicks some snow out of her path. “I didn’t send you any texts.”
“Okay, fine, so you got someone else to send them, then.”
She stops walking then. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tanya. I didn’t text you anything. And by the way, need I remind you, I don’t have a phone?” She starts walking again. “But if you tell me about it, I might be able help you.”
“Oh, right. Tell you all about the texts so you can gloat over them? I don’t think so.”
She shrugs. “Whatever, Tanya. I’m trying to be straight with you here.”
“Straight with me?” I let out a harsh laugh. “How is threatening to tell the newspaper about us being straight with me? How is worming your way into a research project being straight with me?”
“Please,” she scoffs. “I could give a shit about that research project. CBT for psychopaths? I’m not a scientist, Tanya, but I can tell you that’s probably not going to work.” She kicks a pebble out of her path. “And why the hell would you put your sister in a research project?”
“What is it, then?” I ask, exasperated. “What do you want from me? Forgiveness, as you say? Because let me tell you, the texting isn’t helping your cause.”
“I didn’t—” She doesn’t continue, just shaking her head with annoyance.
“And don’t tell me this is all about your conversion to Judaism. Because I know that’s bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit. Not that you would care.” We walk for a while, our feet thumping against the trail in tandem. She blows on her hands for warmth. “You want me to be honest with you?”
“Honesty. I’m not sure that’s genetically possible for—”
“I want us to be friends,” she says, interrupting me.
Stopping right there, I almost laugh. A girl slams a basketball against the cement in front of us, the bang echoing around the yard. “Friends?”
“Yes,” she says, standing with me, her voice small, almost shy. “Friends.”
This time I do laugh, at the pure ridiculousness of the notion. “You need to read up on the friend thing, Sofia.” I start walking again. “Friends don’t stab each other, for instance.”
“I already—”
“They don’t text each other riddles. Sick-ass shit about razors and pills.”
“I promise to God, Tanya, I didn’t text you. I had nothing to do with that.”
I stop walking then, digging my hands in my coat. “Let me tell you something, Sofia. Detective Adams knows about it. And if it’s traced back to you, they’ll be adding even more years to your sentence. If you’re lucky, you’ll be a Lubavitcher by then.” I start to peel off from the trail, then turn back to her. “And by the way, for your information, my name is not Tanya. It’s Zoe. Actually, forget that. It’s Dr. Goldman, to you.”
* * *
After meeting with Sofia, I get a text from Jason that the warden wants to meet with me. So straight from the frying pan into the inferno. I’m praying it’s about the texts and not an imminent pink slip.
I knock on the office door, my stomach in ropes, but when I open it, the warden is beaming. “Dr. Goldman, thank you for coming.” He stands up to greet me with such a wide smile that I think he’s about to offer me a cigar. “And I presume you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting our reporter extraordinaire?” Seated in a chair across the room, Logan offers a hesitant wave.
“Oh yes, I’ve had that pleasure.”
“So you know that he’s been doing some interviews with our staff,” Warden Gardner continues. “And he may have told you that after all of the…unfortunate events…as of late, we have worked out a situation with the News that we’re hoping will be synergistic.”
“Yes,” Logan says, standing up for emphasis. “Synergistic. Full access, in return for a balanced story.” His grin is unflappable. “As I told you before, I’m going to cover all the facts as well as the strides towards correcting some of the recent unfortunate events.” He nods broadly at the warden, who nods broadly right back. “I believe in making bridges, not enemies.”
“Uh-huh.” I can actually see Logan running for president someday. “And how do I fit into this balance?”
“Excellent question, Dr. Goldman,” the warden says. “Logan here says he’s been trying to reach you for an interview. And perhaps it’s just his perception, but he feels you’ve been less than forthcoming with him.”
I loosen my fists at my sides. “I’ve just been very busy.”
“Yes, well, that’s what I told him. But we really do need you to make some time. We were hoping you could offer an interview from the fellow’s point of view. You should be aware as well, Dr. Goldman. It might help to elevate your standing within the fellowship.”
I straighten out my white coat, taking in the barely veiled threat. “Have you asked Dr. Chang? He might be a better candidate. He’s been very successful in the fellowship.”
Logan touches his sideburns thoughtfully. “I did get a limited interview with Dr. Chang.” (Which means Jason probably propositioned him.) “But I was hoping for your perspective.”
“Yeah, it’s just—”
“Honestly, Dr. Goldman,” Logan says, “or Zoe? Can I call you that?” He doesn’t wait for approval. “Zoe, I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable here. I just want to paint the Buffalo Correctional Facility in the best light possible. I’ve already got some great stuff from the guards, some of the forensic patients, and the warden kindly gave me some time…” The warden nods in response. “But this would really make it complete.” He runs his hands over his fashionably skinny mocha-brown pants. “If you would just think about it, that’s all I’m asking.”
“Of course,” I say, happy to be off the hook on which I’m wriggling. “I will absolutely think about it.”
“Great.” Logan sits back down, apparently satisfied.
“Then we’re agreed,” the warden says, his smile plastered back on.
“Yes, we are agreed.”
In the following silence, I realize the meeting has been adjourned. But I still didn’t get to ask my question. Gathering up my purse and coat, I say, “I did want to bring up one more thing.”
Warden Gardner looks less than enthused. “Yes?”
“Did Detective Adams talk to you about the texts?” Newsboy looks up with renewed interest.
“Yes, he did,” the warden answers, shortly. “And all I can tell you is that we’re looking into it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. So,” I ask, treading carefully, “you didn’t find anything yet?”
The warden pauses, clearly not wanting to continue
the conversation. “No, we haven’t. We’ve done cell searches, the guards have been asking around. No intel as of now. But I will keep you informed, I can assure you.”
“What kind of texts?” Logan asks with the perfect degree of nonchalance.
“Nothing that you need to be concerned about,” the warden says, in a manner that does not invite further questioning.
And for once I most unequivocally agree with him.
* * *
Scotty nurses his cappuccino as we sit near the blazing gas fireplace, me in my usual eggplant leather settee and Scotty in his usual threadbare French blue velvet chair. After my visit with Sofia, the cold seemed to burrow into my bones all day. In the glow of the fire, my body is finally defrosting. “So how did your visit with her family go?”
“Good, good. We’ve decided to have it at Westminster.”
“That’s where she wanted it?” I ask.
“Yup, which is fine.” He doesn’t sound so thrilled, though, looking into the fire. “I was hoping for TBZ.”
Which is Temple Beth Zion, our temple. “It’s just one day,” I offer.
“Yeah, that’s what she said.” He looks away from the fire with a brighter look. “They’re pretty into this whole thing. Huge room at the Hyatt, top-shelf liquor. Kristy even wants caviar and Smirnoff at the hors d’oeuvres table. She read about that in a magazine somewhere.”
“Classy.”
“I guess.” Still, he doesn’t look displeased at the thought.
“Who’s going to be your best man?”
“Eddie,” he says, pointing. Eddie hears him and beams at us in return.
“Thrilled to do it,” he calls across the room, blushing a fierce red. Eddie is quite a blusher.
“Anyway,” Scotty says, “I’ve bored you enough. Got to go back to work.” He strides back to the cash register with a grin, and I find myself smiling for him and his happiness. Leaning back into the settee, I pull out my phone to squander a few minutes on Facebook before going back to my textbook. Mike has shared a post from Felicity of the ER office holiday party with him looking his rugged, handsome self and XO Serena leaning into him and laughing hysterically. I can almost hear her hyenalike laughter. Sean, the asshole PA, is staring right at Serena’s V-scrubbed cleavage, which makes me actually laugh out loud, because that shit is never going to happen.
I skip over the “Only my true friends will share this” posts and rants against this or that. Then, for kicks, I type “Andre Green” in the search bar. I don’t find any Facebook page and figure he’s probably on something much cooler, Instagram, Snapchat, what have you, none of which I’ve had the energy to join yet. Next I type “Abraham Green” in the search bar. Like Andre, he has no Facebook page. Searching for Charmayne again, I find the same photos, same sentiments. Another one, a wedding photo, bride and groom holding hands and grinning at each other at some private joke. Then I scroll through the comments, which are to be expected.
You two look so gorgeous with ten likes.
You’ll meet again in heaven with a heart emoji and twenty-three likes.
But at the bottom of the page is a comment I don’t expect to see. With zero likes.
Abraham Green killed my sister and got away with it.
Just like he did his first wife.
Chapter Twenty
Mike is scrounging through the pantry. “Who ate all the peanut butter?”
“Oh, I did. Sorry. I meant to put it on the list.”
He grabs cream cheese from the refrigerator as a second-place option and starts scraping it on his toasted bagel. “What’s with you and peanut butter lately?”
“I don’t know.” I pour some more coffee into my “You don’t scare me, I work with the criminally insane” mug that Scotty got me for Chanukah. “Don’t you think it’s weird, though?”
He takes a bite. “The Facebook thing? I don’t know.” He makes a sour face then. “I think this cream cheese is stale.”
“Maybe I should check into it.”
“Well, I don’t know, it is or it isn’t. I really wanted peanut butter anyway.”
“No, not the cream cheese. The Facebook thing.”
“No, maybe you shouldn’t check into that,” Mike says. “It’s just Facebook, Zoe. Seriously, the poor guy’s wife just died; his son is sick. He probably doesn’t need any more stuff to deal with right at this very moment.”
“Yeah, that’s true. But I figured I’d ask the detective anyway.” I don’t mention I already set up a time to visit with Dr. Koneru, who did Charmayne’s autopsy.
“Whatever.” He rinses his plate off and puts it in the dishwasher.
“What do you mean, whatever?”
“It means you’re going to do what you want anyway. But if you’re going to talk to the detective, why don’t you ask about the texts? That’s the thing that’s more worrisome to me.” He shuts the dishwasher door with a squeak.
“I know. It’s worrisome to me, too. But what more can the man do? He said it’s a burner phone.”
“I know. And stop saying burner phone. It’s getting annoying.”
“Burner phone,” I repeat.
“Hey, did you remember to put the pepper spray in your purse?”
“Yes,” I lie. I don’t remember where the pepper spray ended up. Somewhere in the trunk of my car, I think.
“Don’t forget, if you go to see Sofia again, make sure you have it on you. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say. And I will, if I can find it.
* * *
The smell of formaldehyde stings my eyes.
Before work I make a quick pit stop at the Pathology department, in the basement of the county hospital. I already told Dr. Koneru how Charmayne was my patient Andre’s mother. Dr. Koneru helped me figure out a tough case last year; I trust her skills implicitly.
“Nothing suspicious about it, Zoe,” she says. A tuft of hennaed hair sticks out of the front of her scrub hat. “It was definitely cardiac.”
I catch a glance at one of the splayed-out bodies and look away, fighting off nausea from my residual flu. “Odd, though, isn’t it? A heart attack in a forty-year-old woman?”
“Not that odd.” She moves over toward a metal table. “Heart disease is underrecognized in women, especially African Americans.” Dr. Koneru positions her scalpel and unzips the chest with uncanny ease. “She’d had a silent apical MI in the past. Hypertension and prediabetes, probably sleep apnea. She’s a pretty typical setup for this, to be honest.”
I step away from the table. “But it’s still routine to do an autopsy on someone this age?”
“Certainly. Unless there’s an obvious underlying cause, like a known cancer or something.”
“And if her husband had killed her, you would have seen signs of that?”
Bones crack as she pulls apart the chest wall. “I keep an open mind, Zoe. But when a horse comes in, I don’t go looking for a zebra.” She pauses, looking up from the body. “You have reason to suspect the husband?”
I unbutton my lab coat, snug around my thick sweater. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. But I was looking over her Facebook page, and there was a troubling comment from Charmayne’s sister, blaming him for her death.” Bile spills out of the abdominal cavity as her scalpel slices down, and I swallow back an involuntary gag reflex.
“Facebook, huh? An extremely reliable source,” she jokes.
“Right, I know. But I just wanted to ask, at least.”
“I reviewed her case thoroughly, of course. Like all my cases,” she says. “But if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll take another look.”
* * *
It’s early yet, so I drive through Tim Hortons and call the detective on my way into work. He answers on the first ring.
“What’s up, Zoe? Any more texts?” he asks with a note of concern.
“Oh no.” I peel off the lid and blow on the tongue-singeing coffee. “Nothing like that. I’m calling about something else, actually. A patient concern.”
I give him a brief summary of the Andre Green case and the aunt’s Facebook comment and hear him scribbling notes again. “It was ruled natural causes, though?” the detective asks.
“Yes. Dr. Koneru is going to review it again, but she was pretty certain it was cardiac.”
He pauses. “Did Andre say anything about his father killing his mother?”
“Well, Andre thinks his father is the devil and that he took her soul. But I’m talking about the literal devil here. As in he’s hallucinating and delusional.”
“As in he’s not really a particularly reliable witness right now,” he observes.
“No, you’re right. But it got me to thinking. What if he’s trying to tell us something all along here, and we’ve just been labeling him as insane?”
He pauses. “I don’t know. I would say that’s more your department than mine.” A loud voice calls out his name in the background. “I’ll see what I can dig up. But I don’t have to tell you that Dr. Koneru’s good. If she said it was the heart, it probably was. I wouldn’t go by what you read on Facebook.”
“Yes, I know. While I have you on, any more info about the texts?”
“No, nothing more, sorry to say. And I’ve been back and forth with the warden. They stripped down Sofia’s cell more than once. There’s nothing. I’m not saying she isn’t involved, but if she is, she’s done a damn good job covering her tracks.”
“Well, she would.” I slow down, seeing the prison up ahead.
“Anyone else that could have done this?” he asks. “People you work with, maybe?”
“I doubt it. But I’ll think about it.” When I showed Jason the texts, he got a horrified look on his face, saying, “That is creepy as fuck.” I have to doubt it’s he unless he recently took up acting. As I pull into the parking lot, we hang up. With just a few minutes before work, I check Facebook once more, heading right over to Charmayne’s page.