Quick Study

by Maggie Barbieri

  I heard a voice coming from the lobby, whiny with a faint Swiss accent. “Is anyone going to help me?”

  Fred jumped off the desk, Max dropping from the ceiling behind him. “Shut up!” he yelled after he had opened the door. “I’ve had enough of you!”

  I peeked out and saw Morag handcuffed to the front door, her body inches from Joey. There was blood coming out of the side of one of her boots, but other than that, she looked particularly unscathed by whatever had happened with Fred. I looked at him, my eyes wide. “I thought you killed her.”

  “Couldn’t get a good shot off,” he said, back to his economical conversational style. “Besides, we need to find out what happened. With her dead, we wouldn’t have any idea.”

  Richie peeked around me. “Aren’t you guys trained to shoot to kill?”

  Fred gave him a look that indicated that Richie would be best advised to keep his thoughts on the police department’s shooting tactics to himself.

  I looked over at Max, who leapt from the desk to the floor. She was covered in dust and grime but obviously happy to see Fred. She jumped on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his bald head. “What took you so long?”

  “You didn’t buy an apartment, did you?” he asked.

  Richie pushed past me and went into the lobby, not waiting for Max’s answer. I followed close behind him, not wanting him to take off before he could be interrogated. As he pushed through the door, he walked right into a uniformed cop’s arms. “Going somewhere, Mr. Kraecker?” the cop asked.

  Richie stared back at the cop, not sure whether to play the blustery businessman or the rule-following possible criminal. He decided to play it safe. “No, Officer. Just trying to get some air after the events of the morning.”

  Carmen Montoya strutted into the lobby, her black leather pants whispering a samba as she made her way into the center of the room. “Bergeron,” she said to me. “You OK?”

  I was never so glad to see her or her prodigious behind. “I am. Thanks for coming,” I said, stupidly and unnecessarily. “What are you doing working on a Sunday?”

  She smirked. “Pulled a double,” she said. “I got a kid going to Cornell in the fall.”

  Enough said.

  “What the hell happened here? You guys are really messin’ up my Sunday morning.” She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the damage. She looked at Joey and blessed herself.

  I looked over at him, too, and said a little prayer before telling her what had happened. “He,” I said, pointing at his dead body, “said that she,” I said, pointing at Morag, still handcuffed to the front door, “killed Jose Tomasso.”

  Morag looked at me. “Which I didn’t. What’s an ex-con going to say?”

  An ambulance pulled up and with it, a bunch of paramedics, who wheeled in a couple of stretchers. They went to work on Morag, seeing instantly that Joey was a lost cause. Carmen looked at me. “And him?”

  I pointed at Morag. “Her again.”

  Carmen knelt down and got in Morag’s face; I feared for the seat of her pants. “Two for two, lady.”

  She shrugged. “Her word against mine.” She screamed as one of the paramedics started to cut off her boot. Turns out it wasn’t pain that made her exclaim. “Those are Prada! What, are you crazy?”

  The paramedic looked at her. “We can leave the bullet in, lady, and you can die of sepsis. Or we can take it out and you can buy a new pair of boots. Your choice.”

  Put to her that way, she really didn’t have an argument. She watched, in horror, as the boot was cut away. I’m sure that even she realized, deluded as she was, that Prada didn’t make good jailwear.

  I walked outside and made my way through the phalanx of uniformed cops. Montoya called out to me that I shouldn’t go far; she wanted to talk to me. I knew the drill; I’d been through stuff like this too many times not to. I scanned the crowd for Crawford and saw him leaning against a cruiser talking to another plainclothes cop, presumably a detective. The two of them looked completely unconcerned by what was going on around them.

  If Fred’s economy is in his speech, Crawford’s is in his movement. He spied me, casually lifted his butt from the fender of the vehicle, and walked toward me at his usual amble, his arms swinging by his sides. I stopped where I was, resisting the urge to run straight to him. He reached me and took me in his arms. “You OK?” he asked in his usual understated way and kissed my head.

  I felt my knees buckle and his hands supporting me under my arms. “No.”

  He put me in the backseat of one of the cruisers and I slid far enough in so that he could sit in there with me. His long legs stuck out the side of the car. “Tell me what happened,” he said, putting his hand on my head.

  “If I tell you, will I have to tell Montoya again?” I asked. The thought of telling the story a thousand times held no appeal for me.

  “Probably,” he admitted. “I’m sure every detective I work with is going to want to hear this story.”

  It was quite a story. I told him everything, from start to finish.

  Thirty-Seven

  Richie helped fill in the blanks, as did a soon-to-be orange-jumpsuited Morag.

  “She was a tough one to crack, but eventually she did.” Crawford slurped up an oyster. “Crack, that is. Richie, on the other hand, folded like a cheap suitcase. Once he started talking, we couldn’t shut him up.”

  “I love when you talk like Sam Spade,” I said, putting my hand to his cheek. We were sitting in our favorite restaurant on City Island and Crawford was putting away oysters like he was eating his last meal. It was two days after the debacle at the sales office and I hadn’t seen him since. He had spent almost the entire time dealing with the fallout from Morag taking Max, Richie, and me hostage and murdering Joey. I felt like I had repeated the story to just about every member of the New York City Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Take it easy, there. You don’t want a belly full of oyster juice spoiling the rest of the evening.”

  “Nothing could spoil this evening,” he said. I hoped he was right. He leaned in and gave me a briny-tasting kiss. “So do you want to hear what I found out or not?” he asked, tired of my interruptions.

  I snuggled in close to him in the booth that we were sitting in. “Shoot.” I grabbed a hunk of the restaurant’s famous garlic bread and shoved it into my mouth, relishing the taste of salt, garlic, and parsley that dotted the top of the toasted bread. I figured his brine breath would equal my garlic breath in intensity so we would cancel each other out.

  “Well, Richie couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, but I guess you knew that. But we’re still trying to figure out how Morag hooked up with Joey and Jose—who I presume knew each other from town—to get this green card thing going.” He tilted his head back and inhaled another oyster. “I’m leaving that to the Feds and INS, though. I’m more interested in getting her for Jose’s and Madeleine Cranston’s murders.”

  “Have you found which building inspectors Richie was paying off?”

  Crawford nodded. “Every single one. Richie gave everybody up.”

  “What happens to them?” I asked, biting off another chunk of garlic bread.

  “Well for one, they lose their jobs. There are two, in particular, who are in deep . . .” he paused, thinking of the right word to use and eventually opting for the less offensive one, “. . . trouble.”

  “What happens to Richie?”

  “Riviera Pointe is done, unless Leon can bail him out,” he said, referencing Richie’s father. “I’m not sure what kind of fines or jail time comes with a bribery conviction, so I don’t know. That’s all we’ve got right now. He’s not the only developer to employ less than stellar construction practices in New York, so we can’t get him there.” He finished his beer and motioned to the passing waiter for another one. “Maybe you could ask my brother what the jail time is for a bribery conviction,” he said, pointedly raising an eyebrow at me.

  I giggled nervou
sly. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t really care what happens to Richie.” I ran my hand along his thigh. “What did Morag say about Madeleine Cranston?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “She’s really pleading innocent on that one. I can’t figure it out. She copped to the Joey murder . . .”

  “As if she had a choice,” I said, reminding him that she had two reliable witnesses on that front.

  “. . . and the Jose murder,” he continued, “but she won’t cop to Cranston’s murder.”

  I thought for a moment. “Maybe because it’s a capital offense?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Another thought crossed my mind. “Maybe because she didn’t do it?”

  “Maybe,” he said more definitively.

  I nodded and continued nodding as I stated, “But that’s for the Feds to figure out?”

  He nodded and continued nodding. “Yes.” In other words: don’t give it another thought. He finished off the oysters just as his new beer was delivered.

  “What was Madeleine Cranston doing at Riviera Pointe?”

  He looked at me as if to say, “Isn’t that obvious?”

  I nodded. “Looking into the green card thing.”

  He pointed at me. “Bingo. The Feds were working the case with Immigration and Naturalization.” He took a sip of his beer and then changed the subject entirely, startling me. “So, where’s Hernan Escalante?” he asked casually.

  I had a mouth full of garlic bread and took the opportunity to stay silent. I coughed a bit and then went with an exaggerated shrug.

  “God, you are such a bad liar.”

  My eyes got wide. “Don’t know where he is. No idea. Not a clue.”

  He moved away from me a little bit and looked at the ceiling, thinking. “OK. How about this? Hernan Escalante maybe should go to Twenty-six Federal Plaza”—the FBI headquarters in New York—“and tell them what he knows. Would that work?”

  “He doesn’t know anything,” I blurted out, realizing too late that I had said too much. I shoved another hunk of garlic bread into my mouth.

  Crawford looked at me and I was reminded of how intimidating he might be during an interrogation. “Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to eat our dinner and then you’re going to take me to him.” I started to protest and he put his fingers to my lips. “No discussion. Nothing to discuss.”

  I took his fingers from my lips and squeezed them between my hands. “You have to promise me that nothing will happen to him.”

  “Ouch,” he said, pulling his fingers away. He rubbed them. “I can’t do that.”

  “You have to.”

  He thought for a moment, looking at the ceiling and exhaling loudly. “I can promise you that whatever happens, I will make sure that he is treated fairly and with respect.”

  I shook my head. “Not good enough.”

  “Alison, you know I’ll do anything I can to help him.”

  “Better.”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  My fried clams came and I dug in. “After dinner.”

  “After dinner,” he confirmed, finishing the garlic bread.

  Bastard. That was mine.

  Thirty-Eight

  We made our way onto the dark campus, the road lit by the intermittent halogen lamps that cast a green glow over the main drive into the college. Crawford flashed his badge at one of the octogenarian guards and pulled through the narrow opening between the guard booth and the sidewalk. He slowed down and adjusted his rearview mirror.

  “Looks like we’ve got company,” he said.

  My head swiveled around almost of its own accord. I saw the nondescript black car following at a safe distance.

  “Turn back around,” he said. “It’s Goldenberg and Abreu.”

  “God, they are so annoying! They’re always around. Except when I’m locked in a trunk or being held at gunpoint in the sales office at Riviera Pointe.”

  Crawford maneuvered into a spot in front of the main building, which housed just about every major office in the college: the president’s office, the administrative offices, the professors’ offices. It also served as the classroom building. And at the far end, right where we were parked, was the convent. Crawford threw the car into park and turned to me. “How are we going to do this?”

  “Well, you can’t come in with me,” I said.

  He threw his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the car in the spot behind us. “They will.”

  “They can’t go into the convent.”

  He rolled his eyes. “They probably won’t see it that way.”

  I opened the car door. “Then I’ll tell them.”

  Goldenberg and Abreu were standing under the grand portico that fronted the building. “Ready?” Goldenberg asked.

  “You can’t come into the convent with me,” I said, as defiantly as I could.

  He held his ground. “If you give me twenty minutes, I can get a federal judge to say that I can.”

  Abreu looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I appealed to him as a Catholic, which I was convinced he would be, given his Portuguese heritage. He held up his hands. “I’m an atheist.”

  Great.

  Crawford got out of the car and followed me up the steps to the front door of the building; I used my master key to let us all in, Crawford holding the door. We walked down the long hallway and to the bottom of the long, winding staircase that went to the upper floors of the building and the convent. I gave them all one last look. “Come on, guys. Give it a rest.”

  Goldenberg held his hand out. “Ladies first.”

  I trudged up the steps, not sure what I would find. Instead of taking the elevator with the three of them, I made them climb all the way up to the fifth floor, where I knew Sister Louise had stashed Hernan. Maybe if I could tire them out, they’d lose a little of the piss and vinegar that they had brought to this adventure.

  It was dark on the floor and I felt around on the wall for a light switch. There was none. I looked down the hallway and saw a light coming out from under a door. The sounds of shrieking could be heard all the way down the hallway, reverberating off the marble floor. I saw all three grab for their guns—Crawford from his ankle, Abreu from the back of his pants, and Goldenberg from the holster on his hip. The three of them crept down the darkened hallway, me trailing Crawford and holding on to his belt loop so that I wouldn’t lose him.

  “Let go,” he whispered.

  I loosened my grip but kept my index finger in the back loop. We made our way down the hallway, none of us uttering a sound. Crawford and I made it there first and he tapped lightly but firmly on the door. “Detective Crawford, Fiftieth Precinct. Open the door.”

  There was a scuffle behind the door but it remained closed. Crawford backed up and, with my index finger still in his belt loop, kicked the door down. When it simultaneously splintered and opened, we were treated to the sight of three nuns—Sister Alphonse, Sister Louise, and Sister Catherine—all in their bonnets and bathrobes, and Hernan, seated at a card table.

  Playing, it appeared, Texas Hold’em.

  A vast mound of pennies sat in the middle of the table, as did a pile of cards. Hernan was frozen in place, his cards fanned out in front of him, his bandaged finger sticking straight out. Sister Alphonse—the Fonz—looked at Crawford. “That was rather dramatic, dear. Was that necessary?” She took a long swig from her can of Sprite, adjusting her false teeth after taking the can from her lips.

  Crawford sputtered a little bit and backed out of the room. I took my finger out of his pants. Nuns scare the crap out of Crawford. I don’t know what happened to him as a kid, but he was clearly scarred.

  Goldenberg entered the room and gave Hernan a steely look. “Mr. Escalante, I am Agent Goldenberg of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You are under arrest for the murder of Agent Madeleine Cranston.”

  Hernan looked at me and paled.

  Goldenberg turned to me. “And Dr.
Bergeron, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice in the investigation of a murder.” He turned to Abreu. “Agent Abreu, would you please take Dr. Bergeron into custody?”

  When I had imagined Agent Abreu taking me into custody, the scenario had been a lot different. I was wearing Jean Naté and not much else and he was applying sunscreen to my alabaster shoulders. However, when Abreu took out his handcuffs I almost lost control of my bodily functions. Sister Alphonse stood up—all six feet of her—and stared down Abreu. Crawford was standing by the door, seemingly trying to figure out what to do. He let out a half-hearted, “hey,” but that was all. We were definitely going to talk about that later.

  The Fonz helped me out. “Put those away, young man.” Straightened to her full height, her teeth slightly askew, she bore more than a slight resemblance to Rod Gilbert, my second favorite Ranger of all time. I had never noticed that before.

  Abreu looked at her and shrank back a little bit. Atheist, my ass.

  The Fonz adjusted her teeth again; they had a habit of slipping and making everything she said sound like a snake hissing. “Mr. Escalante took refuge in this convent because of a threat on his life.”

  Goldenberg rolled his eyes. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring down Goldenberg. “Tell them, Mr. Escalante.” She stared at him pointedly and I realized that they had rehearsed this moment during the time that he had been here.

  “I came here of my own . . .” he said, searching for the right word. The Fonz mouthed “accord” and he repeated it. “. . . accord. I was looking for safe haven after having been threatened at the job site of Riviera Pointe.”

  Goldenberg threw his hands up. “So you came to the convent at St. Thomas University? On your own? You expect me to believe this crap?”

  Sister Louise stood up. “Excuse you, Agent Goldenstein.”

  Sister Catherine, Hernan’s legally blind floormate, looked around, unseeing. I made a mental note to ask Louise how she played cards if she couldn’t see. “What’s going on?”