As Rick Luna wound down, his doubts revved up. “Why are you so interested in that chick? She’s like the dictionary definition of loser. Steer clear, dude.”
I laughed at his theory. “I have zero designs in that direction, Rick. None.”
“Glad to hear it. You deserve better. You’ll get better. Hang in there.” He coughed; I coughed. My bruised heart was off limits, so he switched subjects. “We’ve got a full plate for the next few months. Including opening that new office in Hialeah. Lots to plan, lots to coordinate.”
I signed off thirty seconds later, sending sympathy and good wishes to everyone at Rook Cleaning Services. I’d meant to ask him if he’d slept with Annie. Pin down exactly how much he’d stolen from me. But I let it slide. If Rick Luna could pardon my slap, I could forgive his loving Annie. I felt better. Mercy flowing in two directions, just like Pearl predicted.
A shower and a roast beef sandwich fueled my mental script for the call to Colin Spiegel. Disguise was essential to my plan, so I scrounged in the junk drawer next to the sink for an old burner phone. The cell had belonged to Andre the pickpocket. When I blocked his most recent heist, I boosted the phone. Andre didn’t complain about the theft; I like to think he appreciated the irony.
The NYU website revealed Spiegel’s office phone number after eight minutes of searching. He answered on the second ring.
I pictured him crouched over his desk waiting for the antique landline to connect him with the outside world. Books and journals dangled from dusty cases piled to the ceiling. Stacks of papers, charts, binders, newspapers, envelopes, and shredded magazines clogged the surface of a tiny desk. Crusty mugs crammed with pencils, pens, letter openers, and lip balm anchored each corner of the desk. More towers of books teetered on either side of the door. Maybe Colin Spiegel was a sleek modernist, his office a bare temple to efficiency. But that’s not how I imagined him.
My intro was syrupy, thick with a Texas twang I’d abandoned when I left the army. “Dr. Spiegel, I’m so pleased to reach you. I need a few minutes of your time this afternoon. I serve on a selection committee for an important academic fellowship and I’m delighted to inform you your name is on the long list for final consideration. At this stage, we are undertaking preliminary phone interviews with the candidates, confirming basic data that will be used as we narrow our search. Do you have a few minutes?”
I rushed through several more paragraphs of multisyllable words after Colin agreed to the interview. As I’d figured, the thrill of being selected for a money-bearing honor pushed practical questions from his brain. He never asked me for the name of the grant. Or even for my name. The night we met, Sally Anastos had said the slogan of every academic was, “What’s in it for me?” That cynical motto certainly applied to her friend Colin Spiegel.
After we’d established that he’d been born in New Haven and raised by a single mother who worked as a secretary at Yale, Colin listed his educational credentials. Wesleyan, great. Columbia, terrific. I hummed in admiration, making sure the scratch of my pencil could be heard through the phone.
Then I pressed for home: “You have several impressive recommendations in your file, Dr. Spiegel. In one of the strongest, the author describes her collaboration with you on several research projects.”
“Oh, that must be Sarah Anastos. We’ve worked together quite a bit over the past few years.”
Bingo. Got him in one. “You understand, I’m not supposed to reveal the names of the writers of these recommendations. Confidentiality rules are important to our process. But I won’t deny your guess.”
“Sarah is a wonderful girl. A great colleague. I’m not surprised to learn she’s plugging for me.”
“How do you know Dr. Anastos? If I might ask.”
“Shared Connecticut background to begin with. Hardscrabble like me.”
“She grew up in New Haven with you?”
“No, her dad ran a Greek restaurant in Bridgeport. Four kids: three girls, one boy. Sarah was the first in her family to finish college. Her baby brother’s just started at Alexander this fall.”
“An admirable achievement indeed.”
“Sure was. With her doctoral studies underway, Sarah had it made. The word ‘superstar’ was invented to describe someone with her talent and drive. The whole world was hers, like a highway blazing before her, no barriers in sight…” Spiegel’s voice drifted into a sigh.
“What happened? A roadblock?”
“Yeah, she met a diversion, a detour. That’s what.”
I figured he meant Gerry Keith, but I wouldn’t offer the name. No leading the witness. My prompt stayed vague: “Sarah changed?”
“You better believe it. When I first met her, she was this sweet kid from the sticks. Affectionate, lively. Hard-charging for sure, but compelling. She had a firecracker mind sparking with creativity and wit. She was fun, the brightest woman I’d ever known. Then she chopped her hair.” His voice darkened over the last phrase. “And everything changed.”
“Her hair?”
No chance to stop his rant now. Not that I wanted to. “Yeah. Sarah had this gorgeous brown hair, dark waves down her back. I used to tease that she could tuck the braid into the waistband of her jeans, that’s how long it was. Then one day she cut it off. All of it. Down to a few curls and some stubble around the ears. And dyed it a hideous shade of red. She was so proud of the new look, said it was an expression of her true self, the self she’d suppressed all these years.”
“That’s quite a turn around.”
“No kidding. The new red-headed Sarah wanted nothing to do with her old friends. Especially, not me. Even last week we argued about it again. I met her for coffee at a hotel. She was attending a conference there, so she fit me in between sessions. I asked her why she was wasting time and money on a fancy conference when it wasn’t even an academic meeting. Just a bunch of pretentious capitalist fat cats. She wasn’t presenting an academic research paper or moderating a panel. There was no professional pay-off for her. Sarah said she didn’t care what I thought, this conference was her break-out moment and she wanted to savor it.”
“She certainly had changed, as you put it.”
“I don’t… I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s not relevant to anything. I’ve really gotten off topic. You’re an excellent listener. What did you say your field was?” I could hear a fingernail scraping over his beard as he scrambled to salvage our conversation.
“One of the best parts of this job is getting to know the brightest young lights in the field.” I laid it on thick, but maybe my flattery would calm his worries.
“I hope this doesn’t sway your report to the grant committee. The committee’s views of me or of Sarah’s letter shouldn’t be affected by this. I hope this private communication stays between us.”
“You have my word on it, Dr. Spiegel. I won’t share what you’ve said with anyone.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Doctor…um, what did you say your name was?”
“Thomas Dray. D.R.A.Y.” I counted on his ignorance of hip-hop’s storied past to carry me over this hump.
“Thank you, Dr. Dray. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you.” No teeth gritted in sarcasm. His voice rose in non-ironic waves of gratitude. “I wish the committee well as its deliberations move forward. What’s your timetable for announcing the grant awards?”
“We expect to wrap up deliberations in a few weeks. The board insists we deliver our selections before the end of the semester.”
“An ambitious schedule, for sure. Well, good luck, Dr. Dray.”
“Thank you. We’ll need it.”
I hung up and stroked my right cheek, then the left. Bullshitting on such a massive scale was exhausting. My jaw ached from the stress; shards of pain skittered along my neck to collide between my shoulder blades. I rotated each tense arm, fists poking the air above my hea
d. Walking to the kitchen, I flexed both biceps, then unleashed a flurry of punches into an imaginary speed bag in front of the fridge. I reheated a cup of coffee in the microwave and downed the muck in two gulps.
My talk with love-sick Colin Spiegel left me dry and dispirited. But I’d gotten what I wanted. The information about Sally Anastos’s transformation from dutiful drudge to high priestess in the cult of Keith was useful. Figuring out how this fit together would require a one-on-one match with Sally.
Chapter
Twelve
Dr. Swann paid the Ross Agency for my first rescue of Carolyn Wiley. A hefty sum, according to Brina. But he didn’t pay for the next two. Those rescues were on my own tab. Darrell Peete called me twice. On the first afternoon trip to Carolyn’s former house, I found her perched at the top of the stairs, bony fingers drumming her knees, restless eyes sweeping the sidewalk. A full-blown family reunion, she greeted me with unbridled joy. I was her prodigal son, Carl, home from a slog at the law firm.
The second time Darrell called, change roughened his voice. “Sorry to bug you again, Rook.” He hacked deep in his throat, then blurted the rest. “But I thought you’d want to know about this.”
“Is it Mrs. Wiley? Has she wandered to the house again? Give me a minute to borrow a car and I’ll pick her up as soon as I can.”
I gulped the bourbon I’d ordered at Zarita’s Bar, my weekday afternoon haunt. I dropped a ten on the counter to cover this drink and the one I’d have tomorrow. Trotting toward the door, I pressed the phone to my ear. Darrell Peete’s hesitation garbled his words.
“No, no. It’s…well, this time we found her inside the apartment we been remodeling. I mean… well, I don’t much like talking about it on the phone. When you get here, you can see for yourself.”
Carolyn was nowhere in sight when I jumped from the Honda. Darrell waved me to a spot behind his white van. “Thanks for coming, Rook. We didn’t know how to handle this.”
He led me to the curb side of the panel truck and snatched open the sliding door. Inside, Carolyn Wiley crouched on the middle bench, fingers clamped around her knees. She wore the same pink seersucker dress as when we first met. Her hair stood from the crown of her head like a rooster’s comb. Black soot singed the tips of the white spikes. Brick red smeared from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth. Her hands were covered in the same brick dust.
I set a calm cadence, as if we’d met for a picnic in the park. “Mrs. Wiley, good to see you again.” Slow drawl, bright smile. I leaned into the van until my face pressed close to hers.
Though I’d used her title, she reverted to her old name for me. “Carl, you took so long today.” Reproach snapped at my conscience. “I expected you to help me look.”
“Look for what?” I couldn’t call her mother, or mama, or mom. Whatever endearment Carl may have used stuck in my craw. I wouldn’t push the theatre that far.
Darrell tugged on my sleeve. I stood next to the open vehicle, my eyes on Carolyn. The foreman whispered behind a calloused hand. “We found her inside the basement. On her knees, scraping at the floor next to the brick wall. Pulling flakes of paint from the brick.”
“Did she say why?” The image of the old woman scrabbling in the debris sent shivers racing along my shoulders. “What was she looking for?”
“Never got that much sense out of her. Took two of the boys to haul her out of there.” Darrell polished sweat from his forehead with his bare hand. “Never figured a skinny little bird like that had so much fight in her.”
“Fight?”
“That’s just how it happened. She opened a nasty rip in Jermaine’s cheek.” He pointed to the pick-up where his crew huddled. A slash of scarlet glared against a young man’s brown skin. “We finally wrestled her into the van and fastened the seat belt around her. She quieted down then.” The foreman shook his head and scratched the wool under his helmet. “That’s when I called you. She’s been muttering to herself ever since.”
“Let me talk to her. Then I’ll take her home.” I nodded at Peete, then turned toward the vehicle’s open door.
I leaned in again, left foot on the ground, right knee on the van’s floor next to the bench. I squeezed Carolyn’s bony ankle to get her attention. She lifted her head like it was a cannon ball. When her bleary eyes focused on mine, I relaunched our theatre. “Where you looking for something in there? Can I help you find it?”
The grin glowed from her battered face. “Yes, Carl. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I lost my bracelet in there. My braid’s in there too.” She stroked the short feathers at the back of her head. “But it’s the bracelet I need. I must have it back. You can help, I know you can.”
“I can try. Tell me what it looks like.” Imaginary, but if I played along, she’d stay docile.
“You remember it, Carl. Fancy Byzantine links in silver with a small lobster clasp. Your father gave it to me for our fifteenth wedding anniversary, just after your twelfth birthday. Beautiful thing. I said it was too heavy, too ornate. But he insisted I wear it.”
The detail of her description threw me. The jewelry sounded real. “And now you’ve lost the bracelet?”
“Yes, down in the basement. Look next to the brick wall. It’s bound to be there.”
“Let’s get you home.”
“But the bracelet…”
“I’ll look for it after you’re settled in your room.” I stiffened my voice to a command register. “I can’t start looking for the bracelet until you’re safe at home.”
“It won’t be hard to find, Carl. You’ll see it.”
“The more we delay here, the longer it’ll be until I can return to search.” I unfastened the seat belt from her sunken waist and she raised her arms to my neck. I carried her to my car and drove to the Swann Center.
Soothing the nerves of the skittish center staff took thirty minutes. I spent forty-five more listening to Dr. Swann babble about the security measures he intended to establish next week. More nurses and attendants, a night guard, new electronic locks, bars on the windows and iron grills on the doors. High style prison décor. By the time I escaped it was past eight. I steered the Honda four times around the block of the Wiley house before I made up my mind.
There was something worth looking for in the neglected rubble of that basement. Something shrouded in Carolyn Wiley’s addled mind. Maybe a fancy silver bracelet. Maybe a plaited rope of white hair. Maybe something more significant. I’d find it. For Carolyn. For myself.
Chapter
Thirteen
Shadows from dusty trees cooled the street. Darrell Peete and his team had retired for the night, leaving a spot for me where their white van had stood. I sat for ten minutes until the last gossiping neighbors retreated indoors and I had the block to myself.
Exploring this house pulled at a dangerous streak in me. For several days, I’d wanted to see inside Carolyn Wiley’s obsession. What drew her to this old pile, years after she and her family moved away? She couldn’t invite me in, she didn’t own the place anymore. But her eager story of the vanished bracelet gave me an opening. Maybe she had lost jewelry in this basement. If I could find her precious bangle, maybe I’d restore calm to her agitated mind. This was breaking and entering, no doubt. But it was crime for a good cause. Backed by Dr. Swann’s support, I hoped, I’d square it with the cops if necessary.
The rusty hinges of the iron picket fence creaked as I opened the gate. I crept down two steps to the brick patio in front of the basement windows. A black-and-white tuxedo cat hissed from the stone threshold under the main staircase, then slunk away as I took its place. Shadows canopied the basement door, turning its berry red paint to burgundy. Pedestrians at street level wouldn’t see me work the flimsy latch. I didn’t own a regulation pick-lock kit, but my metal nail file and debit card met the task. With the apartment empty, neither the owners nor the construction crew had
bothered to install a serious bolt against burglars.
Inside the basement, I paused at the shoulder-height windows to survey the room. The floor plan was simple: an unobstructed space running from the front living area to what would be the kitchen. Frail moonbeams filtered past oily glass and iron bars printing a stark pattern on the floor. Rubble -- wood laths, plaster, brick, wire, and rebar -- stretched in irregular clumps from the entrance to the rear wall. The air was dense, still, and cool, like stepping into a bank vault. White plasterboard covered three vertical surfaces–the wall behind me, the long wall to the left, and the far wall where a short run of steps rose to the backyard. On the right, the white sheetrock had been stripped to reveal a brick wall.
According to Darrell the foreman, Carolyn Wiley had been digging at the base of this brick wall. Ruddy powder smeared her hands and face when I spoke with her in the van. That brick wall was the place she’d looked for her bracelet. So that’s where I started my search.
The wall was fourteen feet long but its texture changed two-thirds of the way down its run. The majority of the brick was fixed ceiling to floor with mortar. I tapped my file against a few junctures to test their soundness; they held, no chips or flakes fell. I side-stepped along the wall, tapping until I located a quirk. A five-foot stretch was built from bricks stacked without mortar. In this section, the bricks balanced against each other, their weight alone holding them in place. I studied the floor next to this section. Red dust and paint flakes swirled among stray bricks at the base of this wall. Smudged indentations in the dust could be knee prints. Maybe this was where Carolyn had knelt to scrabble for her bracelet.
I crouched beside the wall, poking at the bricks. The first six held tight. The seventh moved. I pushed until it yielded, falling inward to a hidden space. I heaved bricks until I’d punched a hole fourteen inches square. Black behind the wall revealed nothing. I switched on my phone’s flashlight. I shoved my right hand through the opening, waving the beam. I pressed one eye to the hole, scanning the light’s arc. Silver flashed, then disappeared. I steadied my hand and looked again. The cool metal wink of silver repeated. This was what I wanted: Carolyn’s lost bracelet.
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