I slipped the contact sheets into the open tote bag, slipping them in next to the folded copy of the picture that had been found on Bechman’s desk the day he was killed.
Leon was still talking about their adventures with Dashiell, me only half listening, Madison, I thought, not listening at all. “We walked along the river,” he said, “all the way down to the tip of Manhattan. Every time we passed those metal grates dogs hate to walk on, Dashiell pulled to go that way. He’s fearless and he likes to prove it, doesn’t he?” The question addressed to Madison, as if she’d answer him, nod and react in some way. Then back to me. “We’ll be sad to see him go.”
Madison went to her room and came back with a rawhide bone, one knot chewed off. She put it into my open bag and then leaned back against the table.
“How did your trip go?” Leon finally asked, as if it were a vacation he was asking about, a trip to Disney World, a week in Paris, a cruise to the Galápagos.
I caught his eye and shook my head. I wanted to check my watch, to say I had an appointment, or just to break and run. I needed time to think without Madison staring at me, without Leon’s unspoken hopes.
Leon didn’t ask anything further. He must have understood that if he wanted to know more, it wasn’t going to happen with Madison in the room. That conversation, the one I was dreading, would have to wait until later because I didn’t want to tell him what had happened and just leave it at that. I wanted to offer him something more, something hopeful. And in order to do that, I had to get out of there.
Fifteen minutes earlier, sitting on someone’s stoop after I’d left Charles’s apartment, I’d gone over what he’d told me, that Celia wouldn’t have written the note that way, which meant she’d been murdered, and that it had happened late on the day Leon had asked for Madison’s records. I didn’t think that could be a coincidence. I’d taken out the records again, and this time what seemed to jump off the pages were those white spaces, spaces not indicating the passage of time as I’d previously thought, but showing that information had been removed, whited out on the first Xerox and then copied once more, information that Leon and I were not supposed to see. It had to be something Celia could explain, that Celia knew about, everything now pointing in the same direction. Even the locked door could be explained. After all, Bechman had the keys to Celia’s apartment, and he wouldn’t have kept them on his key ring. He would have kept them at his office.
The keys wouldn’t be there anymore. Not now. But I still needed to get into Bechman’s office again. I needed to see the originals of Madison’s records, to see what was written where the copy I had only showed blank space.
But not before I tried to clarify something urgent. For that I needed Madison, Madison who was now standing a foot away from me with her arms folded across her chest, her lips a tight little line. Who did I think I was fooling with my research trip? Not Madison. That much was clear.
“I need to talk to Madison for a minute, if that’s okay,” I said to Leon, not the way I usually did things, but the way I thought I might get what I needed this time. Without asking Madison, without waiting for anyone’s approval, I grabbed my tote bag and headed for Madison’s room. I put the tote on the end of her bed and pulled out the copy of the drawing that had been found on Eric Bechman’s desk the day he was killed.
When I turned around, Madison and Dashiell were standing in front of me, the door closed.
“I need your help again,” I said.
Madison looked down at Dashiell.
“No, not with Dashiell this time. It’s about what happened to Dr. Bechman. It’s about what people think you did.”
There was a little flicker in one cheek, the one under the droopy eyelid, the same kind her father had when he got tense.
“There was a drawing found on his desk. The police were told you did it and that it was a threat, that the meaning of the drawing was that you wanted to stab Dr. Bechman in the heart for what he did to you.”
She seemed to notice the folded piece of paper now. She looked back at me and waited.
“I need to know two things. I need to know if you drew this picture. I need to know what you meant to say when you drew it. And I need to know if you left this drawing on Dr. Bechman’s desk the day he was killed.”
For what seemed like forever, Madison stood staring up at me. Then she took the drawing from my hand, unfolded it and studied it for another eon. Finally she held up one hand, the thumb, pointer and middle fingers pointing toward the ceiling, the ring finger and pinkie folded against her palm.
“You’re right,” I said. “Three things. My mistake.”
While some stars died and new ones were born, Madison Spector stood in front of me just staring. Then she turned and walked over to her desk, picked up a pencil and wrote something on the sheet of paper I’d given her, folding it carefully when she had finished, walking back to the bed and slipping it into my tote.
Standing at the foot of her bed, I looked at the walls Sally had painted, the gigantic fish, the turtle, the coral, rocks, sea grasses, and wondered, when the time came, how much I’d tell Madison and what she would do when I did.
I zipped the tote bag and sat on the end of the bed for a moment.
“This is temporary,” I said, “my not talking. There are a couple more things I need to check out and then I’ll be back.”
She came and sat next to me.
“So you figure that when I get home and look at what you wrote, I’ll have the answers I was after?”
Madison just slid one of her hands into one of mine. She looked so much like her mother that it was almost spooky, but it was her father’s hand she’d put in mine, wide, almost square, the fingers blunt, the nails, with most of the black polish chipped off by now, flat with tiny ridges running from side to side, giving them the delicate texture of a seashell. We sat there for a minute or two, neither of us speaking. Then I thanked her for taking care of Dashiell. And for her faith in me.
“Back at you, kid,” I told her. “I trust you completely.” I meant it, too.
I didn’t tell her anything about my trip, about seeing Roy waiting on the beach, about my talk with Sally. I never mentioned a word about the death of Celia Abele nor the evening I spent sitting on the cool sand in Coney Island talking to her genetic father. Even before I thanked Leon and Madison again and told them I’d call him very soon, I was already thinking about another little girl, one who slept peacefully in her bed while in the next room her mother did what she had to in order to save her baby’s life.
CHAPTER 29
I didn’t wait until I got home to see what Madison had written on the drawing. I sat on the steps in front of her building, opened the tote and slipped out the folded piece of paper right there, smoothing it open on my lap. There were no words. Madison had merely continued the wavy line. Now it went all the way through the heart, dividing it in two. It was no longer a stabbed heart, no longer a threat. It was a broken heart. She’d simply been telling Bechman how she felt.
Had he stopped her before she’d finished it, telling her he understood, explaining again that the droop was temporary, that it would go away. Had he told her they could wait and see before trying the Botox again? Is that why the needle had been left on the desk or on the counter behind him? He’d had it ready but changed his mind when he saw how upset Madison was. And had she picked it up after he’d put it down, the way she picked up everything? Bechman would have been wearing latex gloves. Madison’s hands would have been bare.
“How’s my favorite research person coming along?”
When I turned, startled, there was Ted. You used to hear people coming, but no more now that everyone and his grandmother wore running shoes. He sat next to me. In daylight, he looked older than he had in the apartment. Given his profession, I didn’t think the flattering lighting in his apartment was a coincidence.
“Not bad,” I told him. “And you?”
“Fabulous. My agent just called. He has a lead on a commerc
ial I’d be perfect for. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to play the guy with diarrhea. Or maybe it’s acid reflux. I forget. The important thing is the cachet I get putting this on my résumé.” He rolled his eyes. “And how goes your work life?”
“Plugging along,” I told him.
“Any leads to Miss Sally?”
I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the gossipy neighbor something my client didn’t yet know.
“Oh. The tan could have fooled me. I thought perhaps you’d tracked her to Belize. Or Costa Rica. Isn’t that where people go when they want to disappear?”
“Yup. Rich people. People with assets to hide. Sally didn’t have any of those. She didn’t even have a credit card with her when she left. She didn’t have a watch.”
“Just house keys and Leon’s dog.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Too bad. I thought perhaps you’d found the trucker who’d spirited her away.”
“I wish,” I told him.
“But you’re still working on it, aren’t you? Please don’t tell me you’ve given up. I do miss her so.” He waited a beat, stood, then tossed his striped scarf over one shoulder. “I’m off. Did I mention that I have to audition to play the guy with psoriasis? Plum roles like this don’t just get handed out. One has to work for them.”
He started to walk away. “Don’t forget to keep me posted,” he said, his back to me, wiggling the fingers of his right hand in the air. I was about to get up when I heard another voice, the stoop turning into Grand Central Station.
“Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Nina. You left your card under my door. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you. Things just kept coming up.”
She sat down next to me, a tall, horse-faced woman with big teeth and bad skin.
“I knew it was you because of him. I saw Leon walking him last night and so I said, ‘Oh, you got another dog,’ and he said he hadn’t, that the dog was yours. When he mentioned your name I had this gigantic guilt attack that I hadn’t called, but Leon said you were away so of course I waited.”
“I was hoping you could tell me something about Sally.” It was stale by now, no longer needed, but again, I didn’t want to say so. It would make more sense to listen for a couple of minutes than to reveal the truth.
“Why is he doing this?” A conspiratorial whisper. “She’s dead.”
“What makes you say that?” Glad she hadn’t called before I’d gone to Florida.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” she said, taking out a cigarette, holding the pack out to me, then lighting hers, blowing a stream of smoke straight out in front of her. “She had everything, a guy who adored her, the freedom not to work but to go to school, an adorable kid.” Nina shrugged. “Why would she have left of her own volition?”
“You’re saying she was happy? She never complained about anything?”
“Happy? Who’s happy? You tell me who you know that’s happy.” Angry now. “That’s a reason to toss away a good deal like Leon? The man would have killed for her, he was that devoted.”
“But—”
“Me, I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” She took another puff of her cigarette and tossed it toward the gutter. “A lot of people would be happy with what she had. Shit, with less than she had.”
“Did you tell her that?”
Nina sighed and ran her hands through her aubergine hair. “She expected too much from people, too much from life.”
“You told her that, too?”
She adjusted herself on the step, then changed her mind and stood.
“She took offense?”
“I couldn’t say. I got a new job around then and Sally decided to take an extra course.”
“So you were both short on time?”
“Exactly.”
“Was this around the time Sally disappeared?”
“You’re not—”
“No, no, no. Of course not.”
“I was only trying to help her see how lucky she was. Isn’t that what friends do?”
I nodded and thanked her for her help.
“How long will you keep trying?” she asked. “The police…” She didn’t finish, just stood there shaking her head, her lips pruned up, a line between her eyes.
“Until Leon tells me to stop,” I told her.
“Are you married?” she asked, bending toward me and whispering.
“No,” I said.
Pointing at me now. “See. Exactly my point.”
It was two o’clock. Bechman’s office would be open already, the waiting room full of children. I wanted to get there later, after the kids had left but while Ms. Peach was still there. I folded the copy of Madison’s drawing, tucked it back into my tote and headed home to formulate a plan for getting what I was after.
But on the way, as I was passing the Bleecker Street playground, a little kid coming down the slide on his belly, going face-first into the sand, too stunned to cry once he landed, it occurred to me that not every idea was a good one. Ms. Peach? What did I think she would do, let me see the original files, see if the doctor had changed his note-taking style, see if perhaps there were notes removed before Leon was given the copy of Madison’s records I now had in my bag? I had no legal standing, not even a PI license. But what good would that do in this case? Even if I were related to Madison, all I’d be entitled to is exactly what I had—a copy of Madison’s medical records, not a look-see at the original file.
I could take Dashiell with me. I could bully my way in, have Dashiell keep her in one place, find the file and check it out. I could take a gun, too, a baseball bat, a meat cleaver. What was I thinking? I couldn’t threaten Ms. Peach on the slim chance she had doctored the doctor’s notes. Because if she hadn’t, or even if she had, threatening her could land me in jail, and that was not going to help Madison at all. Helping Madison was the point. It had been the point from day one, I thought, passing Mama Buddha, smelling black bean sauce as I passed the open kitchen door, a small man in an apron, his foot against the wall, catching a smoke in the crisp fall air. There had to be another way to get what I was after. There had to be a better way.
There was always Hyram Willet, the doctor who seemed to own the practice, or if not the practice, at least the building that housed it. And while there was no way short of dynamite that I could get into the medical office from the street, check the records in privacy and get back out undetected, Dr. Willet, I was sure, could get there from his apartment. If I told him my theory, would Dr. Willet invite me into his house, take me down to the office, give me free run of the files, Dr. Willet who was fighting tooth and nail to prevent the detectives from doing the very same thing? I didn’t think so.
There was one other doctor at the practice, Laura Edelstein, a pediatrician. In fact, I thought I’d seen her name on the copy of Madison’s records. I was around the corner from home. I checked the time—not quite two-thirty. If the office was open at all, that meant that either Dr. Willet or Dr. Edelstein was working. Standing outside the gate to my cottage, I dialed the office, getting even luckier than I’d hoped I would. Ms. Peach was taking or making a call. My call went through to voice mail, but before I was invited to leave a message, I got to hear their message, giving me the office hours for both Willet and Edelstein. Dr. Laura, it said after the general message, was in Monday through Thursday afternoons from one to five.
For the moment, as I unlocked the gate and unclipped Dashiell’s leash, all my hopes were on Dr. Laura.
CHAPTER 30
I stood across the street from Dr. Bechman’s office waiting for the last patient to leave, a little boy holding some sort of robot, refusing to let his mother take his free hand.
“You know you have to hold a grown-up’s hand to cross the street, Jeffrey,” she said as I crossed the street. Then, “What do you suggest?”
I could see Ms. Peach in the waiting room, picking up toys and books and putting them back wh
ere they belonged, bringing order back to her world. Dr. Edelstein would be returning phone calls. I decided to go into the park on the odd chance that Ms. Peach would be leaving the office first.
I sat on a bench facing north, Dashiell up on the bench next to me. I could see the brownstone that housed the doctors’ offices, the gate closed, no one coming out yet. Back at home, I’d pulled out Madison’s records again, checking them carefully, line by line. I had seen Laura Edelstein’s name there, but only on the top of the letterhead, all three names still there. No one had thought to have new stationery made. Perhaps they were waiting for someone to buy Bechman’s practice. Perhaps they were trying to keep expenses down, avoid the cost of interim stationery. Whatever the reason, Ms. Peach had used the old letterhead. Some people did that with Christmas cards after one spouse dies inconveniently close to the holidays, crossing out the dead person’s name and sending the cards anyway. Merry Christmas!
I was hoping that it was Dr. Edelstein who had referred Madison to Dr. Bechman. If not, there’d be less of a chance I could persuade her to help me. But then I thought of another possible connection, perhaps an even stronger one. I pulled out my cell phone and made a call, got my answer, then waited some more.
Dr. Edelstein was at the gate now, opening the latch, closing it carefully behind her, a plain-looking woman with a long nose, pale skin, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was a big woman, taller than average and with a weight that fell somewhere on the high side of normal on those charts doctors always had in their offices, which meant by New York standards, she was on the heavy side. Hell, by New York standards, where sizes 4 and 6 were considered a medium, Olive Oyl was on the heavy side.
She headed east, and I did so as well, walking inside the park until I got to an exit. For a while, I stayed on the opposite side of the street, but when we came to Fifth Avenue and she turned left, I left the park, crossed the street and caught up with her.
“Dr. Edelstein?”
She turned, looked at me, then looked down at Dashiell. “Yes.”
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