by Carrie Smith
“Oh, that’s easy!” Berrard laughed. “Mr. Sanchez didn’t want iAchieve in our school, and they were doing everything they could to make sure it got adopted. In fact, Christine Donohue even got herself on the adoption committee.”
“What’s an adoption committee?”
“It’s a group of teachers that vote on which program a district will purchase.”
“How did she get on the committee?”
“She volunteered, and the superintendent picked her.”
“Margery Barton, you mean?”
Berrard nodded.
“So Margery Barton wants iAchieve for the district?”
“She doesn’t just want it. She’s leading the charge for it.”
“And why was Sanchez so opposed to it if he’s interested in innovative education?”
“Because he saw it for what it is: just another big expensive program from McFlieger-Walsh. Hector wanted to do something truly innovative. He and Sofia were designing their own apps for intervention. They were working with a little company downtown called Apptitude. I’ve been testing the beta versions with my students since September. Hector got a small Gates Foundation grant to build the learning apps, and he’s hoping to get even more funding to use them in the afterschool intervention program he and Dana Drew are—were—about to launch. Hector had so many big plans. This is just terrible for the school.”
Codella waited out her commentary. Then she said, “So what I’m hearing is that Hector Sanchez and Margery Barton disagreed about the best way to bring technology into the schools.”
Berrard nodded. “And I think that’s why Christine has been spreading gossip about him—to make Hector look bad, to influence his credibility.”
“You’re referring to the rumors that he and Dana Drew were having an affair?”
She nodded.
“Do you think there’s any truth to the rumors?” Codella glanced across at Muñoz as she waited for an answer. He had not inserted himself into the interview at all. In fact, he had quietly and deliberately pushed his chair back from the table about a foot so that he was an unobtrusive observer in Vickie Berrard’s peripheral vision. Codella had worked with inexperienced detectives who felt compelled to make their mark on an interview whether or not their involvement was useful, and she was impressed by Muñoz’s intuition and self-control. He apparently understood and accepted that sometimes fading into the background was the best contribution you could make.
Berrard said, “I think the rumors are ridiculous. Zoe Drew is in my class. I’ve seen Ms. Drew and Ms. Martin many times.”
“Ms. Martin is her partner?”
“That’s right. Jane. Jane Martin.”
“And you would say that they have a happy relationship?”
“It certainly appears that way to me,” said Berrard. “Whenever I see them together, they’re smiling, holding hands, glad to see Zoe.”
“So you see them together at school quite often?”
“Well, I did at the beginning of the year. They both dropped Zoe off in the morning and picked her up in the afternoon. Lately I see more of Jane, because Dana is at the theater, of course. She gave me house seats to the show during the preview in October. She’s wonderful, by the way. I highly recommend it.”
Codella’s iPhone was vibrating in her pocket. She smiled at the teacher. “You’ve been very helpful, Miss Berrard. Detective Muñoz and I appreciate your taking this time to see us.” She passed her card across the table and pushed out her chair. Muñoz paid the bill, and they left Vickie Berrard to finish her chocolate cake and coffee by herself.
Outside of Edgar’s, Codella listened to her voice mail. Hanson, the NYPD communications liaison, had called her. A press conference was scheduled for 5:00 PM on the steps of the 171st Precinct station, and she needed to be there in fifteen minutes. Ragavan had left a message asking her to phone him, and she did. “Find anything on his computer?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve skimmed his inbox and all his sent and deleted e-mails.”
“And? Who does he talk to?”
“Someone named Sofia Reyes. They go back and forth a lot.”
“She’s his literacy coach. Get her number from Thomas and e-mail it to me. I need to talk to her. Who else?”
“Dana Drew.”
“How often?”
“Pretty much every day.”
“Judging from the messages, do you think they could be having an affair?”
“Not unless you get turned on talking about funds for student iPads.”
Codella checked the time. “When did she last e-mail him?”
“Saturday.”
“Read me the note.” She waited while he found it.
“It just says Give me a call.”
“Did he get any notes from Eugene Bosco?”
“No, but he sent a note to someone named Margery Barton on Monday afternoon. He mentioned Bosco in that note.”
“Barton’s his district superintendent.”
“He told her about Bosco’s temporary reassignment.”
“What time did he send that note?”
She heard Ragavan flip some pages. “Just before three,” he said.
“What else?”
“He talks to a guy named Ivan Schiff.”
“Who’s he?”
“The e-mail signature says Apptitude. I Googled it. It’s in silicon alley. A little start-up. They create all kinds of apps.”
“When did they last speak?”
“Last week.”
“What’s on his hard drive?”
“I’m just starting to look.”
“Did Marva Thomas give you his mother’s telephone number?”
“Yup. Got it right here.”
She turned to Muñoz. “You speak Spanish, right?”
Muñoz nodded.
“Okay, e-mail it to Muñoz right away. He’ll call the mother. Then keep going until they kick you out. And make sure you seal that office before you leave.” She ended the call and turned to Muñoz. “Come on. We’ve got a press conference to attend.”
Chapter 16
Chip Dressler kicked off his shoes, lay on the bed, and called Margery first. “How did it go today?”
“Fine—aside from the fact that the AP over there is a complete idiot. My Caribbean administrative assistant could do a better job. She’s why we’ve got so many problems in these schools. But I’ve got it under control.”
“I’m sure you do.” He stared out the window at his skyline view. It was getting dark and the office towers gleamed with soft, golden light. He stared at the black lacquer chest across from the bed. It was tasteful and elegant, he thought. He loved having this room of his own at the Mandarin.
“And here’s the good news,” Margery added. “Bernie Lipsie may sit in on the pilot results meeting next week.”
“How’d you swing that?”
“I have my ways.”
“I bet you do,” he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that maybe I should be a little jealous?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, and he could tell she sounded pleased.
In truth, he didn’t care who else she fucked or fondled or flirted with. He and Margery were hardly a long-term proposition. He knew it, and she knew it too. They were together because of iAchieve. The sex was just a byproduct of their intense collaboration. And when the sale was over, well, the collaboration would dissolve.
“Bernie’s a real data-driven guy, Chip,” Margery was saying now. “If he likes the numbers, then you’ve got the potential for multiple districts. Bernie will get behind an integrated tech solution with scientifically proven efficacy. The time is right.”
“Oh, he’ll definitely like these numbers.” Chip thought about the impressive bar graphs the research company had prepared. It was amazing the success story you could tell by selectively choosing what data to show or not show. You didn’t have to cook the numbers. You just had to
artfully arrange them like a delicate composed salad.
“Good,” Margery said, “because I want to seal this deal.”
He read between the lines. She wanted her promotion. He pressed his lips to the phone. “Have dinner with me,” he whispered, calculating that she would turn him down.
“You know we can’t be seen together right now.”
He sighed convincingly. “I know, I know. It’s a good thing you’ve got more self-control than me.”
“Women generally do, Chip.”
“I suppose.” But he doubted that was actually true in Margery’s case.
When they hung up, he dialed Charlene. He had no choice. She had texted him to call her, and it was better to choose the time than have her interrupt inopportunely.
“Chip, sweetie.” Her voice came through his earphones like a mother’s soft caress. Charlene never betrayed the slightest suspicion that he might be unfaithful. She seemed to him unconditionally trusting, in a way that surprised and even irritated him. Lately he found himself wondering how a wife could possibly fail to notice that her husband was having sex with another woman, unless she was naïve, foolish, and therefore undeserving of his fidelity.
He sat up on the bed and pushed this thought out of his mind. No, she wasn’t a fool, he told himself looking again at his panoramic view. She hadn’t suspected him because he had given her absolutely no reason to do so. He was not one of those careless, indiscreet husbands. He contained his infidelity within this distant city where his wife had never and would never come. She had no interest in a place like New York, and what he did here, in this anonymous urban bubble, did not even count in the grand scheme of his marriage.
“How did the principal’s meeting go?” Charlene asked with genuine interest.
“Great. Really great. We’re right on track.” Why go into the details? Why mention how Hector Sanchez had openly challenged his research during the meeting? Charlene just wanted everything to be okay. He considered telling her about Hector Sanchez’s murder and how he had met Sanchez the very day he had died—Charlene was always interested in a little gossip, and she would be fascinated by his proximity to a murder victim—but he didn’t feel like thinking about work anymore, and his omission wouldn’t get back to her anyway. A New York City elementary school principal’s murder was never going to make the local news in Dallas, Texas. “Everything’s fine here,” he said. “Tell me about the appointment. How did it go?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. Schurr’s still not sure. He doesn’t deserve his name. He mentioned two other tests he wants.”
“More tests?”
“I just want to know, sweetie. Don’t you?”
Chip swung his feet off the bed and stood up. He already knew. It was obvious to him. He pictured his three-year-old son who had never spoken a word while the infants and toddlers of their friends and neighbors successfully achieved the happy milestones of babbling and speech. But he didn’t say this to Charlene. “Of course I want to know,” he said instead.
“I called the insurance company. They won’t cover any more tests.”
“If we need more tests, then get the tests,” he said, because he knew Charlene would not accept the facts before her until she had jumped through every hoop that might offer the slim hope of an alternative truth. “Don’t worry about the insurance. We’re not going to wait on some Oxford authorization to get our son what he needs.”
“You’re sure, Chip? It could be expensive.” And he could hear the undiluted gratitude in her voice. He could hear how much she loved him for giving her the permission. Why should he feel any guilt about private pleasures in this faraway room when he was giving her everything in life that she wanted? He thought of Margery and what he would ask her to do for him when she came over.
“I’m sure,” he said. “Just get the tests.”
Chapter 17
Haggerty watched Claire emerge from the car and cross the street with Muñoz. Although she was ten or fifteen pounds thinner than before she’d gotten sick, she looked strong and fierce as she neared the gathering of cops, reporters, and bystanders. She had made an incredible recovery, it occurred to him, and he remembered almost too vividly the day he had tried to see her in the hospital.
He had waited a shamefully long time to go to her. By then, she was on her third treatment. He’d brought her flowers, not realizing that flowers were forbidden and would be promptly confiscated by the nurses at the desk. He had naïvely assumed that he and Claire would talk about their falling out, that he would repair the damages, that they might even laugh about it, but as he approached her room, he realized how stupid he had been to think that she would even care about their little fight.
From outside her door, he heard her voice, hoarse and belligerent. “Get me the goddamn morphine. Now. Please.”
“It’s been ordered,” a second voice assured her.
“But it’s taking so long. Please.”
“It has to get authorized before they’ll send it up.”
And then Claire was crying. He had moved to where he could see into the room. She was standing next to the bed in a pale-blue hospital gown. Her hands trembled as they gripped the rails for support.
“Let’s get you back into bed,” the nurse beside her was saying, but Claire only shook her head over and over.
“I can’t! The spasm is worse there. I have to stand. Just get me the morphine. Just get me something, goddammit!”
Her eyes had been closed. Her head was shaven. Her facial muscles were pinched by pain. Somehow in the course of six terrible months, she had metamorphosed into a thin, frail waif. She was like a tiny old woman. He had stood there listening to her pleas and curses until the morphine finally arrived, and then he’d backed away from the door, found the nearest bathroom, and locked himself in. He had pressed his palms against his eyes to keep from sobbing.
He had waited too long. How could he go to her now? She wouldn’t want him there. She wouldn’t want him to see her like that. She would hate him even more if she knew he’d seen her like that. He would only make her feel worse than she already did. And so he had left.
Now he saw her approach Hanson with the same confidence she’d had the last time she’d done one of these press conferences. That was after arresting Wainright Blake for the murder of Elaine DeFarge and five other women over a twelve-year period. At that press conference, reporters had fired question after question at her hoping to get the lurid details. Had Blake raped DeFarge? How many times? Had he mutilated her body? How long was the lock of hair he’d cut off her head? Where had they found it? How many other locks of hair had she found? What did he do with them? Had she found instruments of torture?
And Codella had finally said, “That’s it. We’re done here,” and walked away from the microphone. She didn’t take any shit. Not from reporters. Not from him. Not from anyone. That’s what he loved about her. And that’s what he hated about her too.
He watched her introduce Muñoz to Hanson, but Hanson barely looked at Muñoz. His smile was all for Claire. Was he attracted to her, too? Did he think he had any chance with her? Or was he one of those guys happy just to orbit in the gravitational pull of a woman like her?
Haggerty moved a little closer. “You look good, Claire,” Hanson was saying. “We were all rooting for you.” He pumped her hand like a guy desperate to pump something else.
“Thanks, Mike. Thanks for all you did for me.” Her eyes scanned the gathering crowd of cops and reporters and landed on him. He nodded. She nodded back. Then she looked away. She pulled Muñoz over to Dennis McGowan and introduced him.
“Keep it short and sweet up there,” Haggerty heard McGowan tell her. “Let’s not have another Claire Codella Show.”
“Yes sir,” she responded with such uncharacteristic deference that Haggerty knew she was not in his favor. She was treading carefully.
McGowan walked away from them, and Marty Blackstone moved in. He slapped Muñoz on the back. “Hey, we missed you at
the morning meeting, Rainbow Dick.”
Muñoz seemed too stunned to speak.
“You like it? Rainbow Dick. I thought it suited you. A little nickname upgrade.” Blackstone grinned.
Codella turned to Muñoz. “Go talk to Portino. After this press conference, I need you to help him slog through more background checks.”
When Muñoz was gone, she stepped closer to Blackstone, so close, Haggerty thought, that she could probably smell whatever he was burping up from lunch. Haggerty was only two feet behind her now.
“You know,” he heard her say, “after what I’ve been through in the last several months, it really gives me comfort to know I can count on certain things.”
“Huh?” Blackstone had a perplexed frown.
“For instance, I can count on the sun always coming up over the East River. That’s reassuring to me.” She tapped her chest. “I can count on that same sun sinking over New Jersey every night, too. And in between,” she smiled pleasantly, “I can count on assholes like you to always act like assholes.” She patted his arm. “Well done, you asshole.” She turned and walked away.
Haggerty moved in beside Blackstone. “She’s right, you know. You really are an asshole.”
“Maybe so, but she’s Muñoz’s bag hag. Get it?” He laughed. “Bag, as in chemo.”
Haggerty waited for Blackstone’s laughter to stop. “Listen to me, you dumb motherfucker. I’d beat the shit out of you for saying that if there weren’t twenty network news cameras here. But I’m warning you, don’t find yourself alone with me.”
“You think I’m afraid of you?”
“You should be.” Haggerty walked away.
He stood next to Vic Portino and Muñoz as Hanson got behind the makeshift podium and started the press conference. Hanson was smooth, he had to admit that. He knew exactly how to fill silence without revealing anything that would jeopardize an investigation. He presented the basic facts—victim’s name, occupation, approximate time and place of death, and who was in charge of the investigation, and then he brought up Codella for the Q and A. She was his secret weapon to calm the parents and make the NYPD look good.