by Carrie Smith
Chapter 25
The District 124 headquarters was an architecturally uninspired brick-over-cinderblock building on West 134th Street. It was surrounded on all sides by equally drab warehouses waiting, Codella suspected, to be snapped up by Columbia University as part of its perpetual land grab across West Harlem. A receptionist shielded behind Plexiglas looked up as she entered. To the receptionist’s right was a locked door that led, Codella supposed, to the Department of Education’s inner sanctum.
The receptionist’s shiny, black hair was braided intricately at the scalp and decorated with small beads. In her uniform days, Codella had once been assigned to a precinct in Brooklyn, and she knew that some West Indian women spent whole afternoons at hair salons on Flatbush Avenue in order to achieve braids like that. She smiled at the woman and held out her shield. “I’m here to see Margery Barton. Is she in?”
The woman slid up the Plexiglas. “She in a meeting right now.”
“Do you know how long she’ll be?”
The woman’s eyebrows rose and fell expressively.
Codella nodded patiently. “I’ll wait. I’m here about Hector Sanchez. Did you happen to know him?”
“Oh, yes. It terrible what happen to him. I see him just yesterday. He come for Mr. Dressler’s presentation.”
“Mr. Dressler?”
“From McFlieger-Walsh School Publishing.”
“What was the presentation about?”
“iAchieve. A new program for the district.”
“Do you happen to remember when the meeting ended, Ms.—” She read the woman’s nameplate. “Babb?”
“Around one thirty,” Babb said. “But Mr. Sanchez rush out of here before that.”
“Oh?”
“Marva Thomas from his school call up and ask me to pass him a note in the meeting. There was trouble at the school, so he leave early.”
“I see. Did Dr. Barton know about the trouble?”
Babb nodded. “After the meeting, she get a call from the mother, Helen Chambers. Dr. Barton give me holy hell for putting that woman through. She tell me every day I lose my job if I don’t keep the parents away. But what am I supposed to do?”
Codella made a sympathetic face. “And Dr. Barton took the call?”
She nodded again. “Reluctantly.”
“And then?”
“When they hang up, she tell me to get Mr. Sanchez on the phone.”
“Do you remember what time that was?”
Babb recalled that she had rung the school around two forty-five, and Marva Thomas had come on and said Mr. Sanchez would have to call her back. “He was with a parent. Her Majesty get mad at me for that, too.” She rolled her eyes.
Codella smiled. “So Her Majesty didn’t actually speak to Mr. Sanchez?”
“No.”
“Did he call her back?”
“About half an hour later.”
“So they spoke around, what? Ten past three?”
She shook her head. “By then, Dr. Barton leave for the day.”
Codella reached into her pocket for dry-mouth gum. She offered some to Babb, but the receptionist declined. “Do you happen to know where Dr. Barton went when she left the office?”
Babb shrugged. “You don’t ask Her Majesty questions like that.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.” She smiled. “I appreciate your time, Ms. Babb.”
Codella sat and made notes in her iPhone. Five minutes later, three professionally dressed women and a man emerged from the inner sanctum and darted toward the door like a small, purposeful school of fish. As soon as they were gone, Karen Babb disappeared behind the door to the inner sanctum. When she reemerged, she said, “You can come with me, Detective. Dr. Barton see you now.”
Codella followed her down a narrow hallway lined with small, windowless offices and larger meeting rooms. All of them had white walls, fluorescent ceiling lights, and identical chrome and laminate furniture. Babb stopped at a door near the back of the building and motioned Codella into a much grander office with carpeting, wood furnishings, and framed children’s artwork on the walls. Behind her desk was a large window, but the only view was a filthy brick wall.
The woman who held out her hand exuded confidence like a perfume that assaults rather than teases the senses. She belonged in a Midtown boardroom, thought Codella, not a gritty Uptown Department of Education back office. She had carefully coiffed brunette hair, and her green dress and matching jacket showcased her large breasts as much as they de-emphasized her thickening waist. Her gold necklace didn’t look like costume jewelry. She was hardly young, but the hemline of her dress was far enough above the knees to display impressively shapely legs, and her three-inch, bone-colored heels seemed to warn, “Don’t discount me.”
The handshake was firm. “Margery Barton,” she said in a deep, bizarrely sexy voice. “Please, sit. We’re all just so upset about this tragedy. How is the investigation going?”
Barton returned to the other side of her desk, sat down authoritatively, and with a sweeping hand gesture, invited Codella to sit as well.
“Hector Sanchez reported to you, Dr. Barton?”
“That’s right.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
Barton pressed her elbows into the desk and leaned in. “Well, let’s see . . . He was a typical new principal. A little green. A little earnest. A little overbearing. But highly motivated, intelligent, passionate. I’m sure you saw the article about him. He took over last February after I discovered that his predecessor had tampered with student assessment data.”
“So he was a desperation hire?”
Barton sat back. “I wouldn’t go that far. Although to be perfectly honest, not too many experienced principals want to captain a floundering ship. And he was hungry for it.”
“And how did he do, in your opinion?”
Codella could see the hairline wrinkles below Barton’s concealer when she squinted. “Honestly? He came on like a bull in a china shop. He alienated a lot of teachers last spring—but then so do many other new principals. They always come on strong out of the gate.” She smiled. “They think they can change the world in a heartbeat just because they’ve impressed the parents or the media. It takes them a while to settle down and accept the fact that everything in this gargantuan system requires compromise.”
“So it’s fair to say there was tension between him and his staff.”
“Teachers are very independent, Detective. They don’t like to be told what to do. If they think they’re being pushed around, they call their union. They check the fine print in their contract. Their contract spells out the rules of the game, not their principal.”
“Did you ever regret hiring him?”
She shook her head. “I’m not one of those administrators who second-guess their decisions. What’s the point? You work with the hand you’re dealt. That’s what I told him, too.”
“I take it he didn’t ascribe to your philosophy,” Codella said.
“He complained a lot the first few months. He was pretty unforgiving of the legacy staff.”
“I understand he fired a few of them. Ronald Davis and Imogene Burke.”
Barton frowned. “Principals don’t have the authority to fire teachers on their own. Where did you hear that?”
“From a teacher. Christine Donohue.”
Barton smiled. “Chris? Well, I’d caution you about getting your intelligence from her or any other teacher on that staff. Hector would have liked to fire lots of teachers over there, including Chris, but the two you’ve mentioned left of their own volition. Imogene Burke retired—it was overdue—and Mr. Davis resigned. He had no more patience for another round of school improvement, which is sad because we have a real shortage of qualified math specialists. You’re awfully interested in the staff. Does that mean you think someone at the school is responsible for his murder?”
Codella ignored the question. “Can you think of anyone at his school who had a particularly adver
sarial relationship with him? Marva Thomas, for instance?”
Barton laughed. “Marva a murderer?”
“Eugene Bosco?”
“Well, he certainly had a motive after Monday, but you can’t honestly think he did this. Look, every principal has his supporters and detractors.”
“And what camp did you fall into?”
“I always support my team. If they’re successful, I’m successful. I’m sure you know how it works.” She smiled again. Her teeth were so white they looked like shiny porcelain bathroom tiles.
“When did you last speak to him?”
“At the principals’ meeting Monday morning. I said hello to him just before it started.”
“What was the meeting about?”
Barton grasped her necklace with the thumb and forefinger of both hands and met Codella’s eyes as she slid her fingers up and down the gold links. “There were several agenda items, Detective. None of which you’d find too interesting, I’m afraid.” She wetted her lips and her eyes lingered on Codella’s. The administrator’s default mode seemed to be gender-blind seductiveness.
“Try me.” Codella held Barton’s eyes and played along.
“Let’s see. Test prep plans. Alignment of instruction to the Common Core Standards. School lock-down procedures.”
Codella replayed Karen Babb’s words in her head. He come for Mr. Dressler’s presentation. She watched Barton carefully as she asked, “Who is Mr. Dressler?”
Barton’s fingers stopped caressing the necklace. Her hands moved to her temples. She opened her mouth. “I completely forgot. We had a presentation at the meeting. Chip Dressler from McFlieger-Walsh School Publishing was here.”
“Chip Dressler?”
“Their senior vice president of sales.”
“What was his presentation about?”
“A new program we’ve been piloting and plan to implement next fall—iAchieve.”
Codella nodded casually. “Did you speak to Sanchez after the meeting?”
“No. He left in the middle.”
“But you called him later, I believe.”
Barton looked up in surprise. “Yes, but he was with a parent and couldn’t speak to me.”
“Why did you call him?”
“I had to.” Barton pressed her right fingers into the surface of her desk. Her perfectly polished fingernails reflected the overhead light. Those nails were strangely hard and feminine at the same time, like her whole persona. Codella glanced discreetly at her own short, unglossed nails as Barton explained, “I’d just found out about the incident at his school. Helen Chambers had called me. She was very upset. Hector had decided to give an in-school suspension to the boy who attacked her son. She wanted me to do something about it. She made some not-so-veiled threats about calling the central office and the press. I tried to talk her off that ledge. I told her I’d find out what had happened. We hung up, and I called Hector to get his side of the story.”
“What time did Chambers call you?”
“It must have been two forty-five.”
“And after you hung up, you phoned Sanchez immediately?”
“That’s right. Around three.”
“But you didn’t speak to him.”
“No. I spoke to Marva Thomas. She told me Hector was with a parent.”
“And then?”
Barton shrugged. “Then I went back to work.”
Thanks to Karen Babb, Codella knew the answer to her next question. “Did he call you back?”
The superintendent shook her head.
“Did you call him again?”
She shook her head again, but offered no words.
He call about half an hour later, Karen Babb had said, but by then Dr. Barton leave for the day. Codella leaned forward in her chair. “Why didn’t you call him again? That seems a little strange. I mean, this woman threatens to speak with your superiors and you didn’t follow through?”
Barton smiled dismissively. “There’s never just one brush fire at a time.” She eyed the stacks of papers and folders on her desk. “When you get federal funding—and my schools depend on it—all you do is gather data and provide documentation. It’s exhausting, and you can’t be late without jeopardizing Title I jobs and subsidized lunches. I had a deadline to meet yesterday, and I met it.” Now her gaze hardened defiantly. “But he was on my mind all that night.”
Codella nodded sympathetically. “When did you leave the office?”
Barton looked at her watch as if the answer were there. “It must have been five. I had to meet my husband down at Cipriani at six. For a fundraiser.”
Codella stood, smiled pleasantly, and handed Barton her card. “You’ve been very helpful, Dr. Barton. Thank you. I’ve taken up enough of your time. Rest assured we’ll be doing everything we can to resolve this case as quickly as possible. We’ve got a lot of manpower devoted to it.” She moved to the door and turned back. “Oh, but one more question first. This iAchieve program. How did Mr. Sanchez feel about it?”
“We all share the same concerns, Detective, about how to exploit the power of technology effectively in our classrooms,” Barton answered carefully.
Codella left. Outside, a strong smell of diesel fuel was in the air. It emanated from a green oil delivery truck that was pumping heating fuel into a belowground tank across the street. She stood on the sidewalk for a moment. Barton had lied about leaving the office on Monday afternoon, and Codella would have to find out why.
She got in her car and replayed the standard reassurance she’d given the administrator. Rest assured, we’ll be doing everything we can to resolve this case. We’ve got a lot of manpower devoted to it. But they didn’t have nearly enough. She needed more than the roomful of researchers McGowan might put at her disposal. She needed feet on the ground, but if she used McGowan’s favorite feet, she would end up losing the reins. McGowan would make sure of that. And she couldn’t let that happen, even if it meant putting personal issues aside.
She picked up her iPhone and dialed the number she knew by heart. When he came on, she spoke in a dispassionate voice. “You busy?”
“Paperwork,” he said. “On Queen Smith. We got her. Turns out she’s the one who couldn’t stand the baby screaming while she was doing a wake-up blast.”
“Jesus.”
“How does a mother do that to her baby? I’d like to rattle her brains.” He paused.
“Hopefully the legal system will. You did your job, anyway.”
“What about your principal?” he asked. “Any progress?”
“We’ve got too many people to sift through, and I don’t want to give this to . . .” She paused.
“I get it. How can I help?”
Where to begin, she wondered. There was Helen Chambers. Sofia Reyes. Yolanda Espina. Chip Dressler. The list went on and on. At this point, they just had to eliminate as many names as they could. She said, “Two teachers left 777 in September. It’s not clear if Sanchez fired them or if they left of their own volition. Could be a wild goose chase, but we need to check them off the list. Could you pay them a visit?” She cringed, recognizing the trace of desperation in her voice. She waited.
“Just tell me where to go,” he said evenly.
“Portino and Muñoz can give you the details.”
Then she hung up and took a deep breath and waited several seconds for the adrenaline to dissolve in her chest. There, she thought. That wasn’t so hard.
A minute later, she checked her voice mail. The waiting message was two hours old. “It’s Dana Drew,” said the voice in her ear. “I need to talk to you.”
Chapter 26
Muñoz cued up the street cam footage on a computer at the far end of the squad room. This was not footage from the sophisticated NYPD Real-Time Crime cameras located in high-security areas of the city that could pivot, scan, and zoom to read the text message on a cell phone in someone’s palm. The static angle of this camera gave it a finite field of vision. It recorded in grainy images only
the vehicles and pedestrians that happened to move in and out of a fixed surveillance area at the corner of Frederick Douglass Boulevard and West 112th Street.
He clicked Play where the time stamp indicated 3:20 PM, the time Sanchez had left the school. Then he sat back and watched. Pedestrians moved in and out of view. North and southbound cars passed in waves based on the traffic flow around the 110th Street rotary just to the south. But the images were blurred and more pixilated than usual. “Hey, look at this,” he called out to Portino.
Portino waddled over. “Yeah, it’s on a maintenance list.”
“What should I do?”
“Watch it anyway,” said Portino. “You gotta rule it out. I’m gonna get coffee. You want some?”
“Sure. Yeah. Black. Two sugars.” He turned his attention back to the screen. When the time stamp read 3:25, a figure in a dark, bulky jacket with a hood entered the camera’s field of vision from the southwest side of Frederick Douglass Boulevard. The blurry figure crossed 112th Street to the northwest corner and entered the laundromat there.
Muñoz watched the figure disappear through the door and almost immediately reappear as an even blurrier shadow through the laundromat’s side window overlooking 112th Street. He continued to watch as the time stamp counted the seconds and minutes. He paused only when Portino’s phone line rang. “Muñoz,” he said.
Codella asked, “What’s going on?”
“I’m watching the street footage. The quality’s terrible, but there might be something there. I don’t know yet.”
“Keep at it. I need Portino.”
“He’s on a coffee run.”
Codella gave Muñoz a quick summary of her interview with Barton. “I just get a funny feeling. Something’s off. I can’t put my finger on it. She lied about leaving her office Monday afternoon, and on Monday morning, a guy named Chip Dressler from McFlieger-Walsh School Publishing gave her principals a presentation that she didn’t volunteer to tell me about. A program called iAchieve. Ask Vic to do some digging. And have him find out if there was a fundraiser at Cipriani on Monday night. Barton was supposedly there.”