As if he could read her mind, Glover sidled up to her and whispered, “She was a big deal.”
“Who was a big deal?” she asked, leaning her head toward his.
“The woman who got killed. Some scientist from Russia.”
“What happened to her? Where’s—”
Arla stopped herself. She’d spotted what everyone was looking at. On the floor of the elevator was a bloody, pulpy mass, about the size and shape of a cabbage. Next to it, what appeared to be an arm in a blue sleeve. The elevator floor was a blood-covered mess.
When Arla suddenly turned away she found herself up against Glover Headley’s chest.
“Oh, God,” she said.
But she quickly pulled away before he could place a comforting hand on her back. Her sense of horror and revulsion was displaced almost immediately by the feeling that she needed to be professional. She was not going to be that horror movie heroine who clung to the male lead for comfort. So she spun about and looked back in the general direction of the elevator without focusing on the head and the arm and the blood.
I will not throw up.
Mayor Headley joined the bigwigs huddled in conversation.
“What’s happening?” Arla asked Glover.
“Getting up to speed,” he said. “Stay here. I gotta go.”
Arla did as she was told as he went to this father’s side. There was more discussion; at one point, the chief of police whispered something to the mayor while she pointed to the far end of the lobby.
Arla looked that way. A man in his mid- to late thirties was sitting on a lobby couch with his arm around a young boy. A father and son, Arla guessed.
The mayor nodded and broke away from the crowd. He headed for the father and son and said a few words to them. The man’s head went up and down once, at which point the mayor perched his butt on the oversized coffee table in front of the couch, which put him only inches away from the boy.
Arla desperately wanted to know what this was about.
She slipped around the outer perimeter of the lobby, coming at the couch from the other side. There was a large pillar behind it, and she took a position along one side where she was unlikely to be seen. As cover, she took out her phone and pretended to be checking something.
Although the pillar blocked her view, she could make out the conversation reasonably clearly.
“Your name’s Colin?” the mayor asked.
“Yes,” the boy said softly.
“You know who I am?”
“You’re the mayor?”
“That’s right.”
“My dad told me when you walked in. You’re like the mayor of all of New York?”
“I am.”
“I thought you’d be bigger.”
Headley chuckled at that. “It’s like with movie stars. When you see them in person you wonder why they aren’t twenty feet tall. The police were telling me what a brave young man you are.”
“Oh?”
“You went through something pretty horrible. But here you are, with your dad here, and you’re holding up okay, aren’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Missing school.”
“Yeah,” said Colin. “My dad phoned and told them I’d be late.”
“Well, you ask me, I think you should get the whole day off. What do you think, Dad?”
Arla heard the father speak for the first time. “Yeah. I’m thinking we might go to the movies, or maybe the Museum of Natural History.”
“I like the whale,” Colin said.
“Oh, yeah, the whale is something,” Headley said. “You wonder, how can it float up there, right? The police and the fire department folks say that not only were you brave, you were very helpful to them, explaining what happened.”
“Her head came right off,” the boy said, keeping his voice steady. “The rest of her is still upstairs in the hall. They should tell people so they don’t come out of their apartments and see her there.”
“I think that’s been done, Colin, but that’s a good idea, and nice of you to be thinking of other people’s feelings. Anyway, I want to talk about you for a minute. I’m gonna give you my card here, and one for your dad, and what we’re going to do is have you for dinner at Gracie Mansion.”
“At what?”
“That’s where the mayor—that’s where I live. I get to stay there while I’m serving the people. If I get voted out in the next election, then they kick me out.”
“You could live with us,” Colin offered. “Could he live with us, Dad? We have the spare room.”
“I would imagine the mayor has a backup plan,” the father said.
“I do,” Headley said. “But I’ll keep your offer in mind.”
“Why do they call it Gracie Mansion?” Colin asked.
“Good question,” the mayor said. “It was built, way back in 1799, by a man named Archibald Gracie.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll show you all around when you come.”
“I’ve never been in a mansion,” the boy said.
“Anyway, you, and your dad, and your mom will be most welcome.”
“She lives in Omaha,” the boy said. “I see her at Christmas.”
“Okay then. You and your dad will be my dinner guests.”
“What will we be having?” the boy asked.
“Colin,” the father said, gently reproachful, “you don’t—”
“It’s okay,” Headley said. “What would you like?”
“Hot dogs.”
“I think my chef can handle that.”
Arla moved toward the edge of the pillar, hoping to get a peek. Headley extended a hand for Colin to shake, but instead the boy slipped off the couch and threw his arms around the mayor’s neck. Headley wrapped his arms around the boy and held him for several seconds.
When they let go, Headley said, “You call me anytime.”
The mayor stood, shook the father’s hand, and went back to rejoin the other emergency officials.
No cameras, Arla thought. No TV crews. No reporters hanging about. They were all still outside, beyond the police tape. Not even Glover or Valerie Langdon had witnessed Headley’s visit with the boy and his dad.
They’d hired her to analyze data. But that wasn’t going to stop Arla from suggesting that they find a way to highlight some other sides of Headley’s personality.
That was what her gut was telling her.
Twenty
A silver-haired man in a black suit spotted Barbara Matheson entering the lobby of Clappison’s Funeral Services and approached noiselessly, as though floating on air.
“May I be of assistance?” he asked in a soft, unctuous manner.
“I’m looking for the Chatsworths,” she said. “Ken and Sandy. Parents of Paula.”
“Yes, of course,” he said solemnly. “A terrible, terrible thing. This way.”
Barbara realized she was speaking barely above a whisper, and this man’s reply was equally sedate, even though there was no one else around. There was something about entering a funeral parlor that made people act like they were in a library. Someday, she thought, she’d like to throw a party in a place like this. Take her best shot at waking the dead.
Barbara followed the funeral director through a set of doors and down a hallway to a small receiving room. Broadloomed, four big comfy chairs, velvet drapes at the window. Barbara thought that if it weren’t a room for grieving, it would be perfect for choosing which whore you wanted to spend the next hour with.
In one of the chairs was a woman Barbara assumed had to be Paula Chatsworth’s mother, and the man pacing the room with a phone to his ear must be her husband, Ken. Sandy Chatsworth had no phone in her hand, and seemed to be staring off into space. Dazed, numb with shock, Barbara guessed.
But she did look up when Barbara came into the room. Her eyes were pink and puffy.
“Ms. Chatsworth?” she said.
“Barbara?” Sandy said, suddenly focusing, extending her hands, which Bar
bara took in hers. Ken was still pacing the room. “Ken, it’s—”
He held up a finger. The introduction would have to wait.
“Hello?” he said into the phone. “Listen, I’ve been on hold for fifteen goddamn minutes. I want someone to tell me—hello? All I want is some answers about—”
He took the phone away from his ear, his mouth wide with astonishment. He looked ready to spout a series of obscenities, but then, mindful of where he was, changed his mind.
“I got cut off,” he said, looking at his wife. “After waiting that long, they hung up on me! The sons of—Jesus!”
“Keep your voice down,” Sandy said.
He shook his head, still not believing it. Finally, he looked blankly at Barbara, as if wondering who the hell she was.
Barbara reached out a hand. “Mr. Chatsworth. I’m Barbara.”
“Oh, right, sorry,” he said, hitting his forehead with the butt of his hand. “God, you got here fast.”
“You caught me at a good time,” she said. “How are you doing? A dumb question, I know, but—”
“They’re getting Paula ready to send home,” Sandy said. “We’re going to have a service in Montpelier on Friday. So many people back home want to pay their respects to Paula. Everyone is devastated.”
“Of course,” Barbara said.
“All her friends from school, at least those who haven’t moved away like Paula did, are coming. Flowers have been coming to the house. Thank goodness our neighbor’s been watching, taking them in. And one of her friends set up some kind of Facebook page, but I don’t know much about that.” Sandy’s voice trailed off, as though she realized that flowers and Facebook pages weren’t very important.
“How’d you get here?” Barbara asked Ken, since he’d been so worried about the logistics of coming to New York.
“Flew,” he said. “I don’t think … I don’t think I could have driven in this traffic.” He turned his head, as if looking through the walls to the street outside.
Barbara nodded. “Even those of us who live here can’t get used to it.” She paused. “Who were you trying to get on the phone?”
“Someone with the city.”
“Who? What department?”
“I’ve been getting bounced all around. I want to talk to whoever’s in charge of making sure the goddamn elevators in this city are safe. I want to know how this happened. I want to know who screwed up and got our daughter killed.”
“Sure,” Barbara said. “You want answers. I understand that.”
“No one’s telling us anything,” Sandy said.
“Sometimes,” Barbara said slowly, “and I certainly don’t want to be making apologies on behalf of the city, but things can get overlooked. I don’t mean with the elevators, but maybe that’s true. I mean the personal touch. People doing their jobs forget about how this is all actually affecting you. They forget there are folks like you who are really hurting and deserve to be updated on what’s going on. And every one thinks it’s someone else’s job to talk to family. But an accident like what happened with Paula, that’s the sort of thing that’s going to be fully investigated. At some point, someone will talk to you.”
“Oh, someone already came to talk to us,” Sandy said. “That’s why we called you.”
“Yeah,” Ken said.
“Who?” Barbara asked.
“Didn’t give us a name,” Ken said. “Sandy asked if he had a card or anything he could leave with us but he didn’t give us one. He just said he’d find a way to get in touch with us if and when he needed to.”
“He was,” Sandy said slowly, “kind of nice. I mean, he said all the right things, about expressing his condolences and all.”
“But he didn’t say who he was or who he represented?” Barbara asked. “Was he someone who works here, at the funeral home?”
Sandy shook her head. “He made it sound like he was with the city, you know, the city government. Whoever looks into these types of things.”
“So what did he say? What did he want? Did he find you here?”
Ken nodded. “He said he’d called around, found out where Paula had been taken after she … after she left the hospital.”
Sandy said, “He said he wanted us—”
“—to keep our mouths shut,” Ken said, cutting her off.
“What?”
“He didn’t say it like that,” Sandy said. “But that was the implication.”
“Tell me what he said,” Barbara said, feeling a tingling at the back of her neck. “Exactly. Or as best as you can remember.”
Sandy thought a moment. “He said he was very sorry for our loss. He said it was a very terrible thing that happened. He said all aspects of the incident were being looked at and—”
“Is that the word he used? ‘Incident’? As opposed to ‘accident’?”
She looked to her husband, who nodded. “Yes. He called it an incident. Anyway, he said they were looking into it, and asked for our patience, and said we weren’t to talk to anyone about it.”
Barbara blinked. “Why?”
“He didn’t mean, like, friends and family,” Ken said. “He meant, well, people like you.”
“He didn’t want you talking to the press? To the media?”
Ken nodded. “He said we needed to keep a lid on this while the cause was being determined. So, anyway, this was early this morning, and after he left, I started thinking, what the hell, this is America, last time I checked, right?”
“Pretty sure,” Barbara said.
“And if we want to talk about what happened to our daughter, and we ask for answers, that should be our right. But first I wanted to call around and see what they’d found out. Maybe find out which department that guy was from. And no one wants to talk to me. I keep getting passed from department to department.”
“I don’t understand why they’d want to keep you from talking to the press,” Barbara said. “I wonder if they’ve approached the families of others who were in that elevator.”
Sandy said, “At one point, he said they needed time to find out who did this, and then he corrected himself right away, and said, how it happened.”
Barbara blinked. “Who?”
Sandy nodded. “But he took it right back.”
“What’d this guy look like?”
Sandy said, “About six feet tall. Black hair, very short and trim. Nice suit and tie. Clean shaven. And his shoes,” she said slowly. “I remember his shoes.”
“What about his shoes?”
“They were really nicely shined. Remember that, Ken?”
“I didn’t pay any attention to his goddamn shoes,” he said.
“And his car was parked right out front in a no-parking zone,” she said. “I watched when he left. He got in the passenger side, but whoever was driving wasn’t worried about parking it illegally.”
“Can you describe the car?” Barbara asked. “Any city markings on it? Did it say NYPD on the side?”
Sandy shook her head no. “It was a big SUV. All black, with dark windows.”
Ken asked, “Who drives around in a car like that?”
A couple of people came to mind for Barbara. Well, not people, exactly, but agencies. Why would those agencies be interested in an elevator mishap, tragic as it was?
Twenty-One
Richard, oh, Richard!”
The mayor turned when he heard his name and saw a woman heading his way. Early eighties, her slender frame draped in black silk. Her billowy pants were half covered by a blouse that came down nearly to her knees. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, and she viewed the world through oversized, round glasses with thick rims. Heavy on the makeup, huge black eyebrows.
She had her arms outstretched as she closed the distance between them.
“Margaret,” Headley said, placing his hands on her shoulders and delivering air kisses to both cheeks. “The Queen of the Sycamores. I knew I’d been in this building before.”
When he’d first heard the address of this second elevator catastrophe, he was sure there’d been a campaign fund-raiser here. Margaret Cambridge had invited all her wealthy friends to a party so extravagant they’d all felt obliged to give the maximum contribution allowed under the law to Headley’s campaign. It was a shame about the rules that prohibited massive infusions of cash from individuals. Margaret’s late husband, whose name adorned half a dozen buildings in the city, had left her a billion or two, not that anyone was counting, and she’d have given Headley a million bucks if she could get away with it.
“I heard you were here,” said Margaret. “I walked down the whole way.”
“Good God,” he said. “From the penthouse?”
“Well, I didn’t have much choice,” she said. “They shut all the elevators down when that one went haywire. I hope they open the others before long because there’s no way my ticker’s going to survive the walk back up.”
He rested a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure they will.”
“If not, a couple of those handsome firemen can carry me back up,” she said, and cackled. She then quickly put her hand over her mouth and glanced around. “I better not laugh. Considering what’s happened.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “It was Dr. Petrov, wasn’t it?”
He nodded solemnly. “A terrible loss to the scientific community, I’m told.”
“Maybe, but she was a total b-i-t-c-h,” Margaret said. “I don’t move as fast as I used to, and she’d see me coming for the elevator but do you think she’d hold it? Not a chance. The Commie slut.”
“Well,” said Headley.
Margaret leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially, “She was Russian, you see.”
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