The Showstone

by Glenn Cooper

  That was going to be a tall order. His mother had moved back to Manhattan from Cambridge after Hiram Donovan died. She was from the city and, truth be told, had never much liked life in the provinces, as she called Massachusetts. She and Hiram had been high-level hoarders, cherishing and preserving the relics of their lives. This eight-room apartment might have seemed like an awfully large space for a solitary woman in her nineties, but it was bursting at the seams with accumulations.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Cal said.

  The detective fingered his thick, salted beard. ‘We don’t know precisely how long the assailant was up here. It was at least an hour. A resident who came in late went to the mail room to retrieve an Amazon package and found the doorman close to midnight. When uniformed officers arrived they did a unit-by-unit search and the woman in 9F told them about the man at your mother’s door. They made entry and found Mrs Donovan in the bedroom.’

  ‘How was she—?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say. The coroner, you know—’

  ‘Just tell me what you saw, okay?’

  ‘I believe it was manual strangulation.’ The detective looked away. ‘There were no signs of other abuse.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cal swallowed the secretions that had built up in his throat. ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘She had been bound hand and foot by plastic ties, presumably while he searched for whatever it was he sought.’

  Cal heard something in the kitchen and went to take a look. A man and a woman clothed in Tyvek suits were dusting surfaces for fingerprints. The contents of drawers and cupboards were all over the floor and countertops.

  ‘Forensics,’ Atwal said at his back.

  Cal said out loud what he was thinking. ‘What was he looking for?’

  ‘That is what we would like to know, of course. Also, whether or not he found it. Did your mother have anything of great value beyond her jewelry and the paintings and other objects of art that we can see here?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Some of the art is quite valuable, I suppose. My father collected antiquities, some of which have value. I’ll be able to see if anything like that’s missing. She didn’t keep much cash at home or gold bars or anything like that as far as I know. I don’t think she even has a safe. She has bank accounts and brokerage accounts, of course. That’s where she keeps most of her assets.’

  The detective nodded. ‘We haven’t seen a safe. Is there anyone besides you who knows about her financial affairs? Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I’m an only child. Most of her relatives are dead. She outlived them.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He passed away almost thirty years ago.’

  ‘I see. Well, Mr Donovan, it’s very late and I’m sure you’re very tired. I don’t think it’s reasonable to have you do an exhaustive search tonight. Perhaps we can do a brief walk-through and see if anything pops out. You have a hotel or some place to stay?’

  ‘My girlfriend checked into the Pierre.’

  ‘Fine. After we’re done tonight, you can get some sleep. I can meet you back here in the afternoon to conduct a more thorough search.’

  Cal spent about a half hour at a preliminary inspection. He kept his emotions in check everywhere but the master bedroom where a yellow stain on the white carpet marked the spot of her killing. The detective backed away and respectfully let him sob until he was able to resume his survey. Every room – even the bathrooms – and every closet told the same story of a frenzied, unfocused search for something the intruder knew or suspected the old woman had hidden somewhere. Cal was a frequent visitor to the place and had last come by around Christmas time. He had a fairly acute mental map of the contents of the apartment and over the years had seen his mother wear all her significant pieces of jewelry. Beyond that, he was the executor of her estate and he had reviewed the last iteration of her trust documents only two years earlier. As far as he could tell, nothing of significance was missing. When he delivered his verdict to the detective, Atwal flattened his thick, moist lips and nodded.

  ‘Somehow, I’m not surprised,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This is not the behavior of a typical robber to leave behind so many things like diamond necklaces and emerald rings he could easily carry. There is something about this crime we do not understand. Here, take my card. Get some rest and meet me here at two o’clock and we can spend as much time as needed searching for – well, an explanation. And again, Mr Donovan, I am most sorry for your loss.’

  Jessica awoke briefly when Cal returned to the hotel, but he didn’t want to talk. He crawled into bed beside her and both of them slept till noon when housekeeping tried to make up the room. He let Jessica know he needed to get back to the apartment and told her she ought to return to Boston.

  ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  She touched his back. ‘I want to.’

  Detective Atwal was wearing the same suit and tie as the night before. Cal wondered if he’d gone home. He peeled away the crime-scene tape from the front door and led Cal inside. The forensic team had finished its work. Every room, every nook and cranny had been dusted and photographed. This session lasted three hours. Cal went through everything, stretching his memory to its limits, and nothing seemed to be missing. This assertion was bolstered by a home-insurance rider he found in one of his mother’s file drawers, a schedule of high-value possessions and their assessed valuations. Each item on the list was present and accounted for.

  ‘So, nothing has been taken,’ Atwal said wearily.

  ‘Certainly nothing significant,’ Cal said.

  ‘This is difficult to understand,’ the detective said.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘I’ll be trying to get better images of the perpetrator from CCTV cameras in the area. I’ve got people reviewing them now. Hopefully we can get a look at his face and push it out to the public for help in identifying him. Otherwise, he left no physical evidence behind. I can release the crime scene back to you now. If we need to come again, I’ll call. I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’ He extended a hand. ‘Once again, I’m very sorry that this misfortune fell upon you.’

  On his way out, Atwal removed the yellow NYPD tape from the door and Cal was alone. He planted himself in a living-room armchair and kicked off his shoes. The sun was still high enough in the sky to pour through the east-facing windows. A honking taxi nine stories below broke the silence. Cal had never felt at home here. It had always been very much his mother’s place, not a family home. When Hiram Donovan died, she sold the Cambridge house where Cal had been raised and traded his father’s old-world aesthetic for a décor that he would have despised – neutral-shaded, Park Avenue modern, something straight out of a 1990s issue of Architectural Digest. She sold all of Hiram’s Edwardian library and study furniture prior to the move. What remained of him was his books, shelved (at least up until the intruder scattered them) in white built-in bookcases on one wall of the living room, some antiquities he’d collected over the years from Europe and the Middle East, and his papers and photographs, boxed into one of the guest-bedroom closets. These boxes too had been emptied onto the bedroom floor in an apparent frenzy of searching. Cal had long ago claimed some of his father’s possessions and books that presently graced his own house but now he was faced with a monumental task of sorting and decision-making – what to sell, what to keep. He always knew this day was coming but now it was here by dint of violence, it seemed, in a way, more overwhelming.

  Jessica picked up on the first ring.

  ‘I’m alone,’ Cal said. ‘The detective left.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. Nothing’s missing.’

  ‘So weird,’ she said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Tired. Can you come over?’

  ‘Want me to?’

  ‘Yeah. I could use some help.’

  ‘I’m on my way. Need me to bring
anything besides myself?’

  ‘There’s no vodka here.’

  While he waited for her, he called the funeral home to start making the arrangements and found the contact details of his mother’s rabbi in her address book. There were several numbers including a mobile and that was the one Rabbi Judith Bornstein answered. After Cal identified himself, the rabbi poured out her condolences and grief; she’d read about the murder in the papers. Cal mumbled something about needing to arrange a funeral as soon as the body was released by the medical examiner, and the rabbi insisted on making a house call.

  Jessica’s CEO instincts went into over-drive and when she arrived, Cal was happy to let her take charge for the time being. Beyond Cal’s care and feeding and watering (plenty of vodka, plenty of ice), she threw herself into logistics. After Cal pointed her to the woman who was Bess’s best friend – one of her circle of ladies-who-lunched – Jessica was able to assemble a contact list of funeral invitees, talk to prospective caterers for the shiva reception, and scope out the pricing for a death notice in the Times.

  Rabbi Bornstein was a young woman, still in her thirties, but she had the measured calmness of an old hand at this kind of thing.

  Grasping Cal’s hand with both of hers she said, ‘I am heartbroken. The entire congregation is in shock. How could something like this happen to such a sweet woman like your mother?’

  ‘I know, it’s horrible,’ Cal said. ‘It’s not the way her life should have ended.’

  The rabbi looked around the turned-upside-down living room. ‘It was an unspeakable act, Cal. May I call you Cal? I know we haven’t met but I feel like I know you. Your mother talked about you all the time.’

  ‘I’m sure she did.’

  ‘She was very proud.’

  He ignored the second-hand praise. ‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe a soda water or plain water. Whatever you have.’

  Jessica was listening from the kitchen and called out that she’d take care of it. She emerged with water and a fresh vodka for Cal.

  ‘I’m the friend,’ Jessica said.

  ‘I’m the rabbi.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Jessica said. ‘I’ll just go back to putting the kitchen back together. One room at a time.’

  ‘It was nice meeting you,’ the rabbi said.

  Cal and Bornstein sat on the sofa. Cal had picked up one of the photo albums thrown onto the floor and had it on the coffee table. The rabbi asked if she could look at it and thumbed through Bess Donovan’s life.

  ‘I only knew your mother for six years, Cal, but she made a big impression on me and I know how important she was to our congregation. I think I know a fair bit about her life but perhaps I should know more to be able to paint the fullest picture during my remarks at her service.’

  He pulled at his drink. ‘Whatever you want to know.’

  ‘From what I can tell, there was a strong seam of faith running through your family life. Your father was a committed Catholic, your mother a committed Jew. And now you are a professor of religion. What was the religious dynamic in your family growing up?’

  He snorted at the question and put his glass down next to the photo album. ‘It was complicated. Both my parents were dogmatic and unyielding. They argued a great deal about many things, religion being one of them. They came to a rare detente with my name. My last name was always going to be Donovan, of course. She got the rights to my middle name – Abraham was her father’s name. And Calvin was their solution for a first name.’

  The rabbi chuckled. ‘So, a famous Protestant’s name was the great compromise.’

  ‘There you have it. I’m not really sure why they stayed together.’ He looked at the ceiling and answered his own question. ‘I suppose they hung in there for me. Years after he died, she hinted that they probably would have split up once I was in college. We’ll never know.’

  ‘Parents often bury their hatchets for the sake of children.’

  ‘In the case of Hiram and Bess, they were more likely to bury their hatchets in each other’s skulls.’

  ‘Oh my. That’s strong. I might not use that.’

  ‘Yeah. Probably better to talk about her philanthropy, her indomitable spirit, those sorts of things.’

  ‘I will, for sure. But tell me, how did their religious arguments play out with respect to your upbringing? The subject interests me.’

  ‘It was a fault line. He wanted me raised Catholic. She insisted that Jewish law made me a Jew. I kind of wished they would have thought about the issue before they decided to get married but apparently they both assumed the other would relent.’

  ‘And who won, if I may ask?’

  ‘For many years, neither. I was aggressively non-religious as a kid and young adult. I refused to go to church with him or synagogue with her.’

  ‘No Bar Mitzvah?’

  ‘Nope. Refused. It was only during my Ph.D. studies when I got very interested in European history, and the role the Catholic Church played in shaping that history, that I began to embrace Catholicism. Of course, my father was long dead at that point.’

  ‘But your mother wasn’t.’

  ‘No, Bess wasn’t best pleased. I was a serious Catholic for many years but for the last decade not so much.’

  ‘A crisis of faith?’

  ‘No, I still believe in God, or at least a strong notion of God, but the mechanics of faith have worn thin. Put it this way, I’ve given confession only once in the last ten years or so.’

  ‘And how did that go?’

  ‘Well, Pope Celestine took it, so it was interesting.’

  She furrowed her brow and stared at him for a while until she concluded, ‘You’re being serious.’

  ‘I spend a lot of time at the Vatican doing research. He and I have become rather friendly.’

  She shook her head in amazement and told him that she would love to spend time in the future discussing religion with him. Then again, she supposed they should continue talking about the life and times of Bess Donovan.

  ‘She was big into funerals,’ Cal said. ‘She was old enough that she buried most of her friends. When I talked to her she gave each funeral a review, like it was a movie or a play. She wanted her own funeral to be as epic as possible so yeah, let’s make sure you’ve got all the material you need.’

  ‘And you’ll do the eulogy?’ she asked.

  He nodded and smiled at her. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’

  The next day, Cal and Jessica were back at the apartment continuing to put the place back together so when he got around to hiring a real-estate broker it would be ready for showings. The medical examiner was going to release the body to the funeral home the following day and the funeral would be held the next. They were in the dining room, bagging broken china, when the doorbell rang.

  Cal didn’t know the man at the door, a middle-aged fellow in a sharp suit.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you,’ he said. ‘I’m a neighbor of Mrs Donovan’s in 10G, right above you. Are you a relative?’

  ‘I’m her son, Cal Donovan.’

  ‘Look, it’s a horrible, horrible affair, this. The whole building is rattled, the board especially. I’m on the board, the vice-chairman, actually. Here’s my card.’

  Cal looked at it. The guy was a lawyer at a big firm.

  ‘Have the police made any progress?’ the lawyer asked.

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘Terrible, terrible. I didn’t know your mother, but everyone says she was a heck of a gal.’

  ‘That she was.’

  ‘The reason I’m intruding on you is this: have you given any thought of what you want to do with the apartment? I hope it’s not too inappropriate to ask so soon after everything.’

  Cal had taken an immediate dislike to him. He was too damned slick and smarmy and yes, it was fucking inappropriate. But he was too weary to tell him that and he resisted the impulse to slam the door.

  ‘I’m going to sell it.’<
br />
  ‘Well, here’s the deal,’ the lawyer said. ‘My wife and I would very much like to buy it with the aim of making it into a duplex, you know, combining the two units with an internal staircase. I’d like to make you an offer you can’t refuse. I’ve got all the previous sales in the building for the past couple of years for you to review. You’re going to see that my cash offer is ridiculously good. And we’d be looking for a very fast closing.’

  After a night’s ponder, Cal made a decision. It was going to be a hassle to liquidate his mother’s apartment and her possessions in any scenario, so it might as well be done quickly. Armed with Jessica’s unconditional help – she called her office and took a week’s vacation – he threw himself into the whirlwind. He accepted the lawyer’s offer and began simultaneously juggling the funeral and the estate liquidation.

  Of course, the funeral took precedence. His mother was seen off in a heavily attended service at her Upper East Side synagogue followed by an interment in a Jewish cemetery on Long Island. Bess Donovan’s religious strife with her husband continued into the afterlife. Hiram was buried in a Catholic cemetery in Boston. She had harbored no interest whatsoever in eternal rest among Irish Catholics. Cal held the reception for her venerable circle of socialite friends and members of her congregation at the apartment, which he and Jessica had put back together in the nick of time.

  The liquidation followed in short order. After undoing the chaotic work of the intruder, Cal and Jessica began reversing all their efforts, once again emptying drawers, shelves, and cabinets and placing the contents on the floor in rather more organized piles. Some piles were for charity, others for Cal to box up and ship to Cambridge, more for an estate sale. Jessica lined up an estate company to purchase most of the furniture and higher-value bric-a-brac. A representative from an auction house came by to do an assessment of the notable paintings and objets d’art that Cal had no interest in keeping. The largest pile were books, particularly books that had belonged to his father, which Cal was going to merge with his own considerable Cambridge library.