"Boss, there's something I've got to tell you. Both of you."
"I should hope so," Washington said. "When I send my detectives out, I don't expect them to come back empty."
"We've got something for you too," Natali said. "We've identified the prints on the door jamb of Sophia's darkroom at work. They're Damian Kerensky's. His prints were in the system because he got arrested at a protest march back in his law school days. I guess his liberal opinions aren't of recent manufacture after all. He straightened up enough to make some money doing corporate law, and he does it well enough to have made partner, but he's more likely to get elected to the City Council leaning to the left than to the right."
"If Kerensky killed Sophia Schofield," the sergeant said, "he's going straight to Rikers, not to City Hall. It's not going to take us till Election Day to wrap up this case."
"We'll lean hard on him," Natali said, "to cough up what he was doing hanging out in Sophia's office."
"She was working on his campaign," Cindy said.
"Not good enough," Natali said. "Give me another scenario."
"They might have been having an affair," Cindy said. "Sophia was pregnant. Her husband didn't want kids. Suppose it was Kerensky's baby. He couldn't afford a scandal during the campaign."
"He couldn't afford to leave his wife," Natali said, "before, during, or after the election. However much money he made, it was nothing to what his wife brought to that marriage. Maybe she wasn't going to let him go no matter what."
"Maybe she killed Sophia," Cindy said.
"If Sophia was proposing that they leave their respective marriages," the sergeant said, "and not taking no for an answer, either of the Kerenskys might have killed her."
"Sophia might have been blackmailing him," Natali said. "She could have dug up something about his past. When she took him on as a client, she must have done background research. Or she could have wanted something—maybe money, maybe influence of some kind—to have an abortion or simply not to name him as the baby's father."
"Or she could have dug up something on the wife," the sergeant said. "Politicians have to be prepared for their opponents to fight dirty."
"I don't see Marcia Baldwin-Kerensky in a Starbucks," Natali said. "She's not the cardboard cup type."
"If it was her," the sergeant said, "an alibi could be irrelevant. Never underestimate the power of big money."
"What do you think, Cinders?" Natali asked. "And what have you got for us on Papadopoulos? You're being awfully quiet."
Cindy took another deep breath. It felt as if she hadn't exhaled since they had ridden right over her first attempt to make her confession.
"I don't think Sophia would have blackmailed anyone. The—the way she was living her life, she wouldn't have compromised her, well, her integrity. She would have held herself accountable for her choices."
"Cinders," Natali said, "I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. Boss, do you? And does this have anything to do with Papadopoulos?"
"Yes, Detective," Washington said, "I think you'd better explain yourself."
"Sophia was in recovery," Cindy said.
"Recovering from what?" Natali said. "She wasn't sick. She was pregnant."
"You know she was in AA," she said.
"So she didn't drink," Natali said. "So what?"
She couldn't afford to start hyperventilating, so she'd better start spitting it out and take the consequences, no matter what they were.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, sir." She gave Sergeant Washington a nervous glance and looked down at her feet. "I'm in AA myself, and I know how recovery programs work. The twelve steps are all about being honest, recognizing your flaws, and taking responsibility for your own behavior. Sure, not everybody takes it seriously, and if you relapse and start drinking, you don't give a damn about those principles. But Sophia's recovery was well established. Everything we know about her indicates that she did take it seriously."
"Except that she got pregnant," Natali said, "and it could have been by someone other than her husband."
"I didn't say she was a saint," Cindy said. "She had sobriety, and she was solvent in Debtors Anonymous. Maybe sexual acting out was the last frontier for her, I mean, an issue she hadn't dealt with yet."
Washington and Natali exchanged glances.
"Debtors Anonymous? New one on me."
"I suppose there's a program for sexaholics too?"
"Several," Cindy said. "Sexaholics Anonymous, Sexual Compulsives Anonymous, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous—sorry, boss, I'm just saying that she would have thought twice about doing something as absolutely indefensible as blackmail, more than a person who wasn't in recovery would. And it does have to do with Papadopoulos, because I got her to admit that not only did she know Sophia from the twelve-step programs as well as from the PR world, but so did that whole group of people who were having coffee on the balcony when Sophia died. That's what they were doing there: they had just come from a meeting. Sophia told them she was meeting someone, or she would have sat with them."
"I suppose Papadopoulos wouldn't have told you all that if you hadn't been part of this thing yourself."
"I didn't tell her I was!" Cindy said. "I just—knew what to say to get her to tell me. Anonymity is important. We—we don't reveal ourselves lightly."
"I can understand why," the sergeant said drily. "However, in NYPD, if we're seeking advancement, we have to be prepared to put all our cards on the table."
"I know, boss," she said miserably. "I'm sorry. I should have told you."
"I should really take you off the case," the sergeant said, "but I won't. Not unless Detective Natali insists."
He looked at Natali, who gave Cindy an exasperated look, shrugged, and shook his head.
"No point bringing someone else up to speed at this stage."
"There—there is something else, boss," Cindy said reluctantly.
"Is it about the case?" Natali asked.
"Not exactly. Sort of. It's about me."
"You can go, Detective," the sergeant said. "Go lean on the Kerenskys." He waited until Natali was out of earshot. "Now what, Cenedella? This had better not be something I have to pull you off the case for."
"I know I screwed up," Cindy said. "I should have mentioned it right away, but—"
"Yeah, yeah. You wanted to work a homicide. Just tell me you weren't intimate with the victim or any of the suspects."
"No, but—"
"But? All right, spit it out."
"I was dating someone who knew the victim very slightly," she said. "I stopped seeing him right away, and I haven't talked to him, not about anything."
"I'm touched, Cenedella," Washington said drily. "I suppose this guy's in AA too?"
"Yes, but that's not actually how I knew him. He's a friend of the guy Sophia was sponsoring and his girlfriend, the one we thought was jealous of Sophia. At least, I didn't think she was jealous, not enough to kill, because twelve-step sponsors don't sleep with their sponsees. They really don't."
"James Cullen and Barbara Rose," Washington said. "I suppose you know them too."
"We were in a group house in the Hamptons last summer."
The sergeant closed his eyes and sighed.
"I really should throw you out," he said, "but I'm not going to. I expect your abject gratitude and strict adherence to the rules from now on and forevermore. We didn't find a speck of evidence against Rose or Cullen. They're not really on our radar any more. And I expect you to keep that strictly to yourself."
"Yes, sir."
"No texting your Hamptons buddies that they're off the hook. And you can still call me boss."
"No, boss. Yes, boss."
"Since you're now our resident expert on this twelve-step thing, tell me something useful."
"Natali and I both went through the victim's date book and her smartphone. We didn't find any clues to whom she was meeting that day. But there should be something else. In DA, Debtors Anonymous, ever
ybody keeps a list of their expenses. We didn't find it on her phone, so she probably had a little notebook."
"You mean a monthly budget?"
"No, a list of expenses that she would have written down as she went along. They write down everything. Every cup of coffee, every dollar in a homeless vet's cup or a street musician's hat. If she paid for a drink for the person she was meeting as well as her own, she'll have written it down."
"See if we have anything like that in evidence. Maybe we'll get lucky. Go."
"Thank you, boss, I won't disappoint you."
Cindy scuttled away, glad to have gotten off so lightly and burning to find something useful. Sophia had kept her expenses in a small pink Hello Kitty notebook with a cheap TD Bank ballpoint pen attached to it with a rubber band. Sophia had liked high-priced coffee and recorded every penny she spent. She had paid for two designer drinks, not one, on the morning of her death. Unfortunately, she failed to note the name of her companion.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Bruce
"Barbara! No!"
It was not by any stretch the first time I had had to adopt a tone more suitable for saying, "Spot! Down!" to quell Barbara's enthusiasms. Only this time it was not enthusiasm but panic.
"You have to," she said. "I'm desperate, Bruce. I am not walking into a roomful of expectant Millennials by myself. They'll all be fifteen years younger than me, and the dads will all be raring to time the contractions and cut the umbilical cord."
"And I'm not walking into a roomful of strangers who think I'm your baby daddy. It's Jimmy's umbilical cord. If he can't cut it, it's his problem. Not my circus! Not my monkeys!"
"I thought you were my friend." Barbara's eyes filled with tears.
"I am your friend, dammit. If I wasn't, would I be here with you right now?"
It was a hot day in the park, more suitable for air conditioning and a cold frosty for lucky bastards who hadn't forfeited their drinking privileges. Leaves hung limp from every branch overhead, and children screamed as they darted in and out of the various fountains. Barbara had run enough before her pregnancy that it was okay for her to keep on running, as long as she suited speed and distance to her changing comfort level and was careful not to wreck her knees or fall onto her steadily increasing belly. I had jogged along with her for a gentle three miles that avoided the steepest hills. After that, she had decided that a row on the lake would be a great way to cool off. I rowed, she cooled.
"Seriously, Barb," I said, "you have to talk him into being a full partner in this. You know he'll be a great dad if he gives himself a chance."
"But I'm trying to be less controlling," she wailed.
"The baby trumps that," I said. "You can't make him do anything he doesn't want to do, but you can make a strong case."
"It's not so much the baby as the birth."
She trailed her hand in the water, wiped it on the back of her neck, then took a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of her bag and scrubbed both hand and neck. Central Park lake water is probably as packed with bacteria as the city is with people.
"I gave him a list of tips for fathers that I found online," she said. "They recommend that you watch childbirth videos together so you know what to expect. You can imagine how he took that suggestion."
"He can't help it," I said. "You know how scarred his poor little psyche is. In Jimmy's world, squeamishness is right up there with cleanliness and godliness."
"I know," she said. "The nuns washed the kids' mouths out with soap if they said 'cervix.' He's got to get over it."
"What exactly do they teach you in the class?"
"Nothing too alarming," she said. "Exercises that help with the back pain. Breathing. They say when you're in labor, it hurts more if you hold your breath. Your instinct is to brace against the pain, but you're not supposed to."
"Speaking of back pain," I said, "this galley slave has had enough rowing for today. Okay if we head back to shore?"
"Sure," she said. "I've had enough sun myself."
Water rippled against one oar and dripped from the other as the boat pivoted. I started pulling toward the boathouse at the northeast end of the lake.
"Before I lose my captive audience," she said, "what's happening with Cindy?"
"Nothing," I said. "I'll see your ulterior motive and raise you. Have the detectives come around again?"
"No, thank God," she said. "I wish we knew what they were up to. Even if they've come to their senses about me having anything to do with it, I don't like thinking that Sophia's killer is still out there."
"I don't either," I said, "but this time, can't we just let the cops do their job?"
"How can they," she said, "when they don't know everything that we do? And don't say we can tell them, because you know they wouldn't listen. If only Cindy hadn't blown you off, we could pool our information with hers and finally get somewhere."
"She didn't blow me off! Well, she did, but I understand she had to protect her career."
"Oh, come on, Bruce, you know you're hurting. Denial will only make the feelings fester."
Denying my denial would get me nowhere, not with Barbara. I kept forgetting how adept she was at suckering me into sticking our noses into other people's business.
"What do we know," I asked, "and how do we know the cops don't know it too?"
"For one thing," she said, "that Sophia was having an affair. For another, that she had a thing going with her college boyfriend. Oh, and that her grandfather's will was an issue in the family."
"You don't think the detectives have worked that out for themselves? Don't forget, they can ask questions that we can't."
"But they don't know about Sophia's program friends. They know that Jimmy was her sponsee because there happened to be evidence in writing, but if they think he was the most important person in her life in recovery, they're completely wrong."
"You mean her sponsor?"
"Not only her," she said. "Think about how people spill their guts when they share. How many secrets have we all heard in meetings over the years?"
"Hundreds," I said. "Maybe thousands. You mean Sophia was killed because of something she knew, something she heard at a meeting?"
"I guess not if everybody heard it," Barbara said, "but how about one to one? She could have been. Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, because she respected anonymity," I said. "It's the guiding principle that keeps the whole house of cards from collapsing. The program wouldn't last long if people started telling each other's secrets."
The rowboat scraped against the sides of the boats to my left and right as I maneuvered it into a narrow parking space. Was I supposed to say gunwale, port and starboard, and dock? If so, sorry. We were in the middle of Central Park, not on the high seas. I crouched down to keep the boat steady as Barbara grabbed my hand for balance and clambered out. She held out a hand to me in turn.
"Let's get something to drink at the Boathouse," she said.
"Cold and wet and shady sounds good to me," I said.
It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, so the restaurant was closed. We sat in the outside bar at a round table with an umbrella providing shade. I drank half my lemonade in one gulp. Barbara held her Diet Coke against her flushed cheeks before taking her first sip.
"You know," Barbara said, "maybe we're looking at this the wrong way."
"Which 'this' are you talking about?"
"Sophia's recovery," she said. "We were surprised to hear that Sophia was cheating on her husband, right? Why?"
"Why were we surprised? You tell me, Mr. Bones."
"Because we think of Sophia as someone with great recovery," she said. "She's been sober for years, she's solvent, she has sponsees, and that means she's working the steps, right? Taking her own inventory, letting go her character defects, making amends for the harm she's done other people."
"Okay," I said. "I'm with you so far."
"So all this playing around doesn't fit."
"What are you saying?
That Sophia wasn't playing around?"
"No," she said. "I'm saying that as a sexual compulsive-- let's call it sexual acting out-- Sophia wasn't in recovery at all. She had switched addictions the way a lot of addicts do. If you look at her as an active addict whose drug of choice was sex, none of her wild behavior is surprising. Being wild and inappropriate and narcissistic is simply what addicts do."
"I see what you mean," I said. "No matter how far out or selfish her behavior got, if it supported her addiction, it was possible. If you're active, you want what you want, and you don't care who you hurt to get it."
"Exactly," she said. "For example, look at smokers." She waved a hand in front of my nose as if the cigarette I had lit was the only thing wrong with New York air.
"I'm working on it," I said, "well, thinking about it. And nagging doesn't help, Ms. Control Freak."
She scrunched up her face in a phony pout.
"You mean you aren't grateful that I'm not enabling you?"
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Addicts are addicts, I give you that."
"That's what I meant," she said. "Recovering Sophia wouldn't have committed adultery or blackmailed anyone or—for argument's sake—tried to break up anyone's marriage. Or if she did, she'd have been struggling with a load of ambivalence and guilt. Addict Sophia, on the other hand, could have flung herself right into any of those things."
"All she would have cared about," I said, "was the high."
By the time I got home, my muscles ached. The kiss of the sun had been more like rough sex. When I held my palm an inch off the back of my neck, I could feel the heat rising. I held a mirror up to it and admired the color. I could have passed for a redneck in rural Mississippi. I thought of blowing off my date with Jimmy to go to a meeting. With his cheap Irish skin, he could empathize on the subject of sunburn. He should have been the one rowing the damn boat anyhow. But I didn't want to disappoint him, so I slapped aloe on my neck, popped a couple of ibuprofen, and took the crosstown bus to pick him up as scheduled.
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