Likely To Die

18

THERE WAS A MESSAGE FROM ROSE MALONE on my voice mail when I got into the office at eight on Tuesday morning. “Alex, Mr. Battaglia called from his car. He’s got a meeting with the Police Commissioner at nine. Wants to see you as soon as he gets in after that. Wanted me to try and catch you before you go out to do interviews on your case.”

C’mon, Rose, give me a hint. Good tidings or bad? Her tone was businesslike and I couldn’t make a guess.

I spent the first hour at the word processor writing some disposition letters to witnesses whose cases had been resolved and responding to mail Battaglia had received about proposed changes in stalking legislation. Rod Squires came by to catch up on details of the investigation and tell me about his wife’s new job.

His collegial drop-in was to camouflage the message that Patrick McKinney was up to his old backstabbing tricks. Rod had overheard Pat tell Battaglia that some of the detectives, who still thought Pops and Can Man were the likely culprits in Dogen’s death, felt I was persecuting the professional staff at Mid-Manhattan and Minuit.

“Dammit. That’s probably why the boss wants to see me. If I’m making too many waves at the medical center, the board of directors-including Mrs. B.-will be looking for me to lay off. You think it’s time for me to go over to Stuyvesant Psych and get myself fitted for a straitjacket or will you defend me if I take a shot at McKinney?”

“I have you covered, Alex. Just thought you should know that some things never change. Pat’s still out to get you.”

Rod had watched out for me since my rookie days and I counted on his loyalty and support whenever I was too busy to look over my shoulder for slings and arrows.

Laura wasn’t in yet so I answered the calls when the phone started to ring after nine. The third one was from Drew.

“Good morning. And I do mean morning. It’s only six on this coast. Am I interrupting anything?”

“Perfect timing. My supervisor just left and the customers haven’t started lining up yet.”

“Well, I’ve just opened the curtains. I’m up at the peak of Stockton Street, looking out over the bay, and it’s glorious. Wanted to give one more shot at getting you out here this weekend-”

“Can’t do it, Drew. I have no idea where this is going, but we’re smack in the middle of it.”

“Will you hold some time for me over the weekend, then? I’ll take the red-eye back on Thursday night. Dinner Friday?”

“Absolutely.”

“Pick the place. I’ll call you later, Alex.”

I flipped the pages in my desk diary to check my schedule. No wonder my mood was improving so dramatically. Not only a new man but the beginning of a new month.

Laura came in with a coffee cake she had baked the night before. “Have some of this,” she said, placing a slice in front of me. “I don’t know how you go all day without starting off with a good breakfast.

“Patti called. She’s been in ECAB”-the Early Case Assessment Bureau through which all new arrests were channeled every day from 8A.M. to midnight. “She’s got a case you ought to know about so she’s on her way up here with the cop. And your dentist’s office called. Should I confirm your appointment for a cleaning next Monday?”

“Please. I’ll take care of Patti.”

Chapman arrived minutes later accompanied by Mickey Diamond, who was making his daily sweep through the executive wing on his way to the press office. The tall, lean reporter with his silver hair and beat-up brown leather bomber jacket was a morning fixture. I tried to move him along on his way so I could find out what the new case involved before he did, and I was sure he sensed my brush-off and would be back to determine the reason for it.

Patti Rinaldi, another senior member of the unit, rounded the corner just after Mickey left. She was smart and intense, slim and as tall as I am, with lots of dark, curly hair. She and police officer Kerrigan, whom I had never met before, came in while Chapman sat in the corner and perused the tabloids.

“Two new cases came through so far today. The first was a date rape. No problem, I’ll put it in to the grand jury tomorrow. Very credible witness. She’s a grad student at NYU.

“This one’s really weird and I thought you and the boss should know about it. The defendant’s name is Fred Werblin. Ever heard of him?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Should I?”

Kerrigan was chuckling, clearly anxious to get his two cents in. He had a thick brogue and a friendly smile as he told me his news. “He’s a rabbi, Miss Cooper. Can you imagine that? A rabbi who sexually abused these women.”

“Easy, Brian,” Chapman cautioned. “Miss Cooper’s Jewish.”

“Oh, well,” he said a bit surprised. “I didn’t know that, did I? Couldn’t tell from the name, now, could I?”

“ Ellis Island neutral,” Chapman shot back. “Didn’t leave the old country that way. Somebody just shortened it up when Grandpa got off the boat, right, Coop?”

“Well, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Kerrigan said. “It’s just that-well, the papers made such a big fuss and all when that priest was convicted up in Rhode Island last week. Molesting those boys. Terrible thing for the Church. It just made me feel better to know it’s not only us that has this kind of problem. I didn’t mean to offend you now, Miss Cooper.”

“No offense taken, officer. Yes,” I said, “Iam Jewish. And one thing I can tell you about sex crimes cases is that they really cover the waterfront. We’ve had defendants from every ethnic, racial, social, religious, and economic background. Let me hear what you’ve got.”

“It’s really a tragedy,” Patti began. “Werblin’s fifty-five years old, lives in the East Sixties. Doesn’t have a congregation, Alex. He’s a scholar and writer. He’s also a diagnosed manic-depressive.”

“Anybody treating him?”

“Says he was being treated at Payne Whitney. He’d been on lithium but took himself off it, which is when these episodes began.”

“Episodes? More than one.”

“Yeah,” Kerrigan offered. “We got three complaints. Different ladies.”

“What happened?”

“There’s a cleaning service. Name of Happy Elves. Call them and you can have someone come in and clean your apartment or your office.

“Werblin orders a cleaning lady. When he meets her at the door in the morning, he’s dressed in a robe. Lady comes in and gets to work straightening up the place. He usually waits ‘til they’re in the kitchen, then he comes out of the bedroom starkers-nothin’ on. He corners ‘em in the kitchen, grabs ’em, and starts fondling and kissing ‘em all over. Each one was able to break loose and get out. He chased this one down the hallway with a wooden-handled fork, like from a barbecue set.”

“All three reported it?”

“Well, Miss Cooper, not right away. Y’see, they’re all immigrants. Illegal. Two from Eastern Europe, one from China. The first two didn’t say nothin‘ at all, just refused to go back to the apartment. Bet they were afraid that they’d be deported if they said anything about it. When the last one came forward, the owner of the company asked the others who’d been to the rabbi’s apartment if they’d had any bad experience. That’s when the first two opened up.”

I addressed Patti. “Have you interviewed the women yet?”

“No. Officer Kerrigan’s going to set that up for me.”

“Good. I’ll tell Battaglia about the case when I see him this morning. When you talk to these women, make sure you find out whether you have the whole story.”

It was common for witnesses, especially those who had some reason to be apprehensive about becoming involved with the criminal justice system, to minimize their victimization. Illegal aliens feared deportation or punishment and rarely expected access to the protection of our laws. Whatever their status, they were entitled to help and to all the support services we could muster on their behalf.

“Will Patti need interpreters, officer?”

“Yeah, I’ll find out from the agency what languages they speak. Can you set it up down here?” he asked.

“Sure.” We had a list of dialects-more than fifty-for which we had per diem translators on call. It always assured a more accurate interview if we could conduct it in the language in which the witness was most comfortable.

“Schedule it for the grand jury as soon as possible, Patti. I think we can anticipate a psychiatric defense and I’ll work on it with you. Thanks for letting me know about it so quickly. If he’s got any priors, ask for some bail. And make sure these women understand we’ll take good care of them-they’ve got nothing to worry about.”

My telephone hotline, straight from Battaglia’s desk, rang and lit up as Patti and Kerrigan said good-bye.

“Got a few minutes?” Battaglia asked. “C’mon in. Bring your sidekick with you if he’s down here.”

“He wants you, too, Mikey. Let’s go.”

Rose was cheerful and happy to see us when we reached her desk. “Next time I’m down here, I’ll buy you lunch. You’re the only person in the whole office who gets better looking every year,” Mike greeted her. “All that cigar smoke must do wonders for your skin.”

“Go right in, Alex,” she said, modestly waving off Mike’s remarks as she always did. Rose had worked around cops for almost twenty years and knew exactly how much credence to give their compliments. But at least her warm reception suggested that I wasn’t facing the firing squad.

“Sit down, you two,” Battaglia said, biting on an unlit stub, as he waved us to the red leather seats facing his desk. “Just met with your boss, Chapman. I’m trying to beef up the size of my squad here. He can be tough.”

“Should I ask which side won?”

Battaglia’s lips pulled back around the cigar into a wide grin. “He’s notthat tough. I got six more detectives coming on board a month from now.

“While I was there, I asked him if we could borrow you for a few days. Guess I better ask you first.”

“Whatever you need, Mr. B.”

“My wife got a call at seven o’clock this morning. Director of the board of Mid-Manhattan, who tells her that Geoffrey Dogen called him. Geoffrey’s the ex, right? Very gung ho to help. He consults at the University of London. Had the brochure for this conference I’m supposed to go to this week and wanted to know if I’d meet with him if he shows up there. He can’t fly over here right away because he’s been in the Himalayas for almost three weeks and has some surgery scheduled.”

Battaglia hadn’t wasted a moment. He’d been plotting something since the board director’s wake-up call to his wife and it was aimed clearly at us.

“You two can save me a lot of aggravation if you go in my place. Alex can sit at the meetings and b.s. with the best of them about crime in the twenty-first century and you can get the answers to the questions you wanted me to ask Geoffrey Dogen. I can stay here-keep on the Senator’s back and make him miserable.”

“You serious?”

“Commissioner agreed to pick up your airfare. Room and board is all taken care of by the conference committee. It’s only a forty-eight-hour trip, but if you can make it work for your case, you should go.”

“I’m packed,” Chapman said enthusiastically.

“Alex’ll love it,” Battaglia went on. “They’re holding it at one of those Stately Homes, about an hour out of London. Cliveden. Heard of it?”

“Lady Astor?” I knew the American heiress Nancy Astor had become the first woman in Parliament to be seated in the House of Commons at the end of World War I, and that a decade later the “Cliveden Set” was notorious for its pro-Nazi sentiments.

Chapman had a different recollection. “John Profumo, Christine Keeler, skinny-dipping and Russian spies?”

Battaglia responded to Chapman’s reference. “I thought you were too young to know about that?”

“Profumo was Secretary of State for War. I’m a history buff, Mr. B. Some people use mnemonic devices to remember things. Me, throw a little scandal in and I’ll never forget it.”

“I think this is going to work out fine. My wife will be thrilled. Gets the board off her back and gives her time to finish the painting she’s working on.” Amy Battaglia was a talented artist whose works were in several American museums.

Battaglia shuffled through the topmost pile of papers on his desk and came up with the program for the meeting, which he passed over to me.

“You’ve met Commander Creavey, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, Paul, we’ve both worked with him.” Commander John Creavey was Director of Intelligence at New Scotland Yard. A large, bearlike man with a bushy mustache, wire-rimmed glasses, a cockney accent, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the Jack the Ripper murders, Creavey had spent two weeks studying the methods of the NYPD’s Homicide Squad a year ago.

“Well, he’s leading the British contingent at the conference. The meeting will be chaired by Lord Windlethorne, an Oxford law professor. I don’t know him. He’s presenting a long paper, but the rest of it is just a series of panels and debates.”

“Creavey’s an absolutely brilliant investigator, Paul. Might even be a help to us brainstorming on this.”

“You’re on the six-fifteen American Airlines flight tomorrow evening. See if you can keep Chapman out of those pubs, Alex. Make this trip worthwhile for the case. Rose will confirm all the arrangements for you.”

Mike left the room to discuss the travel plans with Rose while I stayed behind to tell Battaglia about yesterday’s interviews on the Dogen murder and Patti’s new case.

I told Laura to go through my book and move around any appointments that were scheduled for the end of the week. “Those interviews I’ve got penciled in for Thursday and Friday need to be pushed back a few days. Neither one of them is pressing. Tell Gayle I’ll certainly be at her sentencing tomorrow morning. And would you call my friend Natalie-give her my ballet tickets for Thursday night? Tell her Kathleen Moore and Gil Boggs are dancing inManon. She’ll grab ‘em.

“If a man named Drew Renaud calls, interrupt whatever I’m doing. It’s urgent that I speak with him.”

The last thing I had expected was an expedition out of the country. The Bronx, Brooklyn, and sometimes a ride up the Hudson to Albany were as exciting as business trips usually got in a local prosecutor’s office. Mike and I were flying out Wednesday night for the two-day conference and would return home on Saturday afternoon. Between Drew’s schedule and my own, it was obvious that ours was going to be a long, slow courtship.

Laura passed a call through to Mike. It was David Mitchell calling from Maureen’s hospital room to let us know he was back and to see if we had any information for him.

“See if you can schmooze with anyone in the Medical College, Doc. One of Dogen’s pals claims she was on the warpath about some problems they were having-either about credentials or letting some underqualified students into the program. Called her a whistle-blower, which nobody at Mid-Manhattan had mentioned to us. Maybe they’ll tell you something they wouldn’t tell us.”

David assured us he’d give it a try and signed off for himself and Mo.

Mike stayed on the phone to set up our reinterview sessions at Minuit Medical College. Bill Dietrich had agreed to let us use his office and, after we questioned him, to set up meetings with the physicians, nurses, fellows, and students that we needed to see.

“Holding out on me?” Mickey Diamond asked, standing over Laura’s shoulder as she tried to shield my diary from his glance. “My editor liked today’s story. Wanna give me a quote?”

“I can’t believe you got it already. The ink’s barely dry on the complaint. Was it us or headquarters?”

“THE RANDY RABBI. That’s what we’re going with. Page four in the late edition. I never give up my sources, you know that.”

“What is it with tabloids and alliteration? No, I don’t have a quote for you. Anddon’t make one up for me this time. Got it? I don’t care how eloquent you try to make me sound, I do not want to be quoted on an open case.”

Chapman and I put on our coats.

“Where’re you off to?” Diamond persisted. “Gonna round up a few more homeless old men and break their balls, Alex? Or have you got anything new on the case-any real leads?”

“Shoot him, Chapman, would you please? Would you get lost already, Mickey? Don’t you have a deadline to meet?”

“Nah. After you guys leave, I’ll just hang around Laura’s desk and see what I can pump out of her.”

It was impossible to insult Mickey Diamond or do anything to rattle his mood. He was good-natured and unflappable and wallowed in the curiosities of the criminal court.

Mike and I had planned to meet Mercer in Bill Dietrich’s office in the administrative wing of the hospital complex. Dietrich was providing lunch in the boardroom so that we could work through the afternoon without a break.

We drove uptown in Chapman’s car, slushing along the city streets as the unseasonably warm and sunny day melted the blackened remains of the last storm. “Dietrich asked if we’d mind if someone from Risk Management sits in on the interviews. I told him it was your call.”

“Negative.”

“Is that what I think it is, Coop?”

“Yeah. Translation: lawsuit control. Pain in the ass. Since the murder, they must be getting hit right and left with inquiries about civil suits from every patient who’s made a beef about something that happened to them in the medical center. Last thing we need is some lawyer for the hospital reporting back on everything anybody wants to tell us. A slight chilling effect on candor, don’t you think?”

“Fine with me. I’ll tell him no.”

We parked in front of the complex and Mike stuck his Police Department parking plate on the dashboard. The square badges at the front desk for the afternoon shift seemed to be awake enough to recognize the two of us by this time and they waved us through without demanding our identification.

Mercer was waiting for us in Dietrich’s reception area. His secretary led the three of us down the hallway into the boardroom and I told her to give Dietrich the message that we would prefer to conduct our interviews without his attorneys present. That must have had him backpedaling for a while since he kept us waiting another half an hour before making his appearance.

Chapman eyed the spread of food that had been laid out on the sideboard for us. He grabbed a plate, slathered two pieces of rye bread with mustard, then loaded his sandwich with ham, cheese, and tomatoes, eating his lunch while we waited. Mercer and I picked on plates of salad greens as he told us about the seemingly endless series of patient interviews he had conducted the past two mornings at Stuyvesant Psychiatric Center.

The room was paneled in rich mahogany and furnished with a long, sturdy conference table and twenty green leather chairs. Oil paintings of five or six distinguished-looking gentlemen with white hair and starched collars were displayed on the side walls. A period portrait of Peter Minuit, namesake of the medical college, with his knee breeches and walking stick, dominated the far end of the room. He looked rather smug, perhaps still gloating over the purchase of the island of Manhattan from the Indians for his twenty-four-dollar bag of trinkets.

Bill Dietrich looked even more self-satisfied than Minuit when he finally deigned to join us at one-thirty.

“Sorry to keep you so long,” he said, although I didn’t believe for a minute that he really was.

“So, what can you tell me about where you stand in all this? Frankly, we were quite relieved when you made such an early apprehension of that fellow with all the blood on him. Has he been ruled out completely?” Every couple of minutes, Dietrich reached his left hand to his temple and smoothed back his already slick hair. Each time he lifted his hand, I expected to see a stain on his palm. His head looked like it had been greased with shoe polish or diesel oil.

Chapman wasn’t going to give Dietrich much, not that we had very much to give anyone at this point. “Nobody’s been ruled out completely, Mr. Dietrich. That’s why we’re turning over every rock in the place.”

“We’re trying to be cooperative, detective. The sooner you do your job and we get you out of here, the happier all of us are going to be.”

“Then let’s cut right through some of this, okay? Was Gemma Dogen’s contract going to be renewed next month, or was this her swan song at Mid-Manhattan?”

Dietrich pfumphed around for a few sentences, repeating the respect with which Dogen was viewed by everyone and outlining her accomplishments. Chapman’s irritation was obvious. He stood up, hands in his pockets, turned his back to Dietrich, and started to pace around the table.

“You wanna play hardball, Mr. Dietrich? You wanna close up your offices and your medical school for a couple of days and come on down and answer these questions in front of the grand jury or you wanna do it the easy way, right here in your own backyard?”

Dietrich looked over at me for relief, but I stared at the glossy top of the conference table and let Chapman apply the pressure.

“Well-uh-Gemma was being quite obstinate, actually. She was refusing to tell the administration what her plans were, even up to the day of her death. We knew that she had other offers but she was making it very difficult for us to plan for the next year here.”

“What were the issues for her, Mr. Dietrich?”

“Oh, same kind of thing I imagine Dr. Spector told you about. Whether we wanted to go in the direction of expanding the department into a trauma center. She liked doing that work but didn’t want the responsibility for all the tedious fund-raising chores that go along with it.”

He carried on in that vein, feigning puzzlement about the problems the administration had encountered with Gemma. It sounded almost as though he and Spector had rehearsed the script together.

“Bottom line,” Chapman said, interrupting the rambling Dietrich. “Did you want Dr. Dogen to stay here or were the powers that be trying to get rid of her?”

“That wouldn’t be my decision, Detective Chapman. I mean, that kind of situation would be resolved by the president of Minuit, who operates separately from-”

His effort to distance himself from Gemma’s professional fate spoke volumes about her lack of support within the institution.

“It wouldn’t be a very popular move, would it, to the medical community outside of Mid-Manhattan?”

“To release Gemma from her contract here?”

“To fire her? Can her? Bag her?”

“Well, not the words I would have chosen, detective. I think that some of her colleagues were hoping she would select that course herself. Go back to London, which was something she often talked about doing. You make it sound a lot more sinister than it was. She was a fighter, Gemma, but she was a stunning asset to this hospital community. It’s a tragic loss for us, really.”

Chapman had heard him waste enough of our time. “Then I guess you won’t mind turning over some records the grand jury wants to see. Alex, want to show Mr. Dietrich the subpoenas you brought with you?”

“Sure.” I opened my folder and withdrew the long white sheets of subpoenas duces tecum that Laura had prepared at my request this morning.

“We’d like to have the records of all the students in the neurosurgical program, Mr. Dietrich. I understand that’s a very small number-eight or ten. We’d like to have their applications and transcripts for-”

Both hands were skimming over the top of Dietrich’s head. His brow was furrowed and he stammered as he tried to question us in return. “I-uh-I don’t understand what you’re looking for here. There’s nothing in these-”

I continued on. “This one is for the personnel records of the other faculty members. The request, as you can see, is for all of the documentation of their credentials, information about their salary, any complaints made against them, any correspondence of theirs with the institution concerning Gemma Dogen. The list goes on but it’s quite clear.”

Dietrich was scanning the papers as I handed them across to him. “Obviously, I’m going to have to turn these over to our lawyers. There’s a lot of information here that’s privileged and I won’t be-”

“I expect that your lawyers will want to speak with me, Mr. Dietrich, but there’s nothing in these requests that gets into any area that’s covered by a medical privilege. These aren’t patient records. They only involve internal staff matters and I’m sure your attorneys will tell you that the faster you comply and get these materials down to us, the sooner we get out of your hair.” And one place I didn’t want to be was in Bill Dietrich’s greasy hair.

Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. Chapman had waited until the professional air was cleared before he turned to the personal side.

He had circled the long table and come up behind Bill Dietrich, leaning over with one hand placed on the tall back of the green leather chair. “I know this is rough for a lot of people at the hospital, Mr. Dietrich, but it must be even worse for you.”

The subpoenas were clutched in his hand as he picked his head up and looked around into Chapman’s face.

“We know about your relationship with Dr. Dogen. We need to ask you some questions about that, too.”

Dietrich’s head did a one-eighty as he swung it back to make sure the door was closed behind him. “Look, I don’t know what anyone’s told you about it but Gemma and I haven’t been together for months-six months at least. There’s nothing about it that needs to mix into this ugly matter about her death, nothing at all.” His face colored and his voice rose.

Mercer Wallace calmly picked up the angle Chapman had opened and asked the next question. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what that relationship had been six months ago and what it was these last few weeks?”

Dietrich looked like a caged animal, surrounded by the three of us, unable to walk out the door and explain to the medical school staff that the meeting had broken up because he had refused to answer questions about his personal life.

“It’s very simple. A year ago-maybe it was fourteen months-we’d been spending a lot of time together on a project for Minuit. Planning a forum for the World Health Organization on brain trauma guidelines. Gemma was brilliant, beautiful-and I don’t think you need to know any more than that we had an affair. Left here together one night, I walked her home and she invited me up for a drink. Do you need illustrations, Mr. Wallace, or can you figure the rest of it out for yourself?”

Mercer asked the usual questions about how often they had seen each other, where they had spent their time together, and how the romance ended.

“Gemma wanted out. Frankly, I would have liked to marry her. She’d played with the idea at first but changed her mind rather quickly. Right after the summer, she came back from a trip to England and told me she didn’t want to see me anymore.”

“D’you give it up, just like that?”

“Do you mean, did I make a fool of myself, chasing her around the operating room with a butcher knife? Sorry, gentlemen, no.”

“Didn’t you try to see her again, call her?” I asked.

“Of course I did, in the beginning. But like I’ve said, she was stubborn. She didn’t mind the occasional night together, but absolutely no strings attached. And no discussion of hospital business.”

Wallace was interested. “When was the last night you spent with her?”

Dietrich hesitated as though he was weighing an answer against our ability to measure it through the word of a doorman or a neighbor. “The week before she was killed. Gemma called, asked if I wanted to have dinner. We left here late and stopped at Billy’s, over on First Avenue, for a bite. Then back to her place. Made love, went to sleep. I came home when she got up to jog. End of story. Except that whichever friend of mine put you onto this news,” he said, sneeringly, “has probably told you about the money Gemma loaned me.”

“Yeah,” Chapman lied. “We wondered about it from her bank statements.” We hadn’t-yet-but this would spare us some surprises by the time we were able to get a look at her account information.

“Don’t worry, detective, I’m good for it. The estate will get it back.”

“Was it only that one payment?” Chapman bluffed.

“Yes, last July. Forty thousand dollars.”

I could read Mike’s mind. Forty large. More than most people made in a year. Dogen gave it to him when the courtship was hot and it still wasn’t paid back.

“Did she ask for it?” Mike said. He left unspoken the word “recently.” He wanted to know if the subject had come up at the tryst two weeks earlier.

“Money wasn’t terribly important to Gemma. We’d spent a weekend together in the country, down on the Eastern Shore. Went to an auction of antique cars. I saw a DeLage I fell in love with. Thirty-two, quite rare. She wanted me to have it, I couldn’t afford it. At that moment she meant it as a gift, but by the time I’d made the deal she’d moved on from our relationship, shall we say. Told me I could pay her back whenever I had the money. Surely you know by now she wasn’t materialistic. She had more than enough money for all she needed or wanted to do.”

Dietrich pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “I assume you’ll be back with more questions for me but you might as well get on with the staff. I’ve lined up the people you were interested in and I’d like to get you going with them so they can get back to their patients and assignments. I’ll get over to my office and contact our lawyers about these documents.”

He stroked the side of his head with his left hand before picking up the stack of subpoenas. Then he removed a metal mass from his pants pocket and splayed a handful of keys in his right hand until he held one of them-probably for his office-between his thumb and forefinger.

Bill Dietrich backed away from us without any other comment and I noticed as he did that a replica of London ’s Tower Bridge dangled from his fist. It was a duplicate of Dogen’s key chain that rested on my bureau, the one I had forgotten to return to Mercer. I wondered if Dietrich, too, still had the keys to Gemma’s home.