The DeadHouse

25

Each time I thought we were about to take a step or two forward, we were thrown back five or six. Mike had pushed Lavery hard on when it was that Lola Dakota had told him she was going to see the missing girl. If the professor was being truthful, he had not seen his neighbor for almost one month. But if Bart had been honest, then Lavery might have heard that news from Lola within an hour of her death.

Either way, the effort before us grew larger rather than focused. Had Charlotte Voight returned to the King's College campus a few days before Christmas, ready to attempt to reenter school for the new semester? Did her reappearance have anything to do with the suicide of her former lover, Julian Gariano, who had supplied her with drugs? And who else other than Lola knew where the girl was?

There were significant discrepancies between the story told to us by Bart Frankel and the facts as reported by Claude Lavery. Each of them was undoubtedly lying about something. Lavery seemed to paint a flawed picture of each of his colleagues while underscoring the feuding world of academic politics. And why wouldn't Lavery admit that he had seen and spoken with Lola Dakota when she had returned to the building just a short time before she was killed?

"We've got to sit down on Monday morning and map out all these connections. I'm so tired and emotionally drained at this point. It's lucky that no one from Special Victims beeped me these last two days." The clock on the dashboard of Mike's car was slow, but it was already close to seven o'clock in the evening as we headed downtown from Lavery's apartment. "The last thing I need is a handful of new complaints."

"It's Fleet Week, isn't it?"

"Yes, and I'm delighted that everybody's so well behaved this season. That's usually good for five or six cases." From time to time, when a special event like the Fourth of July or New Year's called for it, a large contingent of warships would gather in New York's ports and harbor. There were festivities aboard as well as up and down the Hudson River. But sometimes, when the sailors who had been at sea for long stretches reached Gotham City, the parties got out of control.

"Maybe the guys don't even bother coming ashore anymore. Maybe 'don't ask, don't tell' is working better than anybody thinks."

"And maybe I'll just keep my fingers crossed for a quiet evening. Jake's supposed to be back from D.C. by now. We'll probably run up to Butterfield 81 for a steak. Why don't you hang out with us?"

"'Cause I've got a date. I'm gonna drop you off and go over to her place for dinner."

"And she is…?"

"A good cook."

"That's all you're telling me?"

"I'm not ready to go public." He grinned at me. "You're worse than my mother."

"Well, you've been much too secretive about what you're up to. Makes me suspect something more serious is going on. I hate to say the i word, but I'm beginning to believe that you're actually involved with someone. Especially after that heart-to-heart talk you had with me on our way home from Mercer's house."

"You'll be the first to know, blondie."

Mike dropped me at the entrance to Jake's building and the doorman helped me out of the car. "Mr. Tyler just came in himself a few minutes ago, ma'am. Asked if I'd seen you this evening."

"Thanks, Richard." I took the elevator upstairs and slipped my key in the lock. Jake was on the StairMaster in his den, a set of headphones linking him to yet another cycle of news on the television in front of him. He didn't see me come in. I took off my coat and gloves and sat in the leather chair behind him, waiting until he finished his exercise and stepped off the machine.

"I'm not so bad to come home to, am I?" he asked, walking over to kiss me on the nose. "Have you and Chapman solved this one yet? I've given you a week."

"My brain is spinning. Can we talk about your day?"

"I'll take a quick shower and then we can head out for dinner, okay?"

Despite the cold wind, we walked uptown to the restaurant, passing storefronts with their Christmas decorations and, now, all the signs for postholiday sales. We settled into a quiet corner banquette, and the dark, handsome decor of the room suited my mood. I was brooding about the week's events and the gloom that had enveloped this season that I so loved. Jake devoured his steak while I swiped a few of his perfect pommes frites to go along with my soup and salad, and we sipped a wonderful Burgundy.

By the time we were ready to go home, the temperature had dropped precipitously and we hailed a cab on Lexington Avenue to take us to the apartment. Once inside, I undressed and got into bed alongside Jake. I fell asleep with the lights still on and Jake still flipping the channels. When a nightmare awakened me at 3 A.M., I cradled myself against his body and tried to push out of my mind the autopsy photographs of Lola Dakota.

I had already bathed and dressed by the time he opened his eyes on Sunday morning. The coffee beans were ground and brewed, and I had taken the newspaper in from the doormat. Jake went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.

"Scrambled? Sunny-side up? Omelette?"

"One egg over easy."

He looked over my shoulder at the paper. "Why do you start with the obituaries? Looking for business? Or are you just reading it, as my father used to say, to make sure your own name isn't in it?"

I put the section aside and set the table for breakfast. We lingered in the dining room for more than an hour, Jake working the Sunday crossword puzzle while I was determined to finish the tougher Saturday maze.

"What shall we do today?"

"How about the Frick? They've got an exhibition of Velazquez paintings. We can walk over there, spend an hour or two, and then come home and I can do some paperwork on the case."

"Are you all set for New Year's Eve? I mean, this won't get in the way, will it?"

"I expect it'll be fine." Joan Stafford was giving a dinner party for five couples in Washington. We were going to take a late afternoon shuttle down on Tuesday and spend the night with Joan and Jim, coming back early the next morning now that Mercer and Vickee had included us in their wedding plans.

This was the one holiday I hated. There was such an artificial air about the forced gaiety, and my favorite way of celebrating had always been to stay at home with friends. Joan was a superb hostess, and the idea of laughing and relaxing with her in front of a great fire, dining at her elegant table, then climbing the stairs to curl up for the night in the guest room of her Georgetown town house seemed a delightful way to welcome in another year.

"There's a winter storm warning for tomorrow evening. I guess we can always take the Metroliner."

I was rinsing the dishes when the phone rang for the first time. Take came back into the kitchen and put his arms around me, embracing me from behind and pressing his mouth against the top of my head. "That was Mike, darling."

"I've been waiting for this call." Tears had already formed and I fought them back.

"Bart Frankel died. They disconnected the life support this morning." He tried to turn me around to face him, but I stood at the sink, staring out the window at the gray day while the hot water ran over my hands. "I just want to hold you for a minute, Alex."

I shook my head.

"You're going to have to let me in one of these days." Jake rubbed his hand across my back. "Mike said to tell you he's got the search warrant for Frankel's office. He's on his way to New Jersey to get it signed so he can pick up the evidence this afternoon." He was massaging my neck with his right hand, his left still holding my waist. "This isn't your fault."

I didn't blame myself for Bart's death, but I was pained by the unfortunate chain of events that had been created from the moment Lola placed herself in the hands of Vinny Sinnelesi. She had just wanted to extricate herself from the violent relationship with Ivan Kralovic, but instead had become a pawn in the prosecutor's efforts to stage a sensational vote-getting stunt. So often I had heard Paul Battaglia remind his senior staff that you can't play politics with people's lives. I admired his wisdom.

Bart had clearly been in greater turmoil than anyone knew. Now he had died under circumstances that were at best mysterious, with his reputation tarnished and his debts substantial. And the children, I suddenly remembered, squeezing my eyes shut. There were three children who had to cope with both loss and disgrace.

I leaned over the sink, cupping my hands and filling them with steaming water, holding them against my eyes. "Let's take a walk, okay?"

I held on to Jake's arm as we made our way uptown to the small museum at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Seventieth Street. I tried to explain my feelings, speaking as the frost grabbed at my breath and formed rings that rose in the icy air. The need to explore the lives of the people whose tragedies came our way took us to intimate places I had no more desire to enter than the deceased would have had to let me in. For me, it was impossible to do this work with a clinical remove. I could evaluate evidence dispassionately, and I could make judgments about witness credibility with precision, but there was an emotional pull that nagged at my heart with every life that was lost.

We strolled through the stunning exhibit, on loan from the Prado in Madrid. When we had seen our fill of royal portraits, we reclaimed our things from the cloakroom and walked around the corner to Madison Avenue for a cup of hot chocolate. We had almost reached home when my beeper went off.

I saw the complaint-room number and stopped in the doorway to take out my cell phone. The supervisor answered and I identified myself. "It's Alexandra Cooper. What's up?"

"There's a woman looking for you. Her name is Sylvia Foote. Says she's a lawyer for King's College. Claims she even has your home number but can't find you anywhere, so I thought you wouldn't mind the beep."

"Not at all." I had given Sylvia all my contact numbers before the window was broken at my apartment, and had forgotten to check my machine in two days. I could have kicked myself. "Did she say how long she's been trying to get me?"

"Just an hour or two. She left a number." I recognized her office phone. "While I have you, Alex, can I ask you something about a case that just came in?" "Sure."

"Cops in Central Park made an arrest this morning around ten o'clock. Locked up a guy in one of the bathrooms for public lewdness and endangering the welfare of a child. Turns out he's a commercial pilot for an international carrier. Supposed to fly to Geneva at six tonight."

"Glad to know he's resting up for the long night ahead of him." "Yeah, the cop told me his penis was on autopilot till they nabbed him. Anyway, the lawyer for the airline is down here kicking and screaming. Wants the case jumped ahead of all the other docketed matters so the Red Baron can be out of here and make the six o'clock flight. They're European-based so there's no backup for him; if he's not out of jail in time, they'll have to put all the passengers on other flights. Can I do it?"

"Does he have a residence here? Any roots, any reason to return?" "Nope."

"Anybody interview the victim yet?"

"Only the cop. Says the kid is terrific, and that there's an adult witness, too. Strong case."

"Don't go through any hoops for the pilot. I hate to inconvenience all those people, but I imagine he won't be in very good shape to rocket that spaceship back home to Switzerland. A day in the pens and a few hours in the courtroom-"

"Not to mention that the press got hold of it already. Mickey Diamond's down here trying to get a photo for the Post to go with his headline story about the pilot and his juvenile joystick. Diamond's usual good taste."

"Just let it take its normal course. And ask for some reasonable bail. If they reroute him to the Far East, we won't ever see this guy again."

I put my phone back in my shoulder bag. "Let's go home. I'll give Sylvia Foote a call." We went back to the apartment and Jake hung our coats, then followed me into the den while I returned Sylvia's message.

"I'm terribly sorry to hunt you down on a Sunday afternoon Alex, but I knew you'd be displeased if I didn't respond to the requests you and Detective Chapman made."

"That's very gracious of you, Sylvia. I didn't expect you to give up your holiday weekend to get those things done."

"I'd like very much to clear this all up before we start a new year. I hadn't any plans for the day anyway. Now, I found out a few hours ago that Claude Lavery is back in-"

"Yes, Sylvia. We actually dropped by to see him yesterday afternoon."

"Oh." Her voice dropped and the enthusiasm she had mustered went with it. "I don't suppose you'll accept the fact that I am trying to cooperate with you. I came over to the school a while ago to write up some reports and I ran into Thomas Grenier, the biologist you've wanted to meet. So we've got almost everyone you need now, haven't we? I gave Grenier the detective's number and told him to call there on Monday."

"Where is he now? Right now?"

"I believe that he's in with the president."

"In Recantati's office?"

"Yes. They've been arguing with each other for the last ten minutes. I can hear them all the way down the hall."

"Can you hold them there for me? Ask them to stay until I get there?"

"Today?"

"Yes, Sylvia. I can hop in a cab and be there in twenty minutes." There was no point waiting until tomorrow to pin down Grenier. At the rate things were happening in the case, I would need all the time available to schedule interviews and examine any files that we might be able to get from Sinnelesi's office. Something had sparked the interest of a few of Lola's colleagues to have them back in the college building when I had not expected to find them there.

Sylvia was clearly annoyed. "They're grown men, Alex. I can't hold them here. I suppose if they want to talk to you, they'll wait."

"Well, will you tell them I'm coming?"

"Of course. I'll be here."

I turned around to look at Jake. "Do you mind terribly if I scoot up to the college for an hour or two?"

"I was just getting hooked on the domesticity of this scene. Reams of newspapers to read, sweat suits and slippers, me cooking, you doing the dishes, The Temptations singing 'My Girl.' I was even beginning to fantasize that one of my secret-recipe spicy Bloody Marys could lead to an afternoon nap that might turn into enough of a personal workout that I wouldn't have to get back on that damn machine for my daily exercise."

I went over and sat on his lap, my arms around his neck. "You do understand, don't you?"

"Absolutely. Want company? You're like a fish out of water without Mike and Mercer."

"Not necessary. I'm only going to the administration building. Recantati walked out on us the other day, so I'd love a few minutes with him, away from the presence of my not-so-gentle grand inquisitor, the ever-tactful Detective Chapman. And this Grenier guy has been completely unavailable to us until this very moment. Maybe that's just because of the holiday, but we do need to speak to him." I kissed his mouth and he kissed me back, deeply and lovingly.

"When you put it that way, I can't object to a thing you do. And the faster you get out of here to do it, the sooner you'll be back." Jake raised his knees to bump me off his lap and patted me on my bottom. "Dinner at home tonight."

"Radical idea." I was brushing my hair and putting on lipstick. "You're not expecting any help from me, are you?"

"Hey, I was thrilled to see you set up the Christmas tree stand the same way I do. Hot water in the pot to let the sap flow out That's devotion, Alex. I was even set to invite you to move in with me before I was certain you could boil water."

"Just luck that you've got a whistling teapot. I'm not entirely sure how to know when it's boiling otherwise." I not only loved Jake's companionship, but also the fact that he never griped about my inability to cook anything more complicated than an English muffin.

"Eight o'clock. I picked up some salmon on my way in last night. I've got a delicious recipe stuck in the back of a cookbook somewhere. That'll keep me busy till you get home."

The doorman helped me hail a taxi and I huddled in the back of it while I tried to explain to the driver, whose Urdu was incomprehensible to me, that Claremont Avenue was a block west of Broadway, near the campus of Columbia University.

A security guard stared at my face to match it to the photograph on my DA's identification card. Grudgingly, he admitted me to the building and I ran up the staircase to Sylvia Foote's office. The usual crusty expression on her face summed up her attitude about my arrival.

"They're not pleased about your coming here today. Neither one of them. But it did stop them from screeching at each other." She slammed her door shut behind us as she pointed me down to President Recantati's suite of rooms.

"What were they arguing about?"

She flashed another sour look at me. "What we're all on a short tether about. Lola Dakota. Nobody wants to be dragged into this mess."

"You're her colleagues and-"

"That doesn't mean that we wanted to be involved with her dirty laundry."

Foote knocked when she reached his office. "Come in."

Recantati had appeared so mild-mannered when Mike and I first met him the day after Lola's death. Now he scowled to see me, as much because of what we had asked him as for the fact that I knew at least one thing about him that he wished to keep a secret.

"Thomas, this is Ms. Cooper, from the Manhattan District Attorney's Office."

"Good afternoon. I'm Thomas Grenier."

The biology professor was slightly built but rather wiry-looking. He had thinning dark hair and glasses that sat tightly on the bridge of his nose. He was no more anxious to shake my hand than was Recantati.

Foote turned to walk out of the room. I had one more question for her, which I wanted both of the men to hear. "Before you go, Sylvia, I was wondering if you had any recent contact with Charlotte Voight?"

"What?"

"A call that she wanted to register for class in the new semester, perhaps? Have any of the faculty or students heard from her, that she's back in town?"

Foote and Recantati exchanged glances. "Not a word. Why do you ask?"

"Her name came up in an interview we did yesterday. I just wondered whether anyone mentioned to you that they had seen her recently."

"I told you I'd let you know if I did. It's almost five o'clock, Alex. If you don't need me here, I'm going home." She pulled the door shut behind her and left the three of us standing in Recantati's office. He asked Grenier to step out into the anteroom while he had a few words alone with me, and I sat in the chair facing his large desk.

"Ms. Cooper, first I'd like to apologize for my walking out on you during our interview the other day. It must have created a terrible impression of me and I'm simply mortified-"

His voice broke off and he stopped talking.

"Nobody enjoys talking to the police, Professor."

"I don't really understand all about DNA and what kind of evidence it leaves behind. Thomas knows a lot more than I do. I learned from talking to him that a person can simply touch things-doorknobs and drinking glasses-and it can leave enough skin cells behind to develop a DNA pattern."

"That's quite true." There was enough genetic material in the skin cells that were sloughed off in just minutes of normal contact that it was becoming possible to solve even nonviolent crimes, like burglary, with the use of this technology.

I tried to put Recantati more at ease. "In England, they use DNA to solve property crimes, like car thefts. Detectives figured out that in order to jump-start a car, the thief usually touches some place on the steering column. So the Brits just wipe that part of the car down once they've recovered it, and put the profile in their computers. They solve cases they never used to be able to any other way. No blood or semen necessary."

He wasn't listening to my evidence-collection lecture. He was trying to find a way to convince me that he had never had a sexual relationship with Lola Dakota. "I don't want to deal with Detective Chapman anymore. But I'd like you to believe me, Ms. Cooper. I was not-I was never involved with Professor Dakota. She was a friend, she was a colleague"-he hesitated before he went on-"and she was also guaranteed to be trouble. I don't look for trouble."

"But you had spent time in her apartment, right? That's why you think we might have something with your DNA on it."

"I, uh-no, never alone. I had been to Lola's apartment, but only for coffee, or when she had a few of us in for cocktails. That's not what I'm concerned about.

"My position here is tentative. I'm just here in the role of acting president. And if I don't get the permanent appointment, then I'd like to be able to go back to my job at Princeton. Without a scandal. They won't take me back if there's any scandal."

"Then, I don't understand your concern." "Ms. Cooper, I saw your Crime Scene Unit men when they came to Lola's office the day after the murder. I don't know what they're capable of determining with DNA, but they were processing the room for fingerprints, too. I've been a nervous wreck, that's why I walked out on you and the detective." "Why? What are you afraid of?"

"The morning after Professor Dakota was killed I, uh-I went into her office. I didn't take anything, I swear to you. But I went in there quite early, before anyone else was in the building." "How did you get in? Why-"

"I'm the president of the college, for the time being. When I asked the janitor to open her door for me, he would never have refused. I… um, I touched everything. I was a bit frantic. And then your policeman noticed that things seemed out of place, and the other men were called in to do all that scientific processing. I've just been beside myself." "But why did you go in?"

He lowered his voice even more and bent his head in the direction of the door. "That's just it. I had been reluctant to tell you until I could talk to Thomas face-to-face. He's just back from the West Coast this morning, on the red-eye." Why was he being so evasive?

"My wife called me from our home in Princeton at about one o'clock in the morning. I'm talking about the night after Lola was killed. She said that Thomas Grenier had called there from California, looking for me. Said he didn't have my number at the apartment in the city, which is just a sublet, so the phone isn't listed in my name. It all sounded so logical, I-I-I…" "What did he tell her?"

"Thomas told her that it was urgent that she get a message to me. That I must get into Lola's office before the police did. That there was something in her desk that would, um, well-that it could prove to be an embarrassment to the college if anyone found it.

"Not illegal. Not anything that would be a crime for me to remove. I would never, never have participated in any such thing. But to avoid a scandal-"

"What kind of scandal?"

"We had several going already, Ms. Cooper. I didn't know what he was referring to at the time. He just told Elena-that's my wife-Grenier told her that he'd explain it all to me when he got back to New York. That I was just to take the envelope and slip it under his door."

"And that's what you did?"

"That's what I tried to do." He shook his head from side to side. "I stayed up half the night worrying about it, then got here at the crack of dawn. Actually, and perhaps this just goes to my own naiveté-or, well, ignorance-it never occurred to me that the police would have any need to come to see Lola's office. I, uh, I've never had anything to do with a murder investigation. When I got that call from Elena, we all assumed that Ivan had killed Lola, and the school would have no reason to be involved."

Recantati was talking so quickly I thought he was going to run out of breath.

"I must have been in there for an hour. I started looking over her desk, neatly and calmly. When I couldn't find the envelope that Thomas had referred to, I practically panicked. I went through everything I could think of until I began to hear voices and footsteps in the corridor. I slipped out and went back up to my office."

Recantati rocked back and forth in his swiveling desk chair. "This will be the end of me with Sylvia Foote. She's so nauseatingly sanctimonious. And I was just doing what Thomas Grenier suggested to hold on to my job. It seemed perfectly harmless at the time. Besides that, I never found the damn thing."

"What kind of envelope was it?"

"A small one, very small. It had something to do with the project they were working on. The word 'Blackwells' was written on the front of it."

With the help of Mike's good instincts and a valid search warrant, I hoped that little envelope would be on my desk by the time I got there in the morning. When Recantati and Grenier were arguing before I arrived, it must have been about this.

"Did you and Grenier speak again during the week?"

"No, no. Not until today. He never called back, and I had no idea where in California he was staying. Since I 'failed' at his mission," Recantati said sarcastically, "I thought I'd just wait and tell him about it when I saw him. After I met you people last Friday, I knew I wasn't going back into Lola's office for a second try."

"I assume you were talking to Professor Grenier before I came in just now." I wanted to hear what the biologist had told Recantati before I interviewed him myself. "Did he explain to you why he wanted you to get the envelope, and what was in it that might possibly cause trouble for the school?"

"That's just it, Ms. Cooper. I'm afraid I snapped at Thomas, rather than talking with him. You see, he denies knowing anything about an envelope or a problem involving the Blackwells project. Thomas Grenier claims that he never made that telephone call to my wife."