Murder 101 (18 page)

He knocked on the door of the interrogation room and, satisfied that it was empty, brought me inside and closed the door. Once we were alone, he wrapped his arms around me, and I let out a couple of the sobs that I had been holding in.

He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Here.”

I sat down at a chair next to the table. “Thanks. You bought a new package of handkerchiefs, huh?” I wiped my eyes with the new, pressed handkerchief.

“Do you want a cup of coffee? Water? A Coke?” he asked, pulling out the chair next to mine. He took a yellow legal pad and a pen from the center of the table and began to write—the date, time, and our names.

I shook my head. “I just want to go home.” I noticed two black marks on his clean white shirt and knew that they were from my supposedly waterproof mascara. I blew my nose again. “I’m sorry I had to call you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

He grabbed both of my hands in his; his were warm and mine were like ice. He rubbed my fingers. “You did the right thing. Tell me what happened.”

I started with the walk down the street toward the train and ended with being dumped out of the car in the Bronx. I told him how Peter said that whether I helped him or not, he “owed” me. I told him that Peter knew that we had gone to the beach, and his sharp intake of breath told me that that wasn’t good news. I managed to get the story out without crying until I got to the part where he threatened first Ray, and then Max.

I had never seen him look alarmed, so the fear and concern on his face now made me nervous. “Where’s Max now?”

“I suppose she’s eating at Nobu on Hudson Street. I was supposed to have dinner with her, but I got kidnapped instead.”

“You get kidnapped a lot.” He stood and went over to a metal credenza against the wall. There was a phone; he picked up the receiver and punched in some numbers, mouthing “Fred” to me. “Hey, it’s me. Yeah.” He laughed at Fred’s apparent witty repartee and then turned serious. “Listen, we’ve got a situation.” He explained where he was and why. “Miceli kidnapped Alison and has made a threat against the ex and Max Rayfield.” He listened for a few minutes and then turned to me. “Where does Ray live?” he asked me, his hand over the mouthpiece.

“Twenty-two-thirty Kappock Street. Apartment five,” I said.

He repeated Ray’s address into the phone. “And Max is probably at Nobu . . . One-oh-five Hudson Street,” he said, as I recited that address and then her home address, which he also gave to Fred. “Send a patrol car,” he said. He listened for a minute, “You want to go?” He seemed confused. “OK. Just make sure someone picks her up outside the restaurant. You can tail her or let her know what’s happening. Whatever you think is best under the circumstances.” He hung up. “Fred’s going to get Max. He says he’s not too far from downtown and that it won’t take him long to get down there.”

I felt better. At least I knew that if she got mowed down, gangland-style, in front of the restaurant, she would have spent her last moments with her new crush.

“Do you want Miceli picked up?”

“No!” I screamed, startling him. “Don’t pick him up. I don’t want him to know that you know what he did. He’ll kill me for sure then.”

He thought about that for a moment. “I think you’ll be safe for a little while. I’m thinking that you are more valuable to Miceli alive than dead. But I’m going to stick a detail on you anyway. I’m sure Miceli will have one on you, too.”

Oh, good.

He put a few more notes on the pad. He continued looking down. “I’m your detail for tonight.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no, you’re not. You’ve got your daughters for the weekend, and I don’t want to ruin that.”

“My aunt Bea lives in the apartment below me, so she’ll take care of them.” He ripped a few pages off the legal pad and put them in his pocket.

I could only focus on one thing, having grown up watching
The Andy Griffith Show.
“You have an aunt Bea?”

He nodded. “And she’s already up in the apartment, engaged in her favorite activity: torturing the girls about why they don’t go to weekly confession.” He stood. “See? Everyone wins.”

There was a knock at the door and a detective walked in with a first-aid kit. Crawford thanked him and closed the door again, putting the kit on the table. “Let me see that cut.”

I stood and turned to the side. My right pant leg, which was in tatters, was stuck to the wound, the blood acting as an adhesive. I winced as he knelt and pulled the flap of my pants away from it and took a good look. “I think you have to take your pants off.” Sad face. That was a new reaction to my being pantless.

“Nice try. You going to invite me up to your apartment next to see your etchings, too?”

He shook his head. He was serious.

“I’m not taking my pants off in front of you in a police station. You do get an A for effort, though.” I left out the small detail that I hadn’t shaved my legs in a few days and that the lower half of my body was beginning to resemble that of a woolly mammoth. I opened the first-aid kit and took out a piece of gauze. I stuck it to the cut and tried to wipe off some of the dried blood, but I could see that, in fact, I would eventually have to take my pants off. I gave up and just pressed the gauze to the wound, holding it there until I was sure the bleeding had stopped.

He stood in front of me, his arms crossed, watching me try to take care of the scrape. “You might be the most stubborn person I have ever met.”

“Shut up and take me home,” I said. I looked at my watch; it was only eight-thirty, but I was exhausted and wanted to go to bed.

Crawford picked up the phone again and dialed out. “Erin? It’s Dad. I’ve got to work tonight. Did Aunt Bea come up?” He waited, smiling as she kept talking. “If I’m not back, take Bea out for breakfast in the morning.” He looked over at me. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

I felt terrible that he wasn’t with them. “I’m sorry, Crawford.”

“It’s fine. I was getting on their nerves anyway. They say I’m too strict. And they claim that I interrogate them,” he said, and laughed. “Can you believe that? Me? Ask questions? I don’t know where they come up with some of this stuff.” He laughed, but I could tell that he was only half-joking. I could only imagine what he put them through during their day and a half together every week. He took his keys out of his pocket. “We’re done here. I’ll follow up with the desk sergeant tomorrow and do a formal report. Let’s get you home.”

We drove back to Dobbs Ferry, a half hour or so from the police station. As he pulled the car up the driveway, I asked him if his station house was like the one that I had just spent time in.

“The four-one is a special place,” he admitted. “Why do you want to know?”

“It’s hell. How do you go to a place like that every day?” I asked. I thought about the woman in the spandex dress and the fact that she had stabbed her “man” but didn’t feel a bit of remorse. And the fact that she went out in public without underwear.

“You get used to it,” he said dismissively. It sounded like the subject was closed.

I didn’t believe him, but I let it go. Although he attempted a tough-guy act, I suspected that he was more sensitive than he let on. I had a hard time imagining him being unaffected by what he saw at work every day if the two women I had sat between were any indication of the human flotsam and jetsam that floated in.

I opened the car door and got out, feeling a cool mist cover my face. I saw Jackson in his backyard, calling for Trixie, but he either didn’t see me or didn’t want to talk to me. He never looked up but continued searching around and calling the dog’s name.

Crawford waited until I came around to his side of the car and put his arm around my shoulders. My arm encircled his waist. “You have a neighbor named Trixie?” He pulled me closer. “She’s someone I have to meet. Sounds like the kind of girl who spikes the punch at the prom.”

“Trixie’s a dog. A very beautiful and voluptuous dog, but a dog, nonetheless.” We went in through the front door. I looked into the living room and saw that the bedclothes on the couch were still there. “I’ll sleep down here tonight,” I said.

“No, you won’t,” he said. “I was fine down here last night and will be fine down here again.” He took off his badge and put it in his pants pocket. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? Are you hungry?”

I couldn’t tell. My stomach was still a little upset. “I don’t think I’m hungry, but I could use a drink. Can you make a martini?” I took off my coat and put it in the closet.

“I think so. Even though the Irish usually stick to things they can drink directly from a can or bottle, we know our way around the back of a bar, too.”

I started up the stairs, my bones achy and my muscles tired. My sense of humor was gone. “Find the biggest glass you can, chill it, and then fill it to the brim with frozen vodka. Can you handle that?”

He gave me a salute. “Got it.” He called up after me. “Is there any tiramisu left?”

I told him there was.

“Can I eat it?”

I told him he could. I got upstairs and closed the bedroom door. I gingerly took my pants and shirt off and sat down on the bed in my underwear. I was in shock; it was almost as if Peter had scared the life out of me. After a few minutes, I heard a soft knock at the door.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

The knock shook me out of my fugue state. “Just a second,” I called. I got off the bed and pulled on the pajama pants I had worn the night before, which I had left hanging on the bedpost. I called to him that he could come in.

He opened the door and peeked in. “Are you decent?” When he saw that I was clothed, he came all the way in. He had a big martini in one hand and a piece of tiramisu in the other, which he put on my dresser. “I’m serious about that scrape. We really need to disinfect it. I saw some gravel in there.” Sad face. “You might need stitches.”

I thought about my options. I could go to the emergency room and sit there all night, not do anything, and die of infection, or let him look at the wound and my hairy legs. I went into the bathroom. “Fine. Get in here.” I opened the cabinet under the sink and took out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some Band-Aids, and a washcloth, and handed them to him. “Do your thing. Just make it fast.”

He laughed. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” he said. When I didn’t laugh, he became serious again. He put the supplies on the counter, along with the martini, which he had carried into the bathroom. “Do you have a tweezer?”

I felt the blood drain from my face. This was going to be worse than I thought. “We need a tweezer?”

I got the sad face and a nod. I opened the medicine cabinet and took out the tweezer and handed it to him. He, in turn, handed me the martini. “Take a big drink,” he said. He washed the tweezer in the sink and dumped some hydrogen peroxide on it.

I finished half of the martini and the warmth spread from my throat down to the pit of my stomach. I rolled the waistband of my pants down, sat on one cheek on the closed toilet-seat cover, and looked away, my eyes closed. I winced as I felt his hand on my upper thigh.

“I haven’t done anything yet,” he said. He put a washcloth in my hand. “Squeeze this. I’ll try to be fast.” He knelt down and put the tweezer into the wound to start extracting gravel. After a few minutes, he seemed to have gotten all of it, and he took the washcloth from me. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and put his arms around me. “We’re almost done.” He soaked the washcloth in hydrogen peroxide, washed the scrape, and put a few Band-Aids over it. “Done,” he said, and stood. “Do you want me to make you some dinner?”

I wasn’t hungry. “I’m really tired, Crawford. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

We walked back into the bedroom; he carried my drink and the plate of tiramisu over as I got under the quilt. “At least finish your drink first,” he said, and handed me the martini. He sat down at the end of the bed and took a bite of dessert.

I took another drink. “How many guns do you have with you tonight?” I asked.

He held up two fingers. “And one of them is really big.” He gave me his most lascivious smile and held his hands two feet apart.

I still wasn’t in a joking mood. “That should be enough.” I took another long drink of the martini and finished it off. I closed my eyes because I couldn’t look at him. “Please stay up here with me tonight.”

He put the tiramisu on the bed, unbuttoned his shirt, and got under the quilt. He grabbed the plate. “Only if I can hold you closer,” he said, and fed me a piece of tiramisu.

Twenty-three

My daytime detail consisted of a large female police officer who made Crawford look like a ninety-eight-pound weakling. She spent the day in a car outside my house until I asked her in for a cup of coffee around three. She told me that her name was Sally Hiney, and being the four-year-old that I am, I couldn’t look her in the eye without choking back a guffaw.

She must have sensed the hilarity bubbling beneath my calm exterior because she mentioned that the last person who had made fun of her name ended up with a black eye, eying me over the top of her coffee mug.

Crawford and Hiney had met up at the precinct earlier that morning and he had given her the Shakespeare papers. She returned them to me that afternoon; I put them in their permanent resting place in my briefcase. He had had them tested by a drug analyst in the police department and had come up empty. No drugs were found on this set, but they still had all of the papers from my prior classes to test. He and Wyatt couldn’t get anywhere with Costigan to find out why they had kidnapped me besides the fact that they wanted papers that I had in my possession; his lawyer had advised him to remain tight-lipped, and he was obeying. So, they were back at square one.

I had to go to the awards ceremony that night, and Officer Hiney told me that she would drive me to school whenever I needed to leave. She dropped me off behind the building and parked the car next to the dorm, letting me know that she was there and would keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

The entire office area was empty, as I suspected it would be late on a Sunday afternoon. It was dark and dreary, the large windows illuminating the rain and fog, and nothing else. The door to my office was closed and locked. I put my things onto the prefect’s table.

I had a little time to kill until Max arrived—Sister Mary had invited her to attend the ceremony as well—so I pulled out the Shakespeare papers and thumbed through them, trying to assess just how much work I had to do in order to get them back to their respective owners.

Max arrived a few minutes later. She looked beautiful in black, hip-hugging pants and a cobalt blue silk shirt with a wide collar and French cuffs. She carried a bag the size, color, and shape of a pork chop. I must have missed this month’s
Vogue
because I didn’t know pork had become hot.

She didn’t make eye contact with me right away. “Are we still talking?”

I hugged her. “Of course we are.”

She gave me a kiss on the cheek in which her lips actually touched my face; she hadn’t kissed me like that since my mother’s wake. She must have been feeling contrite. “So, what happened to you?” she asked.

I told her the entire story of my night with Peter Miceli, leaving out the part where he said that he was probably going to kill her.

“I have something to tell you!” she exclaimed before I could continue.

“Yes?” I said, waiting.

She suddenly broke into a huge smile, and the conversation turned to her favorite subject—herself. “You’ll never guess who I ran into last night,” she said, obviously excited.

I played dumb.

“Fred Wyatt,” she said. “I ate at Nobu anyway, which was great, by the way, and as I was leaving the restaurant, he was standing right in front of the door. How weird is that? He was just standing right there, in front of the restaurant. It was almost like he was waiting for me.”

He
was
waiting for you, you idiot, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

“And then he walked me home. All the way up to my apartment door,” she said, a flush in her usually pallid cheeks.

“Did he come in?” I asked, flashing back on Crawford’s conversation with him.

She shook her head. “Sadly, no.” She chewed her lower lip. “But something tells me I’m going to see him again.” She picked up the papers on the table and began thumbing through them. She read the title of one aloud: “The Role of Guilt in
Macbeth:
’Tis Safer To Be That Which We Destroy.” “Wow,” she said. “Heavy.”

“Actually, that’s not bad.”

“It’s not? I would have just called it ‘Max’s
Macbeth
paper’ and left it at that.”

I took the paper from her hand. “And, that, my dear Max, is why you were a math major.”

The paper was a muck-covered mess. “Where was that written? A sewer?” she asked.

I flushed, thinking back to my dream on the train about who I now knew was Crawford. I kept my head down as I shoved the papers back into my briefcase, unlocked and opened my office door, closed my eyes, and tossed the briefcase in. I didn’t want to see the destruction again. I took my purse from the table and asked her if she was ready to leave. We exited onto the little landing and went up one level to the chapel floor. We arrived at the Blue Room and were greeted by Sister Mary, who was the only one in the room, besides the food-services people.

“Alison. Maxine.” She gave a few orders to the food-services people and dismissed them with an imperious wave of her hand. “Alison, I thought that we’d wait until about six-fifteen to give out awards. Let the guests have a bite to eat and a drink before the ceremony starts.”

I knew she wasn’t looking for my input, so I just nodded.

“You look lovely, dear, except for that huge bump on your forehead,” she said, and swept off in her queen-sized panty hose, a cloud of Jean Nate, Aqua Net hair spray, and general pissiness.

Max rolled her eyes at me. “She hasn’t changed since we went here. There’s a woman who really needs to get laid.”

I put my hand over Max’s mouth and went over to the bar area, where Marcus, the head chef of the commuter cafeteria, was tending bar. Since I usually ate there, we had become quite friendly. He leaned in conspiratorially when I approached the bar and whispered in my ear. “You’d better get a drink now. Sister Wicked Witch will be back before you know it.”

I introduced Max to Marcus. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles lightly. “Enchante.” Although he was sixty-five if he was a day, he was all Jamaican cool and charm, with a head of white hair atop a face the color of teak. Max gave him a thousand-watt smile and asked for a couple of Cosmopolitans. She looked at me. “They’re so out they’re in again.” Marcus whipped up a batch of the pink drink and handed them to us with a flourish. “Ladies.” They had even broken out the martini glasses for tonight’s festivities.

People began filing in, and I greeted a few parents who I had met before. I looked and saw Max at the bar, flirting with Marcus and starting her second Cosmopolitan. I had a nagging sense of dread as I saw her hoist the drink to her lips; the last thing I wanted to do tonight was peel Max off the floor of the Blue Room before my date with Crawford. That would certainly be a mood killer.

She caught my eye, and I drew a flat palm across my throat to signal “Enough.” She smiled back at me and turned back to Marcus, who was now completely in her thrall.

A couple approached me—he, short and bespectacled, and she, a grown-up version of her daughter: redheaded, petite, and attractive. The Martins, I suspected. Mr. Martin held a glass of scotch, his wife a glass of white wine. He held out his hand but I could see his eyes travel to the bump on my forehead. “Frank Martin. Are you Professor Bergeron?” I nodded. “Our daughter raves about her Shakespeare class with you. This is my wife, Genevieve Martin.”

With my “date shoes” on, I towered over both of them by a good four inches. I shook hands with both of them. “Nice to meet you. Fiona’s had a wonderful year in my classes.”

“We’re very proud that she’s in this honor society. She tells us that you were one of its first members on campus,” he said.

“I was.” I looked around. “Where is Fiona?” I asked.

Mrs. Martin answered. “She actually went to find you. She wanted to talk with you about the last paper she wrote for the Shakespeare class.”

I decided to play it casual, an immense wave of guilt flooding over me at the thought of the papers in my briefcase. “Oh, she did? We’ll have to chat before the night’s out.” I picked my drink up. “Would you excuse me?” I headed over to the bar, where Max was picking peanuts out of a silver bowl and sipping her Cosmopolitan.

“Who are they?” she asked, draining her drink and motioning to Marcus to fix her another one.

“Parents of one of my students,” I said.

“It’s kind of depressing when the parents start to look the same age as you, huh?” she mused. “And we didn’t even get pregnant in college like some people we know,” she said, referring to Gianna. Marcus set our drinks down in front of us, and Max continued picking peanuts out of the bowl. A waiter floated by with a trayful of canapes, and she picked two off the tray and popped them in her mouth one after the other. “I’m starving,” she said, her cheeks bulging.

“I got that impression.” I took a sip of my Cosmopolitan and watched a few more sets of parents float into the room. Sister Mary returned and began greeting everyone with her usual mixture of officiousness and graciousness. Whatever she had, the parents ate it up. Maybe her bluster was part of her charm, or maybe it lent the school and our department some credibility. I had given up trying to figure it out.

She led a group of parents over to me just as I was hoisting my drink. I didn’t know whether to take a sip or put the drink down, so I fumbled and spilled a little down the front of my dress and into my décolletage. I grabbed a napkin from the bar and mopped up as much as I could before shaking hands with the parents of several of my students. Sister Mary introduced everyone to each other.

“And, this is Maxine Rayfield, one of our illustrious alumnae,” she said, her Latin conjugation impeccable. If Latin hadn’t been a dead language, I’m sure Sister Mary would insist we speak it within the walls of the school. “Maxine and Dr. Bergeron graduated in . . .” She looked to us for confirmation.

“Another decade,” Max chimed in, breaking up the group.

We stood and made idle chitchat for about fifteen minutes. The large windows were open facing the river, and as the rain began to fall in heavy, torrential drops, Sister Mary rushed over to close them. When she was done, she came over to me. “I count fourteen students, and we have fifteen awards. Who’s missing?”

I looked around the room and scanned the faces. “Fiona Martin,” I said. “I think she’s looking for me to discuss a paper.”

Sister Mary’s face turned grim. “We need to start the awards ceremony in thirty minutes, latest. Find her,” she commanded.

I whispered to Max that I had to go back to my office for a minute. She was deep in conversation with Desiree Franklin’s parents about her Tribeca neighborhood and property values. Apparently, they were looking for real estate. I felt comfortable leaving her side, knowing that a conversation about Manhattan real estate values would have Max talking for at least an hour. Besides sex, that was one of her favorite topics, so I was glad that they had chosen real estate to chat about.

I entered the office floor and saw Fiona sitting at the prefect’s table, alone. Her hands were folded in front of her, and she almost looked like she was sleeping. She must have heard my heels hit the hardwood floors, because she looked up and then over at me, her reverie interrupted. The office floor was almost completely dark, and I switched on the light that hung over the table.

“Hi, Fiona,” I said. “We’re going to start the ceremony soon, and Sister Mary would like you to come to the Blue Room.”

She pushed her chair back, stood up, and faced me. She was more cute than she was beautiful, with wavy red hair, beautiful skin, and big blue eyes. She was smart and did well in school; she was on the dean’s list each of the three previous semesters and she was just finishing her sophomore year. She was wearing a lovely blue-linen suit with beige pumps, a grown-up outfit for an almost-woman who looked like a little girl. She smiled at me. “I really wanted to talk with you about my Shakespeare paper.”

I walked toward her. I felt guilty that I had to be tracked down by a student to discuss a paper. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. With everything that’s been going on here and at home, I’ve really let the ball drop on those papers.”

She smiled again. “Well, I’d really like to know my grade, but at this point, it’s not a big deal. Can I just have my paper back?”

I was confused. “I still have to grade them, Fiona, even if they are a bit late getting back to you. If I give you the paper back, you’ll have a missing grade for my class.”

“I think I’d still do fine in the class. I’ll take that chance.” She pushed her chair in with her hip and moved closer to me.

I thought for a moment. “Listen, I’ll move you to the top of the pile and grade your paper tonight. You’ll have an answer Monday. Just like I promised the other day in class,” I reminded her.

She shifted from one foot to another and took another step. “Just give me my paper back, Dr. Bergeron.”

“I can’t do that.”

She continued to stare at me.

I thought for a moment and looked at my watch. “Why don’t I read it now quickly and give you an idea of what I think?” I thought that that might pacify her. She obviously wasn’t going with my plan of getting the paper back on Monday, and I didn’t want her to jeopardize her place on the dean’s list just because of her impatience.

She stared back at me. “I just want the paper back.”

I walked to my office; the briefcase was just where I tossed it and on its side, papers spilling out. I picked it up and brought it back out into the main area, pushing the papers back in until I could put the briefcase onto the table and sort everything out.

I sat down at the table and she took her seat across from me. I opened my briefcase and pulled all of the papers out, trying to neaten them while searching for hers. I pulled it from the pile; it still had a fair amount of gunk, on it from the time I dropped it on the train floor. I looked up, and said, “Sorry. I dropped my briefcase on the train one night.”

She stared back at me, impassively.

There was a coffee can in the middle of the table that held pens, tape, scissors, and pencils; I grabbed a red pen so I could mark anything that I saw on the paper that needed highlighting. I also grabbed a large pair of scissors; the top of the paper was as hard as parchment from the dried muck that covered it. I remembered the paper floating to the ground on the train and watching it soak up mud, water, and spilled beer that pooled under my feet on the train a few weeks earlier. “Do you mind if I cut off the top of the paper?” I asked her. She didn’t, so I cut off the hardest parts, and put the scissors down on the table. I held her paper up in front of my face and began to read her paper: “The Role of Guilt in
Macbeth:
’Tis Safer To Be That Which We Destroy.”