Six Years (21 page)

It fit. Or it sort of fit.

I conjured up that surveillance photo of Natalie in what looked like the lobby of an office building. Okay, so now what? Put it together. Somehow, Natalie had been there that night, in Minor’s law office. She saw the murder. That would explain the fear on her face. She ran off, hoping it would go away, but then the NYPD must have gone through the surveillance video and found her walking through the lobby.

There was still something big here, something I was missing. I kept reading:

When asked for a motive for the crime, Olsen said, “We believe that Archer Minor was killed because he wanted to do the right thing.” Today, Mayor Bloomberg called Archer Minor a hero. “He overcame his family name and history to be one of the great New Yorkers. His tireless work on behalf of victims and in bringing those who commit violent crimes to justice will never be forgotten.”

Many are wondering why Archer Minor, who had recently denounced his father, Maxwell Minor, and his reputed organized-crime syndicate known as MM, was not placed in protective custody. “It was at his request,” Olsen said. A source close to Minor’s widow said that her husband had worked his whole life to make up for his father’s crimes. “Archer started out just wanting to get a good education and go straight,” the source said, “but no matter how fast he ran, Archer could never do enough to escape that horrible shadow.”

It was not for a lack of trying. Archer Minor was a vocal advocate for crime-victims’ rights. After attending Columbia Law School, he worked closely with law enforcement officials. He represented victims of violent crimes, trying to get lengthier sentences for those convicted and restitution for his clients’ suffering.

The NYPD would not speculate, but one popular albeit shocking theory of the crime is that Maxwell Minor put out a hit on his own son. Maxwell Minor has not directly denied the charge, but he did release the following brief statement: “My family and I are devastated by the death of my son Archer. I ask the media to allow my family to mourn in private.”

I licked my lips and hit the “next page” link. When I saw the photograph of Maxwell Minor, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. It was the man with the thin mustache from Otto Devereaux’s funeral.

It was coming together now.

I realized that I’d been holding my breath. I sat back and tried to relax for a moment. I put my hands behind my head and closed my eyes. My mental timeline/connection sheet had all kinds of new little lines on it. Natalie had been there the night of Archer Minor’s high-profile murder. She had, I theorized, witnessed the crime. At some point, the NYPD realized it was Natalie in that surveillance video. Natalie, fearing for her life, decided to hide.

I would continue to check, but it was a pretty safe bet that no one had ever been convicted of Archer Minor’s murder. That was why the NYPD, all these years later, was still looking for Natalie.

So what happened next?

Natalie hooked up with Fresh Start. How did that happen? I had no idea. But, really, how did anyone hook up with Fresh Start? The organization kept an eye out, I supposed. Like with Benedict né Jamal. They approached those they felt needed and deserved their help.

Anyway, Natalie was sent up to the Creative Recharge Colony, which was, at least in part, a front for the organization. A brilliant one, I might add. Perhaps some of the attendees were really there for artistic reasons. Certainly Natalie was able to do both. Talk about hiding in plain sight. Natalie was probably told to hide there until they saw how the Archer Minor case played out. Maybe the cops would be able to make an arrest without her, and then she could return to her normal life. Maybe the NYPD wouldn’t, or at least hadn’t yet been able to, identify the woman in the photograph. Whatever. I was guessing here, but I was probably close.

At some point, reality reared its ugly head, crashing in and killing any hope of staying put with her new boyfriend. The choice became clear: Vanish or die.

So she vanished.

I read a few more articles on the case, but there wasn’t much new. Archer Minor was portrayed as something of a heroic enigma. He’d been raised to be the baddest of bad guys. His older brother had been executed “gangland style” as the papers called it, while Archer was still in college. Archer was then supposed to take over the family business. It almost reminded me of
The
Godfather
movie, except this particular good son never caved. Archer Minor not only flat-out refused to join MM, he worked tirelessly to take it down.

Again I wondered what would have led my sweet Natalie to be in that law office late at night. She could have been a client, I supposed, but that wouldn’t explain being there so late. She may have known Archer Minor, but I had no clue how. I was just about to give up on that, chalk up her visit to random chance, when I read a small, colorless obituary.

What the . . . ?

I actually had to close my eyes, rub them, and then read the obituary from the top again. Because this couldn’t be. Just when things had been starting to make sense—just when I thought I was making some progress—I once again got smacked down from my blind side:

Archer Minor, age 41, of Manhattan, formerly of Flushing, Queens, New York. Mr. Minor was a senior partner at the law firm of Pashaian, Dressner and Rosenburgh, located in the Lock-Horne Building at 245 Park Avenue in New York City. Archer received many awards and citations for his charitable work. He attended Saint Francis Prep and was graduated summa cum laude from Lanford College . . .

Chapter 30

T
hrough th
e phone line,
I heard Mrs. Dinsmore sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to be on suspension?”

“You miss me. Admit it.”

Even in the midst of this ever-growing combination of horror and confusion, Mrs. Dinsmore made me feel grounded. There were few constants. Messing around with Mrs. Dinsmore was one of them. It was comforting to hold on to my own version of ritual while the rest of the world spun madly on.

“Suspension probably includes calling college support staff,” Mrs. Dinsmore said.

“Even if it’s just for phone sex?”

I could feel her disapproving glare from 160 miles away. “What do you want, funny man?”

“I need a huge favor,” I said.

“And in return?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said about phone sex?”

“Jake?”

I don’t think she had ever called me by my first name.

“Yes?”

Her voice was suddenly tender. “What’s wrong? Getting suspended is not like you. You’re a role model here.”

“It’s a really long story.”

“You were asking me about Professor Kleiner’s daughter. The one you’re in love with.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still looking for her?”

“Yes.”

“Does your suspension have something to do with that?”

“It does.”

Silence. Then Mrs. Dinsmore cleared her throat.

“What do you need, Professor Fisher?”

“A student file.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“You need the student’s permission,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “I told you that last time.”

“And like last time, the student is dead.”

“Oh,” she said. “What’s his name?”

“Archer Minor.”

There was a pause.

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“As a student, no.”

“But?”

“But I remember reading in the
Lanford News
that he was murdered a few years ago.”

“Six years ago,” I said.

I started up the car, keeping the phone to my ear.

“Let me see if I understand this,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “You’re looking for Natalie Avery, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And in searching for her, you’ve needed to look at the personal files of not one but two murdered students.”

Strangely enough, I hadn’t thought of it that way. “I guess that’s true,” I said.

“If I may be bold, this isn’t sounding like much of a love story.”

I said nothing. A few seconds passed.

“I’ll call you back,” Mrs. Dinsmore said before hanging up.

* * *

The Hyde Park Assisted Living facility
resembled a Marriott Courtyard.

A nice one, grant you, upscale with one of those Victorian gazebos in front, but everything screamed chain, impersonal, prefab. The main building was three stories with faux turrets on the corners. An oversize sign read
ASSISTED LIVING ENTRANCE
. I followed the path, walked up a wheelchair ramp, and opened the door.

The woman at the desk had a helmety beehive hairdo last seen on a senator’s wife circa 1964. She hit me with a smile so wooden I could have knocked on it for luck.

“May I help you?”

I smiled and spread my arms. I had read somewhere that spreading your arms makes you appear more open and trusting while folded arms make you seem the opposite. I didn’t know if that was true. It felt as though I might swoop someone up and carry him away. “I’m here to see Sylvia Avery,” I said.

“Would she be expecting you?” Beehive asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

She looked doubtful. I couldn’t blame her. I doubt too many people just happen to drop in on assisted-living facilities. “Do you mind signing in?”

“Not at all.”

She spun an oversize guestbook, the kind I usually associate with weddings, funerals, and hotels in old movies, toward me and handed me a large quill pen. I signed my name. The woman spun the guestbook back toward her.

“Mr. Fisher,” she said, reading the name very slowly. She looked up at me and blinked. “May I ask how you know Miss Avery?”

“Through her daughter Natalie. I thought it’d be nice to visit.”

“I’m sure Sylvia will appreciate that.” Beehive gestured to her left. “Our living room is available and inviting. Would it be okay if you met there?”

Inviting? “Sure,” I said.

Beehive stood. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.”

I moved into the available, inviting living room. I realized what was up. Beehive wanted the meeting in a public place just in case I wasn’t on the up-and-up. Made sense. Better safe than sorry and all that. The couches looked nice enough, what with their floral prints, and yet they didn’t look like something that could make one comfortable. Nothing here did. The décor resembled that of a model home perfectly laid out to accentuate the positives, but the smell of antiseptic, industrial-strength cleaner, and—yes, dare I say it—the elderly was unmistakable. I stayed standing. There was an old woman with a walker and tattered bathrobe standing in the corner. She was talking to a wall, gesturing wildly.

My new disposable number started buzzing. I looked at the caller ID, but I had only given this number to one person: Mrs. Dinsmore. There was a sign about no cell phone use, but as I’ve now learned, I sometimes live on the edge. I moved into a corner, turned my face to the wall, à la the old woman with the walker, and whispered, “Hello?”

“I have Archer Minor’s file,” Mrs. Dinsmore said. “Do you want me to e-mail it to you?”

“That would be great. Do you have it right there?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything strange about it?”

“I didn’t look at it yet. Strange how?”

“Would you mind taking a quick peek?”

“What am I looking for?”

I thought about that. “How about a connection between the two murder victims. Were they in the same dorm? Did they take any of the same classes?”

“That one is easy. No. Archer Minor was graduated before Todd Sanderson even matriculated here. Anything else?”

As I did the math in my head, a cold hand reached into my chest.

Mrs. Dinsmore said, “Are you still there?”

I swallowed. “Was Archer Minor on campus when Professor Kleiner ran off?”

There was a brief pause. Then Mrs. Dinsmore said in a faraway voice: “I think he would have been a freshman or sophomore.”

“Could you check to see if—?”

“One step ahead of you.” I could hear file pages being flipped. I glanced behind me. From across the room the old woman with the walker and tattered bathrobe winked at me suggestively. I winked back with equal suggestion. Why not?

Then Mrs. Dinsmore said, “Jake?”

Again she used my first name.

“Yes?”

“Archer Minor was enrolled in Professor Kleiner’s class called Citizenship and Pluralism. According to this, he received an A.”

Beehive returned, pushing Natalie’s mother in a wheelchair. I recognized Sylvia Avery from the wedding six years ago. The years hadn’t been so kind to her up until then and judging by what I was seeing now, that hadn’t gotten any better.

With the phone still to my ear, I asked Mrs. Dinsmore, “When?”

“When what?”

“When did Archer Minor take that class?”

“Let me see.” Then I heard Mrs. Dinsmore’s small gasp, but I already knew the answer. “It was the semester Professor Kleiner resigned.”

I nodded to myself. Ergo the A. Everyone got them that semester.

My mind was whirling a thousand ways to Sunday. Still reeling, I thanked Mrs. Dinsmore and hung up as Beehive rolled Sylvia Avery right to me. I had hoped that we would be alone, but Beehive waited. I cleared my throat.

“Miss Avery, you may not remember me—”

“Natalie’s wedding,” she said without hesitation. “You were the mopey guy she dumped.”

I looked toward Beehive. Beehive put her hand on Sylvia Avery’s shoulder. “Are you okay, Sylvia?”

“Of course I’m okay,” she snapped. “Go away and leave us alone.”

The wooden smile did not so much as flicker, but then again wood never does. Beehive moved back to the desk. She gave us one more look as though to say,
I may not be sitting right with you but I’ll be watching
.

“You’re too tall,” Sylvia Avery said to me.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just sit the hell down so I don’t strain my neck.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Again with the sorry. Sit, sit.”

I sat on the couch. She studied me for a bit. “What do you want?”

Sylvia Avery looked small and wizened in that wheelchair, but then again who looks big and hardy in them? I answered her with a question of my own.

“Have you heard from Natalie at all?”

She gave me the suspicious stink eye. “Who wants to know?”

“Uh, me.”

“I get cards now and then. Why?”

“But you haven’t seen her?”

“Nope. That’s okay though. She’s a free spirit, you know. When you set a free spirit free, it flies off. That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

“Do you know where this free spirit landed?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but she lives overseas. Happy as can be with Todd. I’m looking forward to those two having kids one day.” Her eyes narrowed a bit. “What’s your name again?”

“Jake Fisher.”

“You married, Jake?”

“No.”

“Ever been married?”

“No.”

“You got a serious girlfriend?”

I didn’t bother answering.

“Shame.” Sylvia Avery shook her head. “Big, strong man like you. You should be married. You should be making a girl feel safe. You shouldn’t be alone.”

I didn’t like where this conversational route was taking us. It was time to change it up.

“Miss Avery?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know what I do for a living?”

She looked me up and down. “You look like a linebacker.”

“I’m a college professor,” I said.

“Oh.”

I turned my body so that I could get a clearer look at her reaction to what I was about to say. “I teach political science at Lanford College.”

Whatever color had remained in her cheeks drained away.

“Mrs. Kleiner?”

“That’s not my name.”

“It was though, wasn’t it? You changed it back after your husband left Lanford.”

She closed her eyes. “Who told you about that?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Did Natalie say something?”

“No,” I said. “Never. Not even when I brought her to campus.”

“Good.” Her quivering hand came up to her mouth. “My God, how can you know about this?”

“I need to speak to your ex-husband.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in fright. “Oh no, this can’t be . . .”

“What can’t be?”

She sat there, hand on mouth, saying nothing.

“Please, Miss Avery. It is very important I talk to him.”

Sylvia Avery squeezed her eyes shut tight like a little kid wishing away a monster. I glanced over her shoulder. Beehive was watching us with open curiosity. I forced up a smile as fake as hers to show that all was okay.

Sylvia Avery’s voice was a whisper. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“I need to speak to him.”

“It was such a long, long time ago. Do you know what I had to do to move past that? Do you know how painful this is?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“No? Then stop. Why on earth would you need to find that man? Do you know what his running off did to Natalie?”

I waited, hoping that she’d say more. She did.

“You need to understand. Julie, well, she was young. She barely remembered her father. But Natalie? She never got over it. She never let him go.”

Her hand fluttered back toward her face. She looked off. I waited some more, but it was clear that Sylvia Avery had stopped talking for the moment.

I tried to stay firm. “Where is Professor Kleiner now?”

“California,” she said.

“Where in California?”

“I don’t know.”

“Los Angeles area? San Francisco? San Diego? It’s a big state.”

“I said, I don’t know. We don’t speak.”

“So how do you know he’s in California?”

That made her pause. I saw something skitter across her face. “I don’t,” she said. “He may have moved.”

A lie.

“You told your daughters he remarried.”

“That’s right.”

“How did you know?”

“Aaron called and told me.”

“I thought you didn’t speak.”

“Not in a very long time.”

“What’s his wife’s name?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. And I would not tell you if I did.”

“Why not? Your daughters, okay, I get that. You were protecting them. But why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Her eyes shifted from left to right. I decided to bluff.

“I checked the marital records,” I said. “You two were never divorced.”

Sylvia Avery let out a small groan. There was no way Beehive could have heard it, but her ears still perked up like a dog’s hearing a sound no one else could. I gave Beehive the same “all’s fine” smile.

“How did your husband remarry if you two were never divorced?”

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“What happened, Miss Avery?”

She shook her head. “Let it be.”

“He didn’t run away with a coed, did he?”

“Yes, he did,” she said. Now it was her turn to try to sound firm. But it wasn’t there. It was too defensive, too practiced. “Yes, Aaron ran off and left me.”

“Lanford College is a small campus, you know that, right?”

“Of course I know it. I lived there for seven years. So what?”

“A female student quitting to run off with a professor would have made news. Her parents would have called. There would have been staff meetings. Something. I checked the records. No one dropped out when your husband vanished. No female student dropped her classes. No female student was unaccounted for.”

This again was a bluff but a good one. Campuses as small as Lanford do not keep secrets well. If a student ran off with a professor, everyone, especially Mrs. Dinsmore, would know her name.

“Maybe she was at Strickland. That state college down the street. I think she went there.”

“That’s not what happened,” I said.