Strong 03 - Twice (12 page)

As Lydia was about to enter her office, she turned to Dax and said, “What are you going to do with yourself for the next hour or so?”

She was not-so-subtly suggesting that he entertain himself elsewhere while she conducted her interview with Eleanor Ross. She didn’t need him skulking in the corner of her office like a gargoyle while she tried to extract more information from the old woman.

“I dunno,” he said innocently, looking behind him at Jeffrey’s office door. “I’ll go talk to Jeff.”

“Fine,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

Eleanor looked up from her documents.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” said Lydia. She approached Eleanor and waited for her to relinquish the spot she’d chosen at Lydia’s desk and move over to the chairs clearly designated for visitors. The fact that Eleanor had chosen to seat herself behind Lydia’s desk in the first place was extremely annoying, a clear violation of Lydia’s personal space. She certainly wasn’t going to sit on the couch or in one of the chairs opposite her desk, allowing Eleanor the power position. After a long moment, the woman got up, looking at her watch.

“For all the money you charge, I’d imagine you’d be on time,” she said, moving past Lydia.

Lydia smiled politely, reminded of the reason she hated being on somebody’s payroll. She seated herself at her desk and took a cursory glance to see that nothing had been disturbed.

“I’ll just take a moment to establish a few ground rules, Ms. Ross,” she said sweetly. “First of all, you pay this firm for the service of finding the answers to your questions. Those answers may not always be the answers you wanted. Second, I am not your employee.
This firm may choose to walk away from your case at any time, should we feel that your demands exceed our resources or that you have been dishonest with us in a way that hinders our ability to meet your goals. Is that understood?”

The woman began to bluster. “I don’t appreciate—”

“Do you understand my terms, Ms. Ross? If there’s a problem, we can terminate this agreement before you’ve inconvenienced yourself further with the paperwork.”

There was a moment when Lydia expected Eleanor to get up and walk out. She had drawn herself up and sat rigid and tall, her eyes blazing indignation and anger. But the moment passed and Eleanor’s attitude softened. “I understand,” she said finally, though the words seemed to choke her.

“Good. Now, with that said, I’d like to know why you didn’t consider it relevant that you were tried in 1965 in Haunted, New York, for the murder of your husband, Jack Proctor. Particularly when the manner of death was so eerily similar to the murder of both of your late sons-in-law.”

Eleanor Ross went quite pale. She seemed to swoon a bit, but Lydia didn’t rush over to her to see if she was all right. Eleanor Ross was a strong woman and Lydia knew it.

“Can I have some water?” the old woman said quietly. Lydia rose to walk across her office, passing the large windows that offered an expansive view of uptown Manhattan and to a small refrigerator that sat behind a large black leather sofa. Her office was almost as large as Jeffrey’s and decorated in the same warm colors—cream, rust, browns, and greens. She took a small bottle of Evian and handed it to Eleanor, who cracked the top and took a delicate sip. Lydia walked back over to her high-varnished mahogany desk and waited.

“I didn’t kill my husband, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Eleanor said without looking at Lydia.

“Who did?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, and the grief that shadowed her features and darkened her eyes suggested she might be telling the truth. But Lydia wasn’t quite convinced.

“But you believe that the three murders are connected.”

“Doesn’t it seem likely?” asked Eleanor, turning her gaze to Lydia.

“So why didn’t you say anything about it?”

“It’s a chapter of my life, as I’m sure you understand, that I was not eager to reopen.”

“It seems as though it has been reopened for you. I guess the question is, Eleanor, by whom?”

They sat in silence for a second, with Eleanor looking down at her hands and Lydia watching her intently, looking for some sign of the inner workings of her mind. Eleanor’s arms were folded across her body and she hugged herself tightly.
She’s protecting herself
, thought Lydia. Lydia knew that it was often the furtive gesture, the nervous tick, the tapping foot that communicated the most about a person. Words were chosen, but the body never lied.

“You never remarried,” said Lydia, breaking the silence.

“No.…” said Eleanor.

“Why not?”

Eleanor stood up and walked over toward the windows. “I loved enough for one lifetime. My husband … no one could have compared to him. It was a rare love; we were lovers, friends, and partners in this life. It’s a hard thing to replace. I never tried.”

Her words struck a chord inside Lydia. It reminded her of Jeffrey and how she loved him. Reminded her of her old fears of losing him to death, how she knew that if he was gone all the light would drain from her life. She shuddered inside, pressed the feelings down.

“Who do you
think
killed him, Eleanor?” said Lydia, her voice softer now.

“I don’t know,” she said again, her voice catching and dropping
to a whisper. Her eyes seemed to look into her past, flip through a catalog of bad memories. There were things there she didn’t want to look at again and things she didn’t want to share.

“You suspected no one, Eleanor?” Lydia pressed. “You were in the house when it happened, weren’t you? Just like Julian.”

“I was in the garden, tending to my roses. I was far from the house out by a gazebo near a lake on our property,” she said, defensive now, raising her voice. “I saw nothing and heard nothing.”

The woman was shaking and Lydia backed off for a second. She took a breath and let Eleanor move back to the couch and sit for a minute, sipping her water and sifting through the past. People clung to denial like a shield in a hail of arrows. Convincing them to put it down and face the truth was like convincing someone to commit suicide.

“I’m not sure why you’ve hired us. You believe that the murders of Julian’s husbands are connected to the murder of your own, but you failed to reveal that to us. Did you hire us because you want answers? Because from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t really seem like you do.”

“I hired you because I want the killing to stop,” she said with a sudden ferocity. There was real emotion on her face now, her careful façade slipping to reveal the true woman. “Because I want
someone
in this family to grow up without tragedy.”

She looked up at the ceiling and clenched her fists. “I
begged
her not to marry again,” she hissed.

Eleanor sat on the couch and put her head in her hands, anger and frustration coming off her in waves. Lydia sat forward on her chair, confused and intrigued.

“Why, Eleanor?” she asked, shaking her head. “Why shouldn’t Julian have married again?”

“Because for generations,” Eleanor said, looking up from her hands, tears falling now unattractively down her face in black rivulets, her mouth quivering, “someone has been killing our husbands.”

Her words hung in the silence and Lydia looked at Eleanor Ross, wondering if there was a history of mental illness in the family.

“My husband, my father, my grandfather before him. Probably further back. Every generation, every woman thinks that she will be the one to escape it. Every time, she’s wrong. I need you to find out what’s happening to our family … and stop it. Enough is enough.”

T
he sky had turned from bright blue to gunmetal gray and the air smelled like snow as Lydia and Ford McKirdy sped up I-95 toward the New York State Facility for the Criminally Insane.

“She didn’t have any idea who might be behind these multigenerational murders?” asked Ford, not bothering to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“She claimed not to have the faintest idea,” said Lydia, looking out the window at the gray trees, some brightly colored leaves still clinging to their branches. The road and the foliage had taken on a kind of silver tinge in the sunlight pushing through the thick cloud cover. The world was cast in the eerie light that portends a storm.

“So what is it? Some kind of Black Widow curse?”

Lydia shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her mood had turned foul since her interview with Eleanor Ross, not that it had been so great leading up to that.

“What’s the matter with you anyway? You’re all punky.”

“Where are Dax and Jeff?” she asked, not answering his question.

“I don’t know,” he answered, eyes intent on the road ahead. “They were gone when I got there.”

“Yeah, right,” said Lydia.

Ford pretended not to notice her sarcasm.

Her interview with Eleanor had ended abruptly. The woman had just stood up and left. As she was clearly at the end of her rope,
Lydia just let her go. They’d talk more later, she was sure of that. Eleanor had more to tell. The past was insidious that way; you could only press the horrors down for so long. Once the lid on the box in your heart had been opened a crack, the demons rushed forth. You could never close that lid again.

She had walked across the hall to tell Jeff what she had discovered and he was gone. So was Dax. Ford McKirdy sat in the waiting area reading a copy of
National Geographic
.

“Jeff and Dax had to run out,” said Rebecca, her Brooklyn accent thick, drifting out over cotton candy pink lips. She had a round pretty face and a sophisticated layered blond bob. Her face was dominated by bright, deep brown eyes.

“Jeff said he’ll call and to stay with Ford McKirdy until he does.”

“Was that an order?” Lydia asked, directing her annoyance at Rebecca, who really didn’t deserve it. She noticed how Ford kept his nose in the magazine during this encounter, not even looking over at them.

Rebecca lifted up her hands, cool and unflappable as she always was. “Don’t shoot the messenger. They were out of here like their pants were on fire.”

“Where did they go?”

“I swear, Lydia, I have no idea.”

Lydia had the distinct impression that she had been “handed off” to Ford, and the thought filled her with resentment and a fierce need to bust away from all of them. But what bothered her most of all was wondering where Dax and Jeffrey had gone and why they hadn’t told her where they were going. It was totally out of character and she felt a swell of anxiety that she couldn’t quash. A hard twinge in her lower right abdomen caused her to inhale sharply.

“You okay?” asked Ford, glancing over at her. But the pain passed as quickly as it had come.

“I think so,” Lydia said, though in her heart a tiny seed of dread was blooming.

•  •  •

D
ax and Jeff walked down the stairway that led to the long-closed Lafayette Street station. As they rounded the bend past the staircase, they faced a locked metal gate. A bright hard shaft of light shone in from the street above them, but on the other side of the gate a tunnel led into such blackness that it looked as though a curtain had been drawn. The walls around them were covered with the work of graffiti artists, and the single bulb that lit the tunnel buzzed and dimmed, threatening to go dark. Jeff watched as Dax removed a key from his pocket and fit it into the lock on the gate.

“Where’d you get that?” asked Jeff, pointing toward the key.

“Apparently, when the city retires subway stations, they put these special locks on the gates. They make about four hundred keys for transit workers. But my contact told me about a hardware store in Brooklyn that actually
sells
copies of the key, if you can imagine. I thought she was full of shit, but here you go.” He removed the padlock, unraveling the chain and opening the door.

“Leave it open in case we need to get out of here in a hurry,” said Jeff. Dax nodded as he wrapped the chain back through the metal bars and hung the padlock from the last link.

Dax jumped down on the tracks and Jeffrey followed. They made their way through the dank and dirty tunnel, the rumbling of trains audible in the distance, the stench of urine and mold heavy in the air. Beneath the streets of New York City was a labyrinthine network of subway and train tunnels, gas and water mains, sewer lines and cables. There were layers of lines for phone, cable, and electric, street and traffic lights, then gas mains on top of water mains. There were over a hundred miles of steam mains, below which lay the sewer lines and tunnels. The organization of this vast network was pure chaos. No cohesive map of the underground network existed. Over the years so many different companies had been responsible for the installation of lines and networks that even the workers responsible
for upkeep and repairs now never knew what they would find when they entered the tunnels. Jeffrey had read that a merchant sailing vessel from the eighteenth century was found under Front Street, part of the landfill when Manhattan’s lower tip was being extended. Wall Street was named for a three-hundred-year-old wall that still stood beneath the street, presumably designed to keep out intruders, probably Indians.

Below all of that were miles of abandoned subway tunnels and stations. Here thousands of homeless people were rumored to live, creating communities and social networks beneath the streets. Most people considered the idea of people living under the streets to be an urban legend, too fantastical to be true. But working with the NYPD for so long on so many different cases, Jeffrey had learned that this was a sad and certain fact. One that the police tried to keep as quiet as possible. The burgeoning homeless population was one of the department’s greatest challenges and the fact that thousands of displaced people now lived beneath the city didn’t make the situation any better.

“Why does your contact think he’s down there and how did she know to tell you?” Jeffrey had asked Dax back at the office. Dax had looked reluctant to reveal how he got his information.

“I put the word out there with some of the people I know on the street and this is what came back,” he said with a shrug. “It’s going to cost you, too. I had to pay five hundred dollars for it. Plus another seven at McDonald’s.”