The Deadhouse (39 page)

"Paolo says they've all been moved in here while I was away. Looking
for something special?"

"Not really."
Not that I need to tell you.

"He says there's an inventory taped to the wall over near the
window. See it?"

I looked over the cartons and nodded to him.

"Can you let yourself out?"

"Yes, thanks."

Grenier said good night and I started to browse through the
descriptions of the books. It was an eclectic collection, everything
from Chernow's brilliant biographies of the titans of business through
Wallace's definitive study of Gotham; nineteenth-century geological
surveys to reports of the Department of Correction from the early
twentieth century; stories of immigrants from every part of the world
and tales of urban America. I couldn't imagine disliking anyone who had
such a love of books and had preserved so many of them with such care.

My finger ran up and down the pages that were hanging on the wall
above the boxes. I found the reference I had been looking for, listed
with the items in carton eighteen.

The only noise in the empty corridor was the thud of the book crates
as I unstacked and stacked them again to get to the one I wanted. The
label on its top flap was marked "Blackwells Project— Penitentiary." I
dragged it off to the side and sat on the floor to explore its contents.

The top volumes were years of annual reports from the Board of
Health, which supervised those prisoners who served as "nurses" in the
other institutions. Below those were records of the Department of
Correction, leading up to MacCormick's raid, which closed the
penitentiary permanently. I piled up a few copies of each series and
jotted down a note about which ones I was taking with me.

Three-quarters of the way down in the package was a set of matching
black leather albums, their grainy finish frayed at the edges. The
bottom right corner of each bore the stamped gold initials
o.l.
I opened the cover of
the one on top and saw the elegant penmanship of the then-young man who
had documented his life

with such care.

I lifted the six volumes of Orlyn Lockhart's diaries from the box
and added them to my stack of organizational reports. Now I could hear
footsteps coming closer and resounding in the darkened corridor outside
the small room. I stood to gather my night's reading material and put
on my coat to leave.

When I opened the door I stood face-to-face with the night
custodian. "Just coming to get you, miss. I'm supposed to lock up the
main door at seven o'clock. Heat gets shut way low. The president asked
me to be sure you got out okay."

I thanked him and we walked together down the staircase to the front
door. The wind came howling off the river behind my back as I turned up
to 116th Street and swept me up to Broadway in its wake. The air was
heavy with moisture and the sky was an even shade of dark gray, clouds
covering the tops of the tall buildings in the distance. It took me
almost ten minutes and several blocks of walking south to find a taxi
to take me back to Jake's.

"Smells heavenly." I dropped my books on the table in the entryway
and walked into the kitchen, where he was putting a salad together.

"Worth the trip?"

"Definitely." I described the conversations and the two meetings.

"Mike called. Said he's got what you sent him for and he'll see you
in the morning."

The table was already set and the candles were lighted. I went
inside to slip into leggings and a warm sweater when the chef advised
me that dinner would be ready in half an hour.

Back in the living room, I picked up the first volume of Lock-hart's
diaries. It was dated 1933, when he was still a prosecutor in the
Manhattan District Attorney's Office. I read aloud to Jake, amused by
the description of the work in those days. I browsed through the
opening pages of the next three books, landing on the one that
concerned the raid.

Jake had opened a report by the commissioner of correction and was
reading selectively from it to me. "'January 11, 1934. The problem of
the female offender is growing, due to her emancipation and tendency
toward greater sexual freedom.' Are you listening?"

"Sorry. I'm looking for the part about Freeland Jennings." I skimmed
quickly through Lockhart's recounting of the raid, and his personal
pain when he learned of the death of his friend. There was no mention
of diamonds or precious jewels, and I recalled that Lockhart had said
those stories didn't surface until much later on.

"Slow down. You can read till your heart's content after dinner."

I came to the description of Jennings's fancy living quarters in the
penitentiary. Then the entries stopped for several days. The narrative
resumed after the funeral.

I should like to have something of Jennings's to keep for myself,
something to remind me both of him and of this daring raid we conducted
to weed out the evil on the island. The belonging that most intrigues
me is his miniature secret garden, a detailed replica of all of the
great buildings of Blackwells constructed in the last century.

It seems that Freeland befriended an indigent prisoner, a stonemason
from Italy—same region as Ariana, actually— who was sentenced to the
penitentiary because he was a grave robber. Broke into mausoleums and
took precious objects that decorated private family crypts. A petty
criminal but a gifted artisan nonetheless. He created a meticulous
tabletop copy of the island which my own friend kept in his prison
room. An exceptional piece of artwork, really. Shows every edifice,
every tree, and practically every rock on the whole place. I shall ask
Commissioner MacCormick if I may claim the model as my souvenir of our
endeavor.

Freeland wrote to me concerning his garden once. Said he would tell
me more about it when I came to visit. He said it held the secret to
his survival on the island.

27

"I've got to call Skip Lockhart."

"It's almost eight-fifteen. Can it wait until after dinner?"

I read the section about Jennings's secret model to Jake. "Maybe
this miniature tableau of the island has something to do with Lola's
murder. Why hasn't anyone mentioned it to me? Just five minutes and
I'll be ready."

Jake looked annoyed. "Dinner will be on the table in three. Care to
join me?"

I went into the den and opened one of my files. I dialed the number
Skip Lockhart had given us for his apartment in Manhattan and got the
answering machine. "It's Alexandra Cooper. Could you please call me
first thing tomorrow morning? It's about your grandfather's diaries."
There was no point being coy about
_t
his. I assumed he had
read the volumes before letting Lola get her hands on them. "I'd like
to talk to you about the model of Black-wells that Freeland Jennings
kept in his jail cell."

Then I tried the Lockhart number in White Plains. A woman answered
and when I told her who I was, she told me that Skip had gone back into
town. "Would it be possible for me to have a few words with your
father-in-law?"

"I'm sorry, dear. He ate his dinner at six o'clock and I'm afraid
he's sound asleep now. Why don't you try him again tomorrow?"

I called Sylvia Foote's machine at the office to leave her a
message, too. "It's Alex. I'm expecting to hear from you in the morning
about the faculty meeting you may be planning later in the day. I'd
like to be there for part of it, to explain to the group exactly what's
going on and what I might need from them." As casually as I could, I
dropped in an additional request. "And when you speak to them, Sylvia,
tell them I'm interested in talking to them about the Lockhart diaries.
You know, the ones kept by Skip's grandfather. And what any of them
know about the model of his secret garden on Blackwells. Thanks a lot."

The old volumes had been kept in Lola Dakota's office, without any
particular safeguarding. Even now, no one had claimed them or spirited
them away. I assumed that any of the people with a particular interest
in the project had already scoured the books for information anyway,
and that there were likely to be dozens of photocopies floating around.

I didn't think the mention of the diaries would trigger any unusual
response, but I was curious to see whether my inquiry about the
miniature model of the island fueled a reaction.

Jake was seated at the dinner table when I returned to join him. The
salmon and baby asparagus awaited me, and he had already begun eating.
He was annoyed, and rightly so. Now, I wish I had put off those calls
until after the meal, as he had suggested.

shapeType20fFlipH0fFlipV0lineWidth3175posrelh0fLayoutInCell0fLayoutInCell0"I
apologize. I'm sorry for getting so carried away with this
investigation. Why don't you tell me about the rest of your afternoon.
Any calls?"

"Joan called about New Year's Eve. Wants to know if you can bring
some of that great caviar you served at her birthday party. I reminded
her that we had to fly back first thing in the morning for Mercer's
wedding. I lined up most of my plans for next week. Nothing as exciting
as what you're in the middle of."

He was cool and removed now. Not the right moment to remind him that
prepositions weren't good words with which to end sentences. I could
usually tease him about grammar whenever he made an on-air slip.

"I'm going to have to pick up some things from my apartment after
work tomorrow. I'll need an outfit for Joan's dinner and my travel kit."

"We're not even going to be away for twenty-four hours." Jake
realized he was snapping at me and tried to bring it down a notch. "If
Mike can't drive you by there after work, we can meet at my office and
I'll take you over." We were both thinking about Shirley Denzig and
whether she was still lurking in the neighborhood.

I reached over and put my hand on top of his, and he loosened up as
we both ate and chatted. It was my fault that the fish was dry and
overdone, so I finished all of it, so as not to be berated for that,
too.

"Go ahead inside. I'll clean up." The job was quick and easy, and
ten minutes later I joined him in the living room, where he was reading
briefing papers for his next day's assignments. I sat on the far end of
the sofa and entangled my legs in his while I carefully read the 1935
volume of the Lockhart diaries from cover to cover.

At 10:35 the phone rang.

"How've you been?" he asked the caller. Usually he mouthed to me the
name of the person he was speaking to, if I could not recognize who it
was from the context of the conversation. This time he did not.

"No, I don't remember ever meeting him. I've heard of him, of
course. I think Tom did a feature piece about his firm, if I'm not
mistaken."

The other party spoke.

"You're kidding." Jake sat bolt upright, both feet on the floor.
"When?"

Presumably an answer.

"In Montauk? Where is he now? Where are the kids?"

Another brief reply.

"What makes you think it was murder?"

I put down the book and stared at Jake, who was looking straight
ahead.

"Just hold on a minute, will you? I want to go into the den." He
turned to me. "Darling, would you mind if I take this one inside?" He
didn't wait for an answer. "Just hang it up for me when you hear me get
on, okay?"

He walked toward the den and I held the receiver until I heard him
ask if his caller was still there. She answered, "Yes."

For almost fifteen minutes while they talked, I sat in the living
room and fumed. Less than a week ago Jake had invited me to move into
his home. I had done so reluctantly, encouraged by the circumstances
inside and outside my own apartment. The intimacies that had begun to
make me savor our days and nights together were fragile enough to be
shattered by one conversation he refused to have in my presence.

I got up to pour myself a drink.

"Don't I get one, too?" he asked as he came back into the living
room.

"Sorry. I didn't know when you'd be off the phone." I returned to
the bar and fixed him a scotch. The mood shift had been completed. Now
I was cool and abrupt to Jake and he was fired up with the adrenaline
rush created by an exclusive piece of breaking news.

He sensed my pout immediately. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"Of whom? I don't even know who called." He didn't offer to tell me
her name.

"She's just an old friend. A paralegal at one of the big white-shoe
firms."

"I wouldn't care if it was Gwyneth Paltrow or Emma Thompson. I am
just stunned that there is something you can't talk about in my
presence." I steered away from the sofa and sat in an armchair across
the room. "You go through this whole big deal about
me
needing
to let you more into my life and
me
needing to open up to
you. You try to convince me that I should move in with you, and then
the first time you get a serious telephone call you fly out of the room
because there's a conversation that I'm not permitted to be privy to."

"There's your preposition, darling."

"I'm not amused, Jake. You can be damn sure"—I got up and walked in
a circle around the chair as I talked—
"damn
sure that I'm not
ever about to live with someone who takes private calls in a separate
room. And especially when I hear the word 'murder.' Now, do you want to
tell me what that was about?"

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs, his glass
in one hand. He was smiling as he looked over at me. "Am I talking to
my lover, or am I talking to a prosecutor?"

"When you say 'murder' and 'kids' in the space of a few minutes, I
regret to inform you—
darling
—that I am a prosecutor."

He sat back. "That's the problem. My sources are privileged. I got
this information in confidence, so don't ask me anything I can't tell
you." He was too anxious to repeat the story not to go on. "She was
working—"