Brooklyn Bones (25 page)

McLeod didn’t take a single note. He only nodded at the end. “Oh, yes, you are deep in something ugly and even without knowing what it’s all about, there is clearly risk for you.”

I flinched and Steven put his hand over mine for a second.

“First, Ms. Donato, do the obvious and lay low. Stop asking questions. Why take chances? And you’ve told me everything, and have no idea who you are ticking off so dramatically? You’re sure?” He looked thoughtful at my heated denial of any further knowledge. “We can look into that if it seems necessary, but let’s talk first about how we can throw some safety around you until this blows over, shall we? Steve, that’s what you and Mr. Hoyt have in mind?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course we have all levels of security from house alarms to bodyguards, and twenty-four surveillance. Mr. Hoyt didn’t specify; he’s leaving it up to my judgment.”

“I’m thinking she needs…”

“Excuse me!” I interrupted these smooth men with their smooth executive conversation. I said it like a woman who knows how to push her way out of a crowded subway train. “Excuse me! Am I still here?”

Both men looked startled and then smiled. Steven quickly apologized, and McLeod said, “Maybe I was getting carried away with my job here. I’ll ask it differently: when do you feel the most endangered?”

“That’s impossible to say, because it has been so random. And then people I know seem to get in trouble. The not knowing what the hell is going on—or if anything terrible is—is what is driving me crazy. But are we discussing bodyguards? We can’t be. That is ridiculous. I’m not some rock star with a huge ego.”

“Ms. Donato,” McLeod said gently, “I was just laying out some options. That’s the level we provide for, say, one of our executives in a foreign country with a high crime rate. Perhaps what makes sense right now is to do a full security assessment. Someone did break into your house. Let’s figure out how to make sure that does not happen again. And then we spread ourselves further as we see the need.”

Steven started to protest, but McLeod went on. “In the meantime, we can make a few efforts at digging into what this is all about. When can we send someone to your house for a look around? We can also think about a home alarm system. That’s not unusual and not a big deal to do. I’m sure Mr. Hoyt meant for me to include it as an option.”

“Without a doubt.”

“No, but that’s too much…I can never repay that kind of favor.”

Steven looked at me very seriously. “It’s nothing to James, you know. No more than subway fare would be to you. And I can assure you he would be insulted at the word repay.”

McLeod smiled. “Why don’t we figure out how to install a basic one? At the very least, it would protect you and your home from another intruder. That’s not a small thing for a woman alone.”

I knew that made sense but I felt as if my life was spinning into some surreal zone. How could this be me, Erica Shapiro Donato from East Flatbush, talking to a high-powered security expert?

“I will think it over and get back to you.” I saw their faces, and added, “Soon. I will get back to you soon. I promise. I need to think a little.”

McLeod nodded, slightly. “We will accept that, and hold you to it. Say the word and I can have a team there right away. Deal?”

“Deal.” I stood up. I was exhausted. “I am going home now.”

Steven stood up with me. “I’ll put you in a company car. You’ve had a long day.”

As he walked me to the entrance, I finally had the chance to ask my pent-up questions. “But what about our work? Isn’t that why I came here? I have all this material, too. And your uncle! What is his role here? I am so confused.”

His expression was amused, but all he said was, “More questions? I have to be somewhere now and I’m tied up tomorrow. Let’s reschedule our meeting for day after? Breakfast? Don’t worry about the material you brought. I’ll take good care of it.”

He had not told me a thing and all in all, I was too tired to really care anymore. I would make a list of all my questions, and day after tomorrow, over breakfast, I would confront him without mercy to get some answers.

The short drive home was extended by traffic everywhere. I drifted. Afterwards, I could not have said if we took the tunnel or one of the bridges to Brooklyn. I knew nothing until the car stopped in front of my house.

Upstairs to my room, to change out of my only summer business outfit and hang it up carefully. Out of my heels and hose, and into my comfortable gym shorts and t-shirt. I was home at last, back in my cave for the rest of the night.

My phone rang and I let it go to the machine. I was not in the mood to rush to answer it. A voice I didn’t know began, “Don’t you learn? Stop asking questions. Stop talking to cops. Stop talking to reporters. Stop meddling.” I sat down, legs shaking, and listened to the rest, telling what would happen to me if I did not stop. It was vile, unbelievable, unreal. I was too shocked to move; I was too shocked to turn it off.

They were right, those smooth corporate men, Steven and his uncle and McLeod, and even Rick. I was caught in the middle of something ugly and dangerous. One thing after another had happened around me. This one was aimed right at me.

I had two immediate choices. I could make that call to the polite, tough Mr. McLeod or I could have hysterics. Hysterics was a tempting, but with hands that shook, I dug into my purse for McLeod’s card.

McLeod was calm and entirely reassuring. He would have a security team there within the hour.

I was too exhausted to think anymore. I waited for McLeod’s team, curled up on my sofa under an old baby quilt of Chris’, with the TV turned to very old comedy programs. I would have cuddled up with Chris’ old teddy bear if I could have summoned energy to walk upstairs to get it.

I knew I should have been scared—oh, all right, I was plenty scared—but I was also angry. I was tired of someone messing with me and those around me. Furious, actually.

McLeod’s team arrived in less than an hour, three awesomely competent looking men in neat, anonymous work clothes. I was surprised to see Steven with them.

“I know you are stressed by all this so I thought you might like some company while they work.” He hesitated, then put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “For support, physical and moral both.” I was touched by his thoughtfulness.

The team moved around my house with great efficiency, taking measurements, looking at outlets, assessing my window locks. They hammered and screwed and Steven joined them. I escaped into television; I could not have said later what was on. When they were done, they showed me how to use my brand new alarm system and left, while Steven came back to talk to me.

“Would you like to get out tonight? Maybe it would be good for you?”

I was again on the sofa, wrapped in Chris’ quilt. How impossible would it be to get up and go out? I was too sad about Rick, too worried about Leary. Really, too overwhelmed by my life.

“You have to eat, if nothing else.” And then in my mind, I heard Joe quoting Chris on my pathetic social life. “Why not? Give me a minute to change?”

A quick look at my e-mail before we left showed me a note from Chris. “You called? How R U? I’m fine. Really. Stop worrying. Miss U. Write me a letter about Rick and our lost girl and everything!!! Have fun or something!” Timely advice.

Once again I was in Steven’s luxurious car, and the hour was late enough so traffic was only a problem and not a torment. Over the bridge and then we were wandering around the brute masonry of bridge ramps and foundations. The street patterns, running up against the bridge, made no sense to me. Though we were near the original City Hall, Police Plaza, and the city government office towers, there was no possible reason to be there in the evening. There was no neighborhood there.

“Where in the world are we going? “

“Be patient. One more turn around a block and—aha!—here we are.”

We were in front of a tiny, three-story clapboard building, painted barn red with black trim. Overwhelmed by the massive structures all round, it looked like it belonged in very old New England. Salem, perhaps, or Cape Cod.

Steven looked as pleased as if he’d built it himself. “Behold Bridge Tavern, the oldest drinking establishment in New York. They serve food too. The right place to take a historian? You like places with a story.”

It certainly had one. The menu told us it was more than two hundred years old, and it was as charming on the inside as the outside, with a nineteenth-century pressed tin ceiling, and walls covered with art from all eras and styles, depicting this same building.

“I love it. What a wonderful idea.”

“I’m glad. My plan was something or someplace so captivating it would distract you right out of your difficulties for an evening. And they do have excellent real cooking, not bar food.”

“If bar food means burgers and pizza, it would work for me. I’m not really so sophisticated.” I felt sheepish, saying it.

“Want to discuss the menu?” It was a kind offer, not condescending, and I was grateful. Mussels, duck and bluefish, wonderful sauces and garnishes, and a bottle of wine with a shocking price tag. At least it shocked me. Everything tasted delicious and luxurious

We started out talking about the charming restaurant and its wild history over the centuries. It had been a bar, a grocery that sold liquor, a brothel. Before the building of the bridge, this had been one of the city’s worst neighborhoods in one of its most lawless periods.

Then we went on to talk about almost everything except my current disturbing life, or Steven’s marriage or mine. We stuck to pleasant topics, as if we had made a deal without saying so. Steven’s stiffness melted away and so did my stress and exhaustion, at least for now.

The fish we ate led to my memories of fishing on day boats off Sheepshead Bay with Rick and my dad, and his memories of learning to cast for trout on Adirondack vacations. The Adirondacks led to Chris at camp and my hope she would get to travel more than I had. That led to hilarious stories about his post-college trek through Europe. We talked about favorite travel books, and then we talked about beloved childhood books, which took us to dessert.

It was clear we had almost no experiences in common and it didn’t matter; we never stopped talking except when we were laughing. I admitted silently that Darcy was right about him after all.

After dinner, he said, “Surprisingly they have one of the best collections of Scotch in the entire city. I think I should teach you how to drink quality Scotch. What do you say?”

“Ouch. Did you notice I didn’t drink any in your uncle’s office?”

His smile was teasing and challenging but not mocking.

“I’m game.” I smiled back. I might even have giggled. “But I might still prefer beer.”

He had a quick conference with the bartender, and brought back four full shot glasses.

“Now pay attention, Ms. Donato. School is in session. Please observe that the colors vary slightly. Very discreetly, take a sniff of each.”

I almost choked.

“Take a little sniff! Can you tell the difference? No? Try again?”

He played professor and walked me though the names, the origins, the subtle differences. When I asked if I should be taking notes, he told me not to be impertinent.

I looked up at him, laughter in his expression, and thought, “I am having fun tonight.” It was such an unfamiliar emotion it had taken all evening for me to recognize it.

Finally I said, “My mouth is all Scotch tasting. I need to stop. I think I’ve had enough for now.

“Any favorites?”

“I still like beer better.”

He laughed. “You are a waste of first-class alcohol, but the cure for that is more tasting another night.” Driving tonight, he had not been sampling, but he finished off one before we left.

We walked back to the car arms wrapped around each other. It seemed natural by then. I wasn’t drunk, but I was a little happy, a little relaxed. I was grateful, and I stopped before we opened the car to tell him so.

He kissed me then. I think it surprised us both. He didn’t pursue it, just smiled and said, “You taste like Scotch. Very nice.”

We were quiet in the car, all talked out, but he held my hand under his on the gearshift, another entirely new experience for me.

At my house, Steven made sure I knew how to turn the new alarm off, saw me in, and kissed me good night. We ended up kissing each other good night for quite awhile. He put his hands on each side of my face, and searched my eyes.

“This is…something, isn’t it? Not just any night out?”

I nodded, speechless. It had been a long time since I had been kissed like that. And since I kissed back. It felt good. It felt too good.

Arms tight around me, he whispered into my ear, “Go get some sleep. I’ll call. I’ll see you day after tomorrow. Lock the door behind me and make sure the alarm is on.” A few more kisses, and he was gone.

I was breathless. I was smiling. I was confused.

There was a voice message from Chris and even that did not rattle my smiley state. Yes, it was a late night call from my child, but I was incapable of worrying at that moment.

I didn’t need to. She quickly assured me that she was fine, but she had been given access to the camp office phone and wanted to see how I was and find out what was happening with the research on the skeleton and any news about Rick. She told me I could send e-mail to the office, and the staff would get them to her. She added, “But nothing too private, please! And please, no mushy stuff!”