Brooklyn Graves (8 page)

She stood up quickly. “That is impossible. And I must ask you to leave now. I already have another meeting scheduled for right now. “

We had no choice but to stand ourselves. Ryan surprised me again. He looked right at her and said, “I still don't see why someone couldn't escort us into the mausoleum. We only need a few minutes.” His eyes darted nervously, but he held his ground. I guessed he was more afraid of Flint than of Dr. Reade.

I brought up reinforcements. “We could pass-on your helpfulness to Dr. Flint and he would certainly thank you and any boss you'd care to name.” I smiled, I hope reassuringly.

“Impossible to both requests.” She was shooing us toward her door. With a final smile as fake as any I have ever seen, her last words were, “I am truly sorry.”

We founds ourselves in the corridor, Dr. Reade's door firmly closed behind us. We walked and talked.

“I don't get it. And I don't know what to tell Dr. Flint. He's, uh, kind of used to getting what he wants.”

“Very strange. Very. I have no idea what's next. He'll just have to manage his speech without those details. Do you think they were actually that important?”

“Doubt it. He is a fussbudget, just like the lady said.” Ryan's voice and expression were equally gloomy. “But he will have a fit.”

“Stop.” I looked up and saw that we were in a strange corridor, nowhere near the lobby as we had intended to be. “We are lost! There's an exit arrow up ahead.”

We turned, followed the sign, realizing that the building was a circle plan around a small garden and we had gone the long way around. We passed offices relating to the cemetery business, and then offices relating to the historic landmark function. Something that looked like an archive, with steel shelves and acid-free storage boxes. I certainly knew those. And another that was filled with metal files, color-coded. A door that said, Chaplain, a sign pointing to Chapel. Another to Maintenance Services. At last we found ourselves pointed toward the lobby.

Chapter Seven

“Hey!”

Someone in the parking lot was calling me. He came closer, talking as he came. I recognized him as the annoying young man in the gift shop.

“I see you going all over here. You went into the admin building, and I saw you the other day with some of the bigwigs. I couldn't get a thing from that kid in the shop, but you must know something.”

“I know lots of things.” His attitude brought out the smart aleck in me. “I don't know that any would interest you.”

I looked around for Ryan. He was absorbed in his cell phone.

“Aw, come on! I'm just trying to find out what happened here, and I bet you do so know. You look very connected. And people have a right to be informed.”

Me? Connected? Oh, sure. I almost laughed, but now I was curious myself.

“Oh? How do you think I can help you? “

“Something happened here. They're trying to keep it quiet, but I know there was something late at night. Why don't you just tell me what the story is?”

“You were harassing that nice young woman in the shop, weren't you? I saw you with her the other day, too.”

“What, harassing? I was just doing my job, asking questions. I was explaining to her why it was a good idea to talk to me. Quid quo pro—that means one hand washes the other.”

“I know what it means.”

“I could give her a quote, or a shout out and she could put it on her Facebook page. Tweet. It's in her interest, you know. That's what the press does.”

Something about him repelled me. Maybe because the shop girl wasn't much older than Chris. Or then again, maybe it was because it had been such a tough few days and I was spoiling for a fight. With anyone. About anything.

“Your job? Really? Let's see a press card.” He thought I was a big shot? I would act like one.

“Press card? Please. That's so old school. I'm a reporter on a news blog, Brownstone Bytes. We cover everything about the brownstone neighborhoods on the 'Net. Like the old
Brooklyn Eagle,
only for the digital age. We're an important news source.”

“What nonsense,” I said in my best no-nonsense, big shot voice. “I have a friend who actually worked on the
Brooklyn Eagle
. He'll laugh himself silly when I tell him about this. Important? Not bloody likely. More like self-important.”

“Aw, come on. You were here that morning. You must have learned something.” He put out a hand to take my arm. I shook it off. “What exactly happened? What did you see? And hear? Can I get a photo?” I would have laughed at how dense he was if I had not been so annoyed.

“Am I speaking Hungarian? Go. Away. Now!”

He smiled sheepishly, shrugged, backed away still talking. “Big mistake. Someone will talk to me and it will be someone with no reason to be careful. Believe it.” He tossed a card at me and said, “Think it over” as he left.

He was a joke. Really, he was. The only flaw in my analysis was that, yes, he had provoked my curiosity. He was so very sure something newsworthy had happened here. I was told it was an accident. So what beyond that could it be? Always assuming there was anything at all. Someone was hurt? Something valuable was damaged? And how annoyed would Dr. Flint be if we did not get him the inside story? Again, assuming there actually was one.

When Ryan came back to me, phone in hand and looking rather ill, I put it all out of my mind, at least for now.

“There was a message from the boss. He's demanding to know what progress we've made and he's on the warpath. And we are way behind! I feel sick.”

So I was not the only person who thought Flint was a little scary. I reminded myself that I was the grown-up here.

I said calmly, “Don't worry. What is the worst he can do?”

“Fire me. Fire you.”

“Don't be silly. He doesn't have the power to fire me.”

‘You don't know how much influence he has!”

“Not that much. Not for the pittance the museum pays me. And why would he fire you? It sounds like he needs your skills as much as you need the job. Maybe even more. You said people kept quitting on him.” He brightened up just a fraction and I added softly, “Maybe you need to remember your own value.”

He only grunted but it was a more cheerful grunt, if such a thing is possible, and we didn't say another word all the way back to work. He was lost in his thoughts, and I was concentrating on how we could pacify Dr. Flint.

I thought Flint might approve of an interview with Ms. Skye, especially if I actually learned something useful. Should I take Ryan? That preoccupied me the rest of the way back. I didn't intend to exclude him. On the other hand, I didn't want him scaring the already skittish owner of the letters.

Back at the office, we quickly divided the fat envelopes of letters. We went back to our workroom, tidied up, made notes as needed, then he left, I left.

***

When I got home later, Alex was sitting on the top step of my front stoop. He looked sad and cold as the fall evening temperature dropped.

“What are you doing, sitting on this cold concrete?”

“No one home.” His teeth were chattering. For real, not as an expression. “Needed to see you.”

“You get right in here, and I'll have something warm for you in a sec.”

Chris not home? Where was she? I couldn't remember. I had to check my calendar. Nothing. Phone? There was a message I had not heard. She would be home after dinner. Stayed at school library to work.

“Mrs. Donato…I…”

I had been Erica to him since he was six years old. He was really rattled.

“Not a word until you warm up. Grab that afghan on the sofa.”

I microwaved milk on High, added chocolate syrup and stuck a cup into his hands, probably scorching his fingers. He gulped it down.

“Better? Now talk. What are you doing here?”

“I found something.” He struggled to get the words out. I didn't know if he was still freezing, had burned his tongue on the hot milk or if it was the distress I could see so clearly in his eyes. “I came to you—you said I could. Did I do right?”

His sudden look of uncertainty went right to my heart.

“Yes, you did.” That was the only possible answer, no matter what he meant. “How can I help?”

As he took his left hand out of his jacket pocket, I realized he had kept it there the whole time. Was he hurt? Was it a weapon?

It was a cell phone.

“Alex?”

“Not mine. My father's.”

“And?” Come on, I thought. Maybe I should have given him coffee; he was having trouble even talking.

“Not his usual phone. My mother has that, or maybe the police now. I think…this is a secret. I found it.…”

“Alex! Talk!”

He seemed to swallow hard, shake his head, square his shoulders.

“There is a drawer he has, with old photos and an old camera. I was looking there.” He turned red. “Not snooping. I thought Mom might like any pictures left in the camera. I missed him. I am man of house now.” The dazed expression came back.

“This I found. Not his usual cell number. Not a dead old phone either. So do I tell my mother? But what if…” He shrugged. “I don't know what, just I think it is secret.”

Stall. That's a lesson I had learned over the years, sometimes painfully. Stall and think.

I made him another cup of chocolate milk and added a plate of cookies. They were old, stale, supermarket brand. He powered through half a dozen without even seeming to notice.

Finally, I said, “Don't you think this might be evidence and the detectives need to have it?”

He nodded. “But there is no news from them. Are they doing anything at all? I want…we must…find out about my father. I need that and my mother needs that. So what if they just throw this back in a drawer and do nothing? And my mother? I don't want her upset. What if…?” After a long silence, he went on. “I don't know. What if my father has a reason for a secret? Something my mother should not know?”

“Perhaps this is just a backup phone, with nothing sinister at all.”

“I thought that, yes. Maybe yes. I thought I could call some numbers, find out.”

“You didn't! Oh, Alex, that was not a good idea.”

“Well, so what? I did it. But then I did not know what to say so I hung up again.”

I pulled out a napkin, wrapped my hand in it, and opened the phone.

He leaned over my shoulder as I hit Contacts. What popped up was mostly a list of businesses. “Joe Hlavik and Sons, Plumbers.” “Lightning Electrical.” “Costa, Pete—see Venice Ironwork.”

Just what you would expect from a man who worked as a custodian and lived in an old house. At first glance I did not see anything alarming, like women's names or dating services. Alex might be too young to leap to that idea but a secret phone certainly set off alarms in my older, more cynical mind.

“Alex, this has to go to the police. You shouldn't be trying to solve this. What would your mother say if she knew you were meddling even a little?”

He sighed. “You know she would have a fit. Maybe two fits.” He sat up a little straighter. “She thinks I am still her baby, but she needs me now. I will deal with this, find the people he listed and find out who they are and what they know. I will do it. You can help me figure out what to say.” He picked up paper and pencil and started a list. “I must keep calm. And sound like an adult, my deeper voice. How is this?” He lowered his voice absurdly. “I start with the ones I do not know.”

“No.” I put out my hand and covered his, pencil and all. “You really can't do this, Alex. I know you want to find out, but no, absolutely not.” He raised a blank face to me. “Someone killed your father. Don't you realize you might run across that person? Or a friend of his? It's not a job for a kid.”

“But I am man of the house now. My grandmother said.” His expression was less certain than his words. “I must.”

“Nope.” I stepped up, full on, as mom-on-the-spot.
In loco mater
or something like that. “Hand me the phone. “

He curled his fingers up around it.

“I'm not kidding. Hand it over.”

“I need to find out. Since I found this, I think, maybe I did not know my father at all.”

“And what would happen to your mother if anything happened to you?”

“Oh.” He gave it to me.

Alex had given in now, but I had no doubt he'd try again if he believed he needed to. I accepted at that moment that I would be asking questions myself, to make sure he didn't.

“Cookies for the road?” I poured the rest of the box into a plastic sandwich bag. I added a peanut butter sandwich.

“I…thank you. It is, this is…it is a bad time.”

“Of course it is. Hugs for your mother. Now head home before it gets any later.”

I did a right thing first. I found the card Detective Henderson had given me, and called him. I didn't reach him so I left a detailed message about Alex's discoveries, and asked him what I should do about getting it to him.

Then I did a wrong thing. I opened the phone again, and looked at the short contact list. I wrote down the names and numbers. I don't know why. At the back of my mind I thought Natalya might want them somehow, someday. And I have an instinct also, part of my work, to want information to be recorded and filed.

I looked at the phone. It was a cheap ordinary model, I thought. No buttons for games or photos or fancy apps. It made calls, took messages, texted. I didn't see the icon that said Messages Waiting.

I pushed the button that would give me the greeting. Dima's voice came on, a little scratchy but definitely Dima. “If you are calling about 16 Brighton 4th Street, leave a message.”

What? That wasn't Dima's home.

That was it. No “Hi, it's Dima.” No “I'm busy but I'll call back.” If you didn't know who you were calling, you certainly wouldn't find out when you called. I wondered if that was deliberate, or if Dima was just awkward with the technology. It was very odd, and it suggested to me that I take another look at the names.

Most were as straightforward as they seemed when I first looked with Alex. One was listed simply as V. I wondered if it was Dima's brother, the scary Vladimir. One said Loan. A bank? Without taking the time to think about it, I tapped the button. Instead of a recorded cheery female voice telling me I had reached the desk of So and So at Citibank, it was a man, not at all cheery, saying “I'm not here, I'll call back. Don't leave a message.” That was even stranger than Dima's greeting.

My heart was beating a little too fast, and I suddenly realized my curiosity was leading me down a road where I had no business being. I put the phone into a plastic bag and into a kitchen drawer.

What remained out was the list of names and numbers. I put that away in my desk for Natalya or Alex, if they needed it. Or if I did.

Where did that thought come from?

For now, the question was Chris. Exactly where was she and when would she be home? And what responsibility for her well-being did I have tonight? I would not be able to give any further attention to this problem after she was home.

A quick call established the plan that she and Mel would go to Mel's house for dinner, and continue working. Chem exam tomorrow. I was fine with that. More than fine, because I had an idea, and I couldn't follow through if she was home.

I called the person who knows everything about buildings.

“Hi, Joe. I was just wondering if you have a couple of free hours this evening.”

“Lucky timing. Someone canceled an appointment. Is this social or do you have a house emergency?”

“Ah, you could say that, sort of, but it's not mine.”

“Got it. I'll be there in fifteen.”

That secret phone meant something and I wanted to know what. The cops would figure it out, but their priority was not going to be protecting Natalya or Alex. If I knew what was going on, maybe I could prepare them. Or protect them somehow. I knew it was fuzzy logic, but I could not think more clearly until I knew more.