New Year's Eve Murder (16 page)

“No. We won a mother–daughter makeover.”

Ed gave her an appraising once-over but didn’t say anything. Lucy didn’t much like it and pulled herself up a little straighter. “Listen, this is a big story. I’m a reporter myself, in Maine, and I know news when I see it. I can give you the inside scoop. I saw Nadine when she was sick, I was there when Camilla Keith learned about her death, I’ve been sitting at my daughter’s bedside in the hospital. Just ask me what you want to know.”

Ed’s gaze had shifted. He was staring off in the distance, drumming his fat fingers against his chin.

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna touch this with a ten foot pole.”

“Why not?”

“The FBI’s involved, and if it really is anthrax like you say, you gotta figure Homeland Security is all over it.” He leveled his eyes at her. “You heard of the Patriot Act?”

Lucy suddenly understood why even the
Times
hadn’t printed the story. The realization made her sick.

“So nobody’s going to print this?”

He scowled and shook his head, then slowly cocked one eyebrow. “Not unless you can tell me who sent the anthrax. Now that would be worth big bucks.”

Lucy was definitely interested. “Big bucks?”

“We pay for stories. Why do you think all those people are out there? A story like this could be in the six figures, if you get it right.”

“But how am I…?”

He shrugged. “You say you’re a reporter.”

“But the government couldn’t figure out…”

He cut her off. “That’s why it’s worth six figures. Now get out of here.”

Lucy got to her feet, feeling slightly woozy. Six figures. “Did you say six figures?”

Ed nodded. “Take my card. Ya never know.”

The elevator creaked and groaned ominously as the car descended with Lucy inside. She felt like groaning herself. Maybe even wailing. What was going on? She had a terrific story, she knew it, but even the
New York Tattler
was afraid to print it because of the government. What was the world coming to?

Lucy wanted to give Ed Riedel a piece of her mind. What sort of journalist was he? Wasn’t the truth more important than anything? How was a democracy supposed to operate if newspapers were afraid to print the truth? Somebody had poisoned her daughter, somebody had killed Nadine and who knows how many other people, maybe this whole flu epidemic was actually an anthrax attack, and they were going to get away with it.

The little sign on the door said
PUSH
but Lucy slammed her hand against it, making the door fly open. She wanted to shake some sense into Ed Riedel, into those smug FBI agents, into the whole stupid world.

She marched along the sidewalk, building up a head of steam, when somebody grabbed her arm, saving her from an oncoming car. She hadn’t noticed the flashing
DON’T WALK
sign and she’d almost walked right into traffic. Looking around, she couldn’t even tell who had saved her, who she ought to thank. It was time to calm down, she told herself as she waited for the
WALK
signal. She needed to cool off—she needed a little space, a little distraction. Back home she’d go for a walk on the beach, to get some sea air and clear out the cobwebs, but here she’d have to take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. She headed for the nearest subway.

When the train pulled into the South Ferry stop, Lucy waited for the doors to slide open so she could get off, but they remained stubbornly closed. In fact, she realized, her car was barely in the station. Belatedly, she noticed a sign warning South Ferry passengers that they must be in the first five cars of the train. Furthermore, passage inside the train to the first five cars was not possible when the train was in the South Ferry station.

So she sat and waited as the train snaked its way around the subterranean loop of track at the bottom of Manhattan Island and exited at Rector Street, the next stop. She was surprised, when she surfaced onto the sidewalk, to find herself in front of a quaint little church, clearly a survivor from colonial times. She paused, peering through the wrought iron bars of the fence, and stared at a stone obelisk marking the grave of Alexander Hamilton. It was a shock to realize he wasn’t just a name in the history books but a real flesh-and-blood man who had walked these streets and prayed in this church. Tall office buildings now loomed over it; the lower tip of Manhattan was now home to the stock exchange and brokerage houses. Just beyond the church was Ground Zero, where the Twin Towers had stood before the terrorist attack. Lucy paused at the fence enclosing the enormous empty space, now cleaned up and resembling any other construction site.

On the one hand, she thought, life had to go on. Rebuilding was a way of defying the terrorists. But on the other, it was hard to forget the suffering that had taken place that day. Maybe the site should be left empty as a memorial.

She felt terribly sad leaving the site, but many of the people walking briskly along the sidewalk didn’t seem to notice it. Of course, she realized, these people worked nearby and they passed it every day. It was in their consciousness, sure, but they couldn’t afford to dwell on the past, or the possibility of a future attack. If they did, they’d go crazy. They certainly wouldn’t be able to get on the subway or ride the elevator up to the top of one of the adjacent office towers.

She strolled past the famous statue of the bull, that most American symbol of optimism, and noted that it stood on Bowling Green, now a little park filled with homeless people but once the place where seventeenth-century Dutch settlers had once spent their leisure hours bowling.

George Washington had come here, to nearby Fraunces Tavern, to say farewell to his troops. Walt Whitman had written about New York, and so had Herman Melville. He’d written about the Battery in
Moby Dick
, the same Battery Park she was walking in now, on her way to the ferry terminal. And in much the same way as he’d described, people were still drawn there daily to gaze at the Narrows of New York Harbor, now spanned by the Verrazzano Bridge, and to think of the vast ocean beyond.

The ferry terminal itself was under construction, but renovations to the waiting area were completed, and a small crowd of people had gathered in front of a set of steel and glass doors through which the ferry could be seen approaching. They grew restless as it docked, and they had to wait for the New York–bound passengers to disembark before the doors opened and they could surge forward, down the ramp to the boat. There were plenty of benches to sit on but they were largely ignored by these restless New Yorkers who couldn’t imagine sitting down comfortably until the ferry was clear and then strolling aboard in a leisurely fashion. Finally, the crowd thinned, the doors slid open, and the crowd surged forward.

Lucy marched along with the rest down a wide ramp, wondering who all these people were and why they were taking the ferry in the middle of the day. They couldn’t be commuters at this hour; maybe they were tourists like her? She glanced about, looking for telltale clues like cameras and shopping bags, and spotted Deb Shertzer walking a few feet from her, wearing her funeral black.

“Hi,” said Lucy, with a smile. She was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar face, having grown used to passing hundreds of strangers every day.

“Well, hi yourself,” said Deb, falling into step alongside her. “What are you doing down here?”

“I’m just taking a ferry ride to clear my head,” said Lucy. “This has all been pretty overwhelming and I need a break.”

“No wonder,” sympathized Deb, tucking an unruly strand of her short hair behind one ear. “You certainly got more than you bargained for. How’s Elizabeth doing?”

Lucy felt that Deb really cared; she wasn’t just going through the motions and saying the expected thing. Unlike most of the women at the magazine who took great pains to look smart and fashionable, Deb wouldn’t have looked out of place in Tinker’s Cove with her boyish haircut, sensible walking shoes, and flower-print cloth tote bag.

“She’s much better. Thanks for asking.”

A cold blast of air hit them as they stepped aboard the ferry, and Lucy inhaled the familiar scent of gasoline mingled with ozone and salt water and for a moment imagined she was at the fish pier in Tinker’s Cove.

“People forget New York is a port city,” said Deb, apparently reading her mind. “With all the tall buildings it’s easy to forget Manhattan’s an island.”

“It’s not like any island in Maine, that’s for sure,” said Lucy, peering through the windows in hopes of glimpsing the ranks of skyscrapers clustered around Wall Street. That view was blocked, but she could see a huge tanker passing on the port side, and across the water she could see docks and warehouses lined up on the Brooklyn shore.

“I’d like to stand outside on the deck but I think it’s too cold.”

“Probably nobody out there today but cuddling couples,” said Deb, taking a seat on one of the long benches that filled the ferry’s belly. “Believe it or not, a ride on the ferry is a popular cheap date.”

Lucy had a sudden panic attack. “I forgot to pay!”

“It’s free,” said Deb.

“That is a cheap date,” said Lucy, taking the seat beside her. “Do you make this commute every day?”

“No. I live in Queens and take the subway to work. My mother lives in Staten Island so I’m taking advantage of a free afternoon to visit her.” She looked out the window as the ferry started to pull away from its berth. “The offices are still closed.”

“What did you think of the funeral?”

Deb looked at her curiously. “That’s right, you were there, weren’t you? You saw Elise freak out at Pablo.” She shook her head. “That’s just like her, you know. I have no doubt Camilla told Pablo to take the photos, then got Elise to take it out on him when she changed her mind.”

“Camilla was probably upset,” said Lucy. “She and Nadine were friends since college, right?”

“Barnard girls. Elise, too.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “Believe me, if I had a daughter, I’d send her anywhere but Barnard.”

“I’m sure it’s a fine institution,” said Lucy. “Has anyone else gotten sick?”

“No…but we’re all keeping our fingers crossed and taking our Cipro. The offices are closed, of course, so the hazmat crew can do their stuff.” Deb sighed. “I’m not looking forward to going back.”

“They won’t let you in unless it’s safe.”

“It’s still creepy.”

“Yeah,” agreed Lucy, gazing across the water at a fanciful Victorian structure like a wedding cake sitting on an island. “What’s that?”

“Ellis Island. Gateway to America for millions of immigrants.”

Lucy hadn’t realized it was so close to Manhattan. The immigrants would have been able to see the city as they waited to be admitted. “Can you imagine how heartbreaking it would be to finally get here, after a horrendous sea voyage, with your whole family and everything you owned, only to learn you had tuberculosis or something and they wouldn’t let you in?”

“They had quarantine wards; they nursed the sick ones and most of them eventually got in.”

“I’d like to think so,” said Lucy, gazing at the Statue of Liberty and thinking about those World War II movies that ended with a boatful of refugees, or returning soldiers, gazing at the symbol of freedom. She found herself blinking back a tear. “I bet you’re used to seeing her.”

“Not really. It’s always a bit of a thrill. She’s fabulous, even if her accessories are rather unusual and that shade of green doesn’t look good on anybody.”

Lucy was grateful for the joke. “I agree about the book and torch, but I think those foam crowns would make a good gift for my girls at home.”

“A good choice, and affordable, too. Personally, I’d go for something a bit more subdued—I don’t really have occasion to wear a tiara.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off Lady Liberty and fell silent as the ferry glided by. “Where’s Governors Island?” she asked.

“I’m not really sure but it might be that one on the other side.” Deb pointed towards a sizeable island with numerous buildings. “It used to be some sort of military base but now it’s empty and they’re trying to figure out what to do with it.”

“Right. Actually, I have a friend who’s on that committee.” Lucy hadn’t realized how close the island was to Wall Street, or how magnificent the views would be. It was also much more built up than she expected, covered with neat brick buildings that could easily be converted to luxury housing. It would be most attractive to the well-heeled investment bankers and lawyers and brokers who worked in the financial district; the island would offer unparalleled security only a short boat ride from their offices. Plus, there was even docking space for their yachts. “I heard Nadine’s husband is trying to develop it.”

“Could be. I never paid much attention to her private life.”

“You got enough of her at work?” asked Lucy.

“You said it, not me.” Deb’s eyes glittered mischievously.

“I get the sense she wasn’t very popular at the magazine,” said Lucy, putting out a feeler, “but it’s hard to believe that one of her fellow workers would actually poison her.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t put anything past that crowd,” said Deb. “They’re all self-centered, shallow, ambitious, and ruthless—it’s the fashion industry, after all. The most vital question on all their minds right now is whether purple is really going to be the hot new color this spring. There’s a lot riding on it, you know.” She looked up as the ferry groaned and slowed in preparation for docking. “This crowd is more likely to skewer you with sarcasm. Where would a fashionista get anthrax? It’s not like they sell it at Bloomie’s.”