Seven Minutes to Noon (25 page)

“Keep it simple,” Frannie whispered when Alice was called to the bench.

She stated her case as succinctly as possible, details swirling around her in a sea of glittering omission. “My landlord is Julius Pollack. He has recently begun to harass me. I’m frightened for my children.”

There was some back and forth about her relationship with Julius, and whether or not she would have to bring criminal charges against him before requesting the Order of Protection. Giometti stepped into the procedural line of fire, lobbing back answers Alice understood as little as the questions. Finally the judge nodded, signed a Request for an Order of Protection, banged her gavel, and it was over.

Alice felt dizzy, swept into the current of a bureaucratic system she had never imagined she would need to tap. She had always felt secure knowing the justice system was there, but now wondered how stacks of offices and reams of paperwork could protect her, or anyone, from the cracked seed of human potential. She had always figured everyone contained elements of good and bad. Life threw obstacles in front of you, challenging you to choose a reaction. She now knew one thing in her bones: she could kill Julius Pollack if she had to. She didn’t
want
to, not really, but what if something happened to coax her to it? She imagined Lauren in her final moments, put a gun in her hand.
Shoot,
Alice silently cautioned Lauren, gathering fixed images of noon-time
Brooklyn from the backseat of the police car as they drove away from the courthouse.
Shoot first.

In the squad car on their way back to the precinct, Mike finally called.

“I’m at home,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

Alice explained. “I already packed for you. If there’s anything else you want, grab it now. Call Simon, okay? See if we can stay there.”

“This is unreal, Alice.” She could hear the twist of agitation in his voice. “Let’s get out of here, okay? Get on a plane. Go.”

It was a compelling thought, and for a moment the infinite stretch of heat-wavering pastel beach filled her mind. Yes. They could go. For a week, two, maybe more.

“They’re taking me back to the precinct,” she said. “Just call Simon. And will you pick the kids up from school? I’m not sure I’ll be done in time.”

Alice, Frannie and Giometti crossed through the lobby and climbed the stairs that led to the Precinct Detectives Unit. The low-ceilinged room hummed with detectives talking to each other or on the phone or tapping their keyboards or just sitting at their desks thinking. Alice and her detectives settled in around Frannie’s desk, and in the bubble of their conversation it felt like just the three of them alone in a lens that was finally being put into focus.

“We’re going to be square with you now, Alice.” An uneasy shadow passed over Frannie’s face as if she was not quite certain it was time to remove a veil, reveal a truth, but she was going to anyway.

“Good,” Alice said. “I really need to know what’s going on.” Across the room, Alice heard a spate of typing, then the ding of a typewriter’s return.

Giometti took his hands out of his pockets and shifted in his chair. Frannie’s gaze slid to his face, then back to Alice.

“Andre Capa wasn’t following you,” Frannie said. Her eyes were round and dark, fixed on Alice, drinking in every reaction. “Andre Capa is an artist who lives near
the Gowanus Canal. He has nothing to do with this case.”

Alice was confused. Andre Capa was the last witness to Lauren’s life. Erin Brinkley had written about him seeing Christine Craddock cross the Gowanus Canal. Alice herself had seen him watching her that early morning on her solitary walk. She had seen him so many times. She had
smelled
him, he had come so close. Unless...

“Who was following me, then?” Alice felt a swell of panic at the thought that the limo driver — whoever he was — might still be out there.

“He’s one of our men,” Giometti said.

“A cop?” Alice was stunned. “What do you mean?”

“Alice.” Frannie leaned forward and softened her voice. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you since Lauren disappeared. First Christine Craddock, then Lauren, then...”

“Me?”

“We didn’t know.” Viola picked up a paper clip from the surface of her desk and bent it out of shape. “We couldn’t take any chances.”

“Have
I been in danger?” Alice asked. “Am I now?”

“We’ve been covering every possible base,” Frannie said. “We’re getting closer, we think. But there’s more work to do.”

“Why did you lie to me about Andre Capa?” Alice felt a rise of indignation; after she herself had tried so hard to share the truth with them, they had outright lied to her. “Why did you tell me that he was stalking me and that you arrested him?
Why
?”

Giometti uncrossed his legs and leaned toward Alice. “You read the newspaper.”

“Yes.”

“All those articles about the cases?” he said.

Alice nodded.

“Some of the stuff that writer’s been reporting has been undisclosed information,” he said. “We talked to Erin Brinkley, the reporter. She said a woman’s been
calling her anonymously, feeding her tips. Some of them are just wrong.”

“We needed to know if you were the leak,” Frannie clarified. “I’m sorry, Alice, but we had to test you.”

It began to dawn on Alice now. “You mean you deliberately lied to me to see if the story about Andre Capa stalking me and being arrested would turn up in the newspaper?”

“That’s right,” Giometti said.

“And it didn’t.” Frannie dropped the twisted paper clip into a wastepaper basket at the side of her desk. “So now we can work with you, if you’re willing.”

“How?” Alice felt very cold, as if someone had cranked up the air-conditioning. She glanced around the room at all the detectives, sweating in their shirtsleeves. One guy, at the neighboring desk, had a small fan pointed at his face.

“We have a plan, Alice,” Frannie said. “We think you might be in danger. We’re going to help you, and we’re hoping you’ll agree to help us too.”

“This is Dana,” Frannie told Alice. “She’s been detailed to the case.”

Dana was a light-skinned black woman whose hair was a waterfall of miniature braids. Medium height, with a lithe, elegant build, she was a colleague of Giometti’s from the Homicide Unit at the Sixtieth Precinct and a stranger to Carroll Gardens, which was exactly the idea. Here, she could pass as Alice’s friend, unrecognizable to the neighborhood as a cop. You never would have suspected Dana was a detective with a gun holstered to her ankle under the flowing red batik pants.

“You’ll need to keep Dana’s identity private,” Frannie said. “You can’t tell anyone. It could get around and really screw things up.”

“What about Mike?” How disappointed would he be, Alice wondered, to learn that Alice had agreed to help the investigation — which meant they wouldn’t be able to leave town after all?

“Only Mike.”

“The kids?”

“Do them a favor,” Dana said in a smooth, mellow voice, “and don’t tell them. They’ll be more comfortable with me if they think I’m some long-lost friend of yours. Kids who know secrets, they feel like they’ll explode if they don’t tell someone.”

“Okay,” Alice said. “Are you a long-lost friend who’s
staying with us? Or one who stands outside our front door all the time?”

Dana and Frannie both laughed. “That’s a good one,” Dana said. “I like this one.”

“Don’t get too cozy,” Frannie warned. Then, to Alice, “She won’t be staying with you. She’s an old friend from college who’s visiting and spending time with you. When she’s not with you, someone else will have the eye.”

“The eye?” Alice looked from Frannie to Giometti to Dana, her new triumvirate of protection.

“Watching you,” Frannie said.

“Okay, college friend.” Alice held out her hand and Dana shook it.

“So, where did we go to school?”

“Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, New York.”

“Got it.”

“What did we major in?”

“I majored in film. You majored in... dance.”

Dana nodded. “Sure, dance. Why not?”

“We’re going to stay with our friend Simon,” Alice said. “Maggie spends time there, even though they’re separated—”

Frannie and Giometti chuckled; they knew.

Alice felt a flush of defensiveness on Maggie’s behalf. She knew how it sounded — it sounded like just what it was: confusing and contradictory — but Maggie was her best friend.

“My point is,” Alice continued, “that Maggie won’t buy the old friend story. I’ve known her way too long.”

“I don’t know about that.” Frannie sat back and crossed her hands behind her head. “You’d be surprised what people are willing to believe.”

It was nearly four when the police finished with Alice. She walked with Dana in the dappled shade of Clinton Street toward Simon’s house, carrying the overnight bag she had packed earlier. Ribbons of humidity were beginning to choke what had started as a cool day. They climbed the stoop of the house Simon had shared with Maggie predivorce, rang the bell and waited in front of
the double door flanked by large Italian clay planters overflowing with red geraniums and slips of ivy.

“Nice place,” Dana said.

Mike flung open the door with Nell and Peter by his side. Peter clenched a fistful of popcorn. Alice noticed a dribbled trail of popcorn up the blue carpeted stairs that led from the foyer to the second-floor family room, where Simon and Ethan spent a fair amount of their time.

“Mommy!” both kids shouted at once, assaulting her with hugs. The ardent grasping of their soft arms around her legs and bulging middle felt heavenly.

“We’re having a sleepover!” Nell announced.

“Me too?” Peter asked.

“Everyone,” Mike said, winking at Alice.

She handed him the overnight bag.

“Do you have pajamas in there for me?” Nell demanded.

“What about for me?” Peter seconded.

“Yes and yes,” Alice said.

Mike opened the front door wider, letting Alice slip in past him as the children fled back upstairs. She heard sounds of cheering coming from the family room; the television was on.

“Is Ethan home?” She couldn’t remember if it was Simon’s night or Maggie’s.

“Sylvie’s got him over at Maggie’s, but they’re all coming over here later for dinner. I have to run out to the store. I’ve been waiting for you.” He kissed Alice, then extended a hand to Dana. “Mike Halpern.”

“This is Dana,” Alice told Mike, raising her voice to add, “my old friend from college.” She winked, and leaned in closer to Mike to whisper: “Homicide. She’s working with Frannie and Giometti. No one else can know.”

“Oh boy,” he said. “This is going to be fun.”

Dana had a warm, ready smile. “Nice to meet you, old friend.”

“Coming in?” Mike moved aside to clear the doorway.

“Love to.” Dana stepped into the house and stood in the archway that separated the foyer from the living room. Alice recalled the first time she came here, for a playgroup with Maggie, Lauren and a couple of other mothers when the boys were babies. It was impossible not to be overcome by the richness of every detail in every room, though by now Alice had spent enough time here to have noticed flaws.

There were few changes to the house since Maggie had moved out, leaving behind her stamp of oversized furniture, extravagant colors and even some original art commissioned for the walls that had failed to hold in the passions of a marriage. Simon’s baby grand Steinway dominated the living room, beneath an ornate crystal chandelier Maggie had bought in Austria. White walls, oriental rugs on glowing walnut floors, modern light fixtures recessed into the ceiling’s ample Victorian detail. Maggie had loved this house. In a dramatic gesture, she had insisted Simon keep it, underscoring her ability to afford her own condo in a frothy new set of houses on Warren Street, and his inability to pay for much of anything.

Shouts and more cheering emanated from upstairs.

“What’s happening up there?” Alice asked Mike.

“Yankees and Red Sox, four-four, top of the ninth.”

“So close,” she said, “but do you really think—”

“Nuh uh, sweetheart. Today we squash the Evil Empire.”

Mike was a lifelong Red Sox fan, having grown up just outside of Boston. Simon, however, was an ardent Yankees fan, having dubbed himself a born-again New Yorker as the father of an essentially American child who he felt needed a team affiliation.

“Mike, listen—” Alice began, but before she could complete the thought, he interrupted in a whisper:

“I called the travel agent. We can get flights out tonight—”

“We can’t,” Alice stopped him. “I have to explain this to you. Come.”

She took his hand and led him into the living room, where Dana had seated herself at the piano. Hands cupped over the keyboard, she began to play lightly and beautifully. A sonata, Alice thought, possibly Mozart.

“Impressive,” Alice said after.

“I wish I’d taken my lessons more seriously.” Dana lowered the keyboard cover and ran her hand gently over the gleaming wood. “My mother told me I’d regret it, and I do.”

Mike and Alice sat together on the emerald-green velvet sofa. Dana got up from the piano and faced them in a sapphire-blue wingback chair with tassels dangling off the seat. She sat with her feet planted on the floor, Alice noticed; the ankle holster would show if she crossed her legs. Alice filled Mike in on her visit to Judy Gersten’s house, the articles in the newspaper, Julius’s attack on their front door, the restraining order, her meeting afterward with the detectives, the true identity of her stalker. Everything. Dana chimed in only when it came time to describe the plan.

In the morning, they would return to the precinct to prepare for Alice’s visit to Cattaneo & Son to try to find out where Sal Cattaneo was positioned in the web that had swallowed three women and a baby girl.

Mike and Alice held hands as they walked with Dana through the increasingly sultry morning to the Seventy-sixth Precinct. Mike had insisted on coming along and Alice was grateful, her sense of heroism vanquished by yet another bad night’s sleep. “I can’t go to the workshop,” he told her, “when you’re going undercover.” When he said that word,
undercover,
it really sank in. What she was about to do could be provocative, even dangerous. She had agreed to wear a wire on her visit to Sal Cattaneo, the local butcher — and what else?