The Deadhouse (22 page)

Jesse wasn't buying it. "They were more frightened of a weeny
terrier than of being blown off the side of the building? That one's
hard to swallow. I think they saw me returning and just panicked. Why'd
they go
up
and not down?"

Powell answered again. "Their boss says that when it's windy, it's
actually more dangerous to be lowered than to go up higher. If they
drop, it means they have to let out more rope, and that causes them to
swing more, and that makes it riskier for them."

He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me off into the den.
"I don't want to make a scene in front of your neighbor, but you gotta
know that since the scaffolding went up, there have been three
burglaries in the building."

I turned to look at Powell, surprised by the news. "Nobody's
mentioned it to me."

"Needless to say, management would rather not have it known. There's
no forced entry, so we've been looking at them as inside jobs. We
actually started with the house staff as suspects—"

"Hey, I'd start with these guys on the outside. I'd go to the mat
for the men who work in the building. Every single one of them." "Well,
today seems to prove the point. You want to look around for me and tell
us if anything's missing? I patted them down, and they've got nothing
on them. Of course, since your neighbor was so quick to act, these guys
never got out of your apartment. So if they didn't drop stuff out the
window, they probably didn't have a chance to take anything.

"And you might want to know, just for your comfort level, that these
mopes who've been staring in everyone's window the past few weeks?
They've both got sheets a mile long. The short one standing near the
kitchen door, he's on parole in the Bronx for armed robbery. The taller
one, who pretends he don't understand English? He's had four collars
for larceny.

"One of your neighbors in the C line moved in on a Monday night, and
woke up the next morning to see him standing in her bedroom doorway.
She screamed her guts out."

"And he's still working here?"

"The guy backed right out. Said he thought the apartment was still
empty, didn't know she'd moved in. He'd been using the bathroom as his
Porta Potti all month. Apologized and left. Hard to know what to do
about him."

"Would you mind getting these guys out of here while I check around
for you?"

"We're taking 'em over to the precinct. Gonna print both of them, to
compare against the other cases. I won't charge 'em with anything here
unless you tell me something's gone, okay?"

The two detectives walked the men out of the apartment while Mike,
the super, and I surveyed the damage. Broken glass was everywhere,
mixed in with the shattered china.

"Is Powell locking them up?"

"I can't see it, for this. What if their lives really were at risk
and they had to come inside? I'm not going to second-guess anybody on
that. They don't seem to have gotten out of here with anything. All
they did was make a mess." We were standing by the window, and even
though there didn't seem to be much wind today, the frigid air streamed
into the room.

"Yeah, well, I think it's bullshit and they're lucky they landed
where they did. Nice to know you're so forgiving about guys who crash
into your pad. I may bank on that. What are you gonna do about this
mess?" In one corner of the room stood my cheerful little Christmas
tree, while here at my feet was a pile of debris.

The super spoke. "We'll take care of it for you, Ms. Cooper. We'll
clean all this up by the end of the day. Just make a list for us of the
things that were broken and we'll submit it to the insurance company."

He looked at the giant hole in the glass. "I doubt I can get the
window replaced before tonight. Were you planning on being here for
Christmas?"

I shook my head.

"Then you'll have a new one by Thursday, I promise."

When everyone left, Mike and I knelt on the floor to pick up some of
the porcelain pieces. "Now I've got something new to worry about. I
can't think of many places I've felt safer than behind the doors of
this apartment, once I get inside at night and turn the locks. No fire
escape, no back entrance, no way in unless I open the dead bolt." I
tried to laugh. "Now I've got to worry about men climbing in off
scaffolding twenty stories above the street?"

"These guys were trying to give you the same message I was the other
night. Time to settle down and develop a more stable lifesty—"

"Don't go there, Mr. Chapman. Get up off your knees. There's nothing
to salvage in this pile. I'm just going to check with the office and
then I'll take a cab out to the airport."

"But they wrecked the joint."

"Puts things in perspective, though, doesn't it? Lola Dakota is
dead, and all I've got to complain about is some broken china. Want to
open your Christmas present?"

"Nope. Let's celebrate when you come back. Maybe we can get Mercer
in for dinner one night and have our own little holiday, okay?"

"Pick the date. That's fine with me."

I dialed my office number and checked with Laura to see if there
were any messages that had come in since we last spoke. She told me no
and patched my call through to Catherine Dashfer, who was supervising
the unit while I was uptown. "Thanks for covering for me. Anything
going on today?"

"A new case just came into the complaint room. Looks like we're
going to have to do a hospital hearing at the end of the week, to hold
the perp in. Do you think you can get Leemie or Maxine to cover it on
Friday? Paul and I are still planning to be at my sister's house
through the weekend."

"Sure. Let me make some calls. Why a hospital hearing, though?"
There could be several reasons the proceeding would be held in an
institution and not at the courtroom. It was frequently done when the
defendant was confined with an injury or an illness, or if he had a
mental condition that required detention at a long-term-care facility.
In that case, the judge, lawyers for both sides, court officers, and an
official stenographer trouped to the site to conduct the arraignment or
probable-cause hearing. "What hospital?"

"Bird S. Coler. The one on Roosevelt Island."

"Even better. I'll do this one myself. Tell Laura to have the file
messengered to Jake's doorman." That way it would be waiting for me
when we came home from the Vineyard on Thursday evening. "What's the
case?"

Catherine repeated the facts that the officer had told her. "Perp's
name is Chester Rubiera. He's a paranoid schizophrenic with a history
of substance abuse. Assaulted one of the other patients. I'll get a
facilitator for her, too. The victim has a severe mental disability.
You may need someone to help the court understand her testimony. Friday
at ten, okay?"

I turned to Chapman and explained the situation. "How about if I ask
Nan to show us around Roosevelt Island on Friday afternoon? I've never
been there. The new case happened at Coler." A chronic-care facility
located on the north end of the island, the hospital was home to many
patients with physical ailments, and had a large psychiatric unit as
well. "I can do the hearing in the morning, and you can meet me over
there at lunchtime. Maybe we can get a sense of the place."

"You're living in the past, blondie. Your fascination is with
Blackwells Island. There's no such thing anymore, and there's no
evidence, at the moment, to think that Lola's death is connected to
what's going on over there today."

"You're right. But I'm just interested in what had Lola so engaged
in that project. If there's something more important to be done on
Friday, I'll skip it. If not, I'll exorcise my curiosity." "You know
what curiosity did to the cat, Coop." "It's a perfect place to be,
under those circumstances," I said, smiling. "At the deadhouse."

16

Jake Tyler was waiting for me when the shuttle landed at Logan
Airport. I dropped my bags and threw my arms around his neck. "I was so
afraid that something would happen to get in the way of these
forty-eight hours. More murder and mayhem. Or a snowstorm."He picked up
my tote and we started walking to the Cape Air counter. "You got lucky
on the first two. There's a front coming through Boston in about three
hours, headed for the Cape and islands. So if we don't get out of here
soon, we're likely to be stranded."The gray sky was thick with clouds,
and had dimmed to charcoal before we boarded the five o'clock flight to
Martha's Vineyard. The nine-passenger, twin-engine Cessna took off
after a long runway delay, and the heavy chop in the air slowed the
usual thirty-three-minute passage to almost forty-five. The wind
bounced us around in our narrow seats in the rear of the plane, and we
circled out over Nantucket Sound until the tower cleared us for
landing. The pilot lowered us out of the fog to see the white-capped
surf pounding the island's southern shore and guided us into the
airport, surrounded by the tall pines of the state forest.

I had been talking throughout most of the ride about the case—Lola
Dakota's life and the tragic circumstances of her death. Jake had
listened carefully, and interrupted from time to time with the skilled
cross-examination of a good investigative reporter. "I'm letting you
get this out of your system now," he chided me. "I'm putting a two-day
moratorium on all autopsy results, serological reports, and police
investigations. World crises, too."

He leaned over and kissed my lips as we taxied to the small
terminal, and then the pilot stepped out on the wing to come around,
open the door, and lower the exit stairs. "Is that acceptable to the
People, Ms. Cooper?" "Yes, Your Honor."

I had asked my caretaker and his wife to set up the house for
us—turn on heat, make up the bed, arrange flowers that were delivered a
day earlier, stock the groceries that I had ordered, put champagne on
ice, and lay a stack of logs in the fireplace. He had also left my car
at the airport lot so that we could drive ourselves home whenever we
arrived.

A thin dusting of snow coated the parked cars. We let the engine
warm up and put the defroster on to melt the ice that had formed on the
windshield. I had dressed warmly in slacks and a sweater, topped by my
ski jacket, but the bitter cold worked at my nose and ears and within
seconds gave both of our cheeks a ruddy glow. The local radio station
played generous helpings of the island's musical treasures, James
Taylor and Carly Simon, and I tuned in as she was singing the chorus to
"Anticipation." Like Carly, I was thinking about how right tonight
might be.

The twenty-minute ride up island was quick and quiet. There were no
reminders of the traffic of the summer people, who poured onto the
Vineyard between Memorial Day and Labor Day, renting beach houses,
filling the small inns, and crowding the tiny streets in town. My old
farmhouse, way out on a hilltop, overlooking an endless expanse of sea
and sky, was one of the most peaceful places I had ever known. Whatever
the horrors that crossed my desk every day, this was where I came to be
restored.

South Road's wintry darkness gave way to the high beam of my
headlights. Without the leafy fullness of the summer foliage, houses
set back from the road were visible this time of year. Many were
lighted for the holiday season, decorated with garlands of greens,
ribbons of red and white velvet, and candles set on windowsills in the
traditional New England fashion. I had bought this home with Adam, in
the months before our wedding was to have been celebrated. For almost
ten years thereafter, it had been impossible for me to think of it as
my own. Then, with the tragic shooting of my friend Isabella Lascar, I
had questioned whether I could actually come back here at all. I
renovated and redecorated, knowing those changes were merely cosmetic
and couldn't reach the soul of my trepidation. But since the summer,
the great joy I had found with Jake had renewed my excitement and my
love for this unique place.

I made the last turn at Beetlebung Corner and pulled into a parking
space in front of the Chilmark Store. Nothing else was open at my end
of the island, so the general store was our lifeline to all essentials.
I ran up the steps, clogged in summer with beach-goers, cyclists,
joggers, workmen—tourists and regulars—who sat and gossiped over
morning coffee and
The New York Times,
came from miles away
for a slice of Primo's pizza at lunchtime, and bought everything from
iced cappuccino to batteries to fresh blueberry pie before the doors
closed at sunset. A sign on the door announced that they were closed
for Christmas week, so I crossed my fingers that all the supplies we
needed were at the house.

My driveway was only two miles farther up the road. Wind began to
howl around us as I drove up the last hill before the house. As always,
my heartbeat quickened with delight at the prospect of coming home. I
slowed the car as we approached the familiar stand of mailboxes on the
side of the road, then drove in through the granite gateposts,
startling a doe and her two fawns, who were foraging on the snowy
ground for something to eat. They darted off and I drove up next to the
door. Upon each arrival, I drank in the beauty of my view. Headlights
off, we sat in the car without speaking as I gazed off at the dim
lights in the distance, till Jake caressed my neck and again brought my
mouth to his.

"C'mon, Mrs. Claus. We've got work to do. Aren't you hungry?"

I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost eight o'clock, as we
took our bags from the car and went inside the house. "I've got the
whole evening scheduled. You're not allowed to be hungry yet. Dinner is
going to be at eleven, so that we can begin our official celebration at
midnight."

"Mind if I nibble on an earlobe or a collarbone till then?" Jake was
following in my footsteps as I went from room to room, turning on lamps
and illuminating the scented candles. "There's got to be something
unplanned, every now and then, that I can slip into your demanding
schedule."