The Spire (19 page)

Darrow followed him to his corner office. One bookshelf was filed with tomes on criminology; on another, next to George's college diploma and certificates of completion from advanced policing courses, was a picture of a smiling, round-faced woman and two bright-eyed kids. Families everywhere, Darrow thought.

'Have a seat,' Garrison said brusquely. 'To what do I owe the pleasure''

'A couple of things. For openers, I went to see Steve again.'

Garrison's face turned opaque. 'And''

'He told me about the incident involving you and his sister. He also claims that he told Angela about it shortly before the murder, apparently by way of apology.'

'_That's_ what you came to tell me'' Garrison paused, then muted his tone of incredulity. 'You don't just 'get over' a prejudice so deeply ingrained. Even by your account, Angela was Tillman's one black 'friend,' and his idea of racial amity was fucking. God knows what happened between them in that room.'

Darrow shifted in his chair. 'Maybe so. But murder's an extreme form of prejudice. Did your investigation come up with any other instance where Steve became violent'whether with women, blacks, or otherwise''

'Not that I know of,' Garrison said. 'But suppose you believe, like Tillman says, that Angela left his room alive. Then who killed her' Someone lurking by the Spire at two A.M.' A random murderer walking across a deserted campus, looking for some equally random victim to strangle but not rape or rob' Some drunk who had the sudden inspiration to kill the first woman he saw'' Once more, Garrison modulated his tone. 'Why don't you ask Fred Bender. Should be easy enough'in case you've missed it, Fred became Caldwell's chief of security. He'll know who the suspects were, if any.'

'What about Griff Nordlinger'' Darrow asked. 'I'd ask
him
, but he seems to have disappeared.'

'All the way to heaven. Nordlinger died in Phoenix, several years ago.'

'Of what''

'Heart attack, I think. The man had worked his ticker overtime.' Garrison seemed to sit more heavily. 'A couple of years after the trial, I busted him for possession of cocaine. By then'or so his ex-wife said'he had a wicked cross-addiction to powder cocaine and whiskey. Nordlinger was finished as a lawyer'I had him ready to flip, name Carl Hall as his supplier. But instead of pressing charges, the chief let Griff's daughter hustle him off to rehab in Arizona. Not my call'I wanted Carl pretty bad. Needless to say, Nordlinger never came back to Wayne.'

Darrow parsed the implications of this. 'During Steve's trial, was Nordlinger screwed up''

'Thought you'd ask that,' Garrison answered with a trace of asperity. 'As far as I recall, no one ever said so during the trial. In Tillman's case, I doubt it would have mattered. Anything else you want to know''

'One thing. Who performed the autopsy on Angela' All I remember is that she was blond.'

Garrison nodded. 'That would be Carly Simmons.'

'Know where I can find her''

'Yeah. She lives here in the county, out by Cahaba Road.' Garrison leaned forward, gazing at Darrow across the desk. 'I don't know what you're up to, Mark. But I don't have the time or the manpower to excavate the past. Or, in Tillman's case, a reason. So the next time we discuss him, it'll be because you've got something real to say.'

Darrow thanked him. Leaving, he walked swiftly to the parking lot, hoping to beat Taylor to his door.

T

AYLOR F ARR, D ARROW NOTED, WAS A PUNCTUAL WOMAN'AT six-thirty she arrived at his door, wearing jeans and a sweater and carrying a thick black binder. Pointing at the binder, Darrow asked, 'Is that my homework''

'More or less,' she said briskly. 'A survey of postmodern art, culled from the Internet and screened through my quirky sensibilities. But after you called me, I tried to be gentle. There may be something in here that you actually like.'

'It's fat enough.' Motioning her inside, Darrow said, 'Ready to inspect the chamber of horrors''

She walked past him into the living room, her swift, graceful strides reminding him of both an athlete and a runway model. From the back he watched her look from piece to piece: the pastel watercolor portraying spring; a winsome girl with saucer eyes; the nondescript Swedish modern furniture; the dining room table of blond wood; the glass coffee-table top set on the lacquered stump of a redwood tree; and, over the fireplace, an oil painting of the Reverend Charles Caldwell, his forbidding mien meant to signal rectitude but, to Darrow, more evocative of a hanging judge. She studied the Reverend Caldwell for a good while, her long raven hair tilting with the angle of her head.

'Well'' Darrow asked.

Taylor did not turn. 'I'm speechless.'

'Try.'

Facing him, she knit her brow in mock concentration. ' 'Dreadful'' No. What word means both 'depressing' and 'horrifying'' The art's insipid, the furniture sterile, and nothing goes together. You're living in the Museum of Modern Dreck.' Waving a hand at the Reverend Caldwell, she said, 'Then there's him. If you look at him too long, you'll never have sex again. And if you
stay
here too long, you'll kill yourself.'

'The thought's occurred to me,' Darrow answered solemnly. 'Tell me, are art historians always this scathing' Or is this lacerating commentary inspired by my decor''

Taylor laughed. 'Both. There's no art historian typology, really. But all of us tend to be passionate about art, and more than usually opinionated.' Placing her binder on the coffee table, she added, 'We're also trained to see things, though I think some of that's inherent. Even as a kid, I saw that what I drew wasn't as good as what I could perceive in someone else's work.'

'I liked what you painted.'

Taylor smiled up at him. 'That's because you're inherently nice. You'd have said something kind if I'd painted a lopsided dollhouse with smoke coming out the chimney. But I wasn't an artist, like my mother; I was an interpreter and describer, like my father. Sometimes I think we're too much alike.'

For an instant, Darrow thought of Taylor at eight or nine. The image he retained was of a lovely child, serious and very observant, who seemed to harbor more thoughts than she cared to express. 'You're certainly less quiet than you were,' Darrow remarked lightly. 'And very clear about what you think. That's Lionel as I know him.'

Taylor's smile was fainter. 'So's the quiet. Beneath what my father chooses to express is a bottomless well of silence. I try to guess his thoughts and feelings, and all too often draw a blank. Perhaps he's lonely, an introvert by nature.'

Though Darrow shared this sense of Lionel Farr, he had come to accept it as a given. 'I've sometimes thought that,' he responded. 'Though I'm sure it's more perplexing in a parent than a provost. Would you care for some wine, by the way''

'Yes, thanks. A white, if you have one open.'

Darrow went to the kitchen. When he returned, Taylor was flipping pages in her binder, her concentration total. It gave him a moment to consider, once again, the evolution of child to adult. The child Taylor's beauty had a porcelain quality, contained within itself; the woman radiated a more vibrant beauty, a presence that filled a room even when, as now, she was silent.

He sat beside her, placing two glasses on the table. 'So,' he asked, 'you think you're more like Lionel than your mother''

Taylor took a sip of wine. 'I guess I'd
like
to be my mother's daughter, if only because I remember feeling so loved by her. But my dad's a strong personality, and the genetic lottery has whims of its own.' She smiled again. 'One thing for sure'we both have way too many books. In my case, big ones, filled with paintings. Half my income is spent hauling tomes from place to place.'

'Where do you want to end up''

'I'm not sure yet. It seems like I've got two choices: teaching or a curatorship'the collection side of the museum world.'

'Not running an art gallery''

'God, no,' Taylor answered with a laugh. 'My senior year at Williams, they took us around to visit people who owned galleries. I met a bunch of glamorous women wearing expensive jewelry and Herm's scarves, more absorbed in bling than scholarship. It was like visiting a club where I could never belong.' Her tone became self-mocking. 'I'm way too
serious
a person, Mark. I need to work for a museum with a sense of adventure, or teach in a good school in a good city with smart students and colleagues, where I can further refine my extraordinary gifts. With all respect to your new position, I'd go mad in Wayne, Ohio.'

'So what constitutes a good city''

'New York, definitely. There's more
there
there'art, music, theater, varied ethnic influences, and every species of humanity you can think of. Assuming I can afford it.'

'What about Boston''

'It's not a
terrible
city,' Taylor allowed. A mischievous smile played on her lips. 'On the downside, it's painfully provincial'too many overeducated people with too little to do, except obsessing over the Red Sox and worshipping their ancestors. Plus it's jam-packed with racists, too muggy in the summer, and five degrees too cold in January.'

Though intended to tease him, Darrow realized, the description had a certain jaundiced accuracy. 'Picky,' he said.

'Oh, I'd
look
at Boston, if the job were right. There are some very good schools there. And if the Museum of Fine Arts ever got serious about contemporary works . . .' She stopped, laughing at herself. 'As if it's
my
choice. Right now, the only job I have is helping you attack this aesthetic nightmare. Care to look at what I've brought''

'Sure.' Darrow hesitated, then asked, 'Are you hungry' I used to know a place that delivers Chinese food.'

'In Wayne'' Her voice softened. 'I'll stop being a critic, Mark. I'm always up for experiments.'

LEAFING THROUGH THE pages, they nibbled passable chow mein and snow peas and started a new bottle of sauvignon blanc. To Mark's relief, he liked much of what Taylor had selected as examples of what he might look for: a chromagraphic print by Andreas Gursky of a bank tower at night; an installation by James Turrell, a field of colored light so cleverly designed that its elements looked like phantom shapes; a piece composed of Ektacolor prints by Richard Prince, four beautiful but strikingly different women, their heads tilted in the same direction to appraise some unseen object; a gelatin-silver print by James Casebere; and, though perhaps too challenging to live with, eight black-and-white photographs by the German Anselm Kiefer, together forming a stark portrait of stone and gnarled trees disturbingly evocative of Nazi art. Taken together, Taylor's compilation bespoke a keen eye, considerable aesthetic judgment, and, flattering to Darrow, a great deal of time and thought. Finishing, he imagined himself embarking on a new project with a curiosity and enthusiasm he had not felt since Lee's death.

'Can you leave this here'' he asked. 'I'd like to look it over some more.'

'Of course. That's why I put it together.'

Darrow closed the book. 'Thank you, Taylor'really. It's enjoyable to think about redesigning a space again.'

Taylor sipped her wine. 'What was your town house in Boston like''

'As light as we could make it, and filled with modern art.' He touched the notebook. 'Though
not
this modern. Among other things, we had a Vasarely, an Agam, and a Dal' print. But our criteria was less the artist than how we felt about the piece.'

'Did you have an art consultant''

'No. Lee and I made it our project. Fortunately, we had similar tastes'bright colors, bold images, abstract forms. No paintings of horses, hunting parties, dilapidated barns, or pastoral New England. Half the fun was looking at a space and imagining the right piece for it; the other half was finding it. By the end, every object in the house came with its own story.'

The smile Taylor gave him seemed reflective, even wistful. 'Is that why you didn't bring anything with you' Even photographs''

'I left in a hurry. I figured there would be time to settle in later.' He took another sip of wine, then decided to give Taylor a deeper version of the truth. 'To a degree I didn't fully appreciate, at least until now, the town house became the museum of our marriage. But I couldn't seem to change anything, because I couldn't ask Lee about it.' He gazed into his wine glass, speaking quietly. 'Even her closet stayed the same. Shortly after the first anniversary of her death, I made myself give her clothes to charity. It felt weird, like I was losing another piece of her. I remember staring at the empty closet and not knowing what to do.'

Pausing, Darrow felt the ache of memory. Softly, Taylor said, 'I'm sorry.'

'For asking' Don't be. I never say these things, and maybe I should. Perhaps it would help to talk about her to another human being.'

He felt Taylor watching his face. 'I remember her, actually.'

Darrow looked up at her. 'How''

'Since college, I've been an election junkie. Lee was on MSNBC a lot'I remember thinking how smart she was, with a wicked, almost subversive sense of humor. Not to mention that she was
really
pretty. Anyone would have been drawn to her.'

'Oh, they were. The night we met'at a cocktail party, of all things'I had loads of competition.'

Taylor smiled at this. 'But you won out, of course.'

'I had certain natural advantages. Lee and I were both self-invented: kids from small towns whose parents never got past high school, and whose families were utterly dysfunctional.' Darrow poured more wine. 'Lee was from Virginia, the smartest kid around. Her dad sold insurance; her mother kept the books; Lee worked in the office after school. When she left for the University of Virginia, she never looked back. Ever.'

'And you were like that, too.'

'Uh-huh, especially after what happened at Caldwell. Both of us hell-bent on the future. We never took success for granted, because we'd never had a lot. That made us different from almost everyone around us'on an almost instinctive level, we got each other.' Darrow looked down again. 'For Lee, her career was more than an identity. It was the thing that kept her from being like her alcoholic father or, worse, a mother so scarred and narrow that what she felt for Lee was jealousy.'