Brooklyn Legacies Page 13

  There were footprints everywhere. I imagined EMS and investigators of all kinds had been all over the place. And there was nothing else. An empty tunnel, just as it should be. And not at all what it had been a few hours earlier.

  Picturing that, the dead man, his panic and confusion, I felt a little shaky inside. I’d lost someone that way. I didn’t want to remember it here and now.

  He came back slowly, looking satisfied. “A cleaning crew is coming in, and it will back in use tomorrow.”

  “What exactly happened here?” I tried to say it softly, not like the interrogator I was being. “Did anyone tell you?”

  He was staring back at a spot down the hall he had examined. There were small blotches of brown along with the dusty footprints. Blood? I didn’t ask. I waited.

  Had he forgotten, again, that I was even there? Finally he said, “The morning teams, going to breakfast. He was right there on the floor. Sleeping, they thought, or passed out. He was already gone. Dead.” He shuddered. “A terrible thing to happen here on our property. Almost our property. Only a few more papers in the way.”

  I blurted out, “A terrible thing entirely, isn’t it? Dying like that.”

  He turned back to me, blinked, and stood up a little straighter. “I suppose so. But that’s not my problem today. Must be the only one today that isn’t mine.”

  “Come along!” He snapped it out. “We are done here. Soon this will be over and we are all back to our normal insanity.”

  “But.” I had to say it. “But how did he die?” I said it to his briskly moving back, and he merely waved a dismissive hand over his head.

  “Not our problem. Not our problem at all. Do we look like detectives?”

  I was glad he couldn’t see me behind him, because I was stunned at the ridiculous comparison. And the attitude.

  “We now take back what is ours, return to our designated tasks, and proceed with our plans. Yes.” With renewed energy, he repeated it. “Yes. Back to work. Too bad, but after all, he was in our way.” He was talking to himself. I was sure of that. He nodded. “We couldn’t get it done because he had to be nice. Fair!” I couldn’t quite believe what I saw next. Thought I saw. He looked satisfied.

  By then we were walking back through the building lobby.

  I swallowed my disgust and politely stopped him. “Can I ask you one more question? It’s not about this…this…incident. But you might know.” I gestured around the massive lobby. “What was here before? Before this was built?”

  “Nothing. Nothing worth remembering is what I heard from Towns himself. He was involved with this building. Before my time. They were run-down garbage buildings, due to be torn down by my old man or the Watchtower or someone else. So the Watchtower people only did a good thing with this piece of work.”

  He walked away without another word, off on his very important job. I stood on the sidelines and watched and wondered about Mr. Daniel Towns. His bland exterior hid some secrets. How many? A few? An attic full? His response to my question about what was there earlier was simply untrue. Or no, not untrue but not exactly honest. Not honest at all. Evasive? Was it possible Towns had forgotten a fire and the death of the three people? No. Not possible. Not at all. And almost as impossible that he did not know. He had told me he was here then. Had I misunderstood?

  In the pleasant, sunny fall day, I had a chill. There was something here I did not understand. Actually, I did not understand anything that was here. The more I knew, the less sense it made, but I did know, somehow, that I had stepped into something much bigger than I expected.

  Like any good historian, I heard that voice reminding me that the answer to that was ask more questions. I would go home and do that. Plow through what I already knew. Focus on what didn’t make sense and plow some more. Track down someone who could tell me more about Mr. Towns’s past. Surely someone—someone!—must know. Then tell Torres what I had found. If I found anything.

  Was I still trying to put together materials for my silly ambition to write a book? I no longer knew what I was doing. I’d reached that point where there were too many questions and I wanted answers. That simple.

  Not simple at all.

  I had a job with a serious paycheck to take up my days. A teenager and a lover to take up the rest of my time. I’d have to squeeze it in, here and there, but I would have to. I was gripped by these questions in a way I could not explain or justify.

  I worried about it all the way home, but I knew I wasn’t going to let it alone. Or maybe it wasn’t going to let me alone.

  And so it didn’t. It didn’t let me alone while I watched a movie, as planned, with Joe. It didn’t let me alone while Chris wolfed her dinner standing up and disappeared into a videoconference committee meeting. She explained it but I wasn’t really listening.

  And it didn’t let me alone while I was at work the next day, doing actual work, getting absorbed, looking and sounding focused, but with my mind only partly there.

  It felt much bigger than my job.

  Finally I sent a note off to that Fitz. It was just a couple of paragraphs, sketching in a little background and listing out all the unanswered questions. He wrote back: “Damn! Real estate and politics and big money and a murder? Get cracking! I would read that in one evening, and I could sell the hell out of it. Do I have to make you do it? Let’s meet IRL.” IRL? In real life? “Forget this digital discussing. You work at the museum? When could you be free to meet? Any time works for me.”

  Part of me had been hoping he would say don’t be ridiculous, you’re not a detective, it’s the worst idea ever. Write me something trendy about star architects. Something safe.

  We agreed to meet outside my office, in the Sculpture Garden, tomorrow. He claimed to live nearby and work from home many days. That surprised me. I had him figured for a dignified older man, a refined Upper East Side type.

  I made a list of all the people who would be open to answering questions. Or who might be. Or could be pressured to become helpful. Or could tell me some other people to meet. Even Prinzig the real estate man. I’d even dress up if I could get an appointment with him. I already had him pegged as someone susceptible to a polished woman.

  If the detectives were talking to Watchtower dorm residents and Watchtower headquarters employees and not having much success, why would any of those people, devoted to Towns, talk to me?

  And when I was done, I added Sierra. She might not know much about Towns. Probably knew nothing, but she might be a source of information for what the heck was going on with Louisa. I didn’t know if she would talk to me, but she was young. She looked tough, but I’d learned a few things about being tougher from raising my own teen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When I reached the chilly sculpture garden, there was no one waiting for me, only a skinny kid in a checked wool jacket, thumbing through his phone.

  Then he stood up and called my name.

  “Hi, I’m Fitz.”

  I took in his scruffy, stubbled face, carefully sculpted hair, and silly lumberjack clothes. What?

  Yes, it was the right voice and accent. Preppy, I thought. Or Ivy League–y. But this kid? Younger than me? This is who had me so intimidated?

  But he sure could talk. He plunged right in, telling me why I needed to move on this idea now with Brooklyn as hot as it was.

  When he paused for breath, I looked at him. “How much do you actually know about Brooklyn? Have you spent any time here?”

  “How can you even ask?” He looked proud. “I live in Bushwick. You can’t get more Brooklyn than that.”

  It shocked me, how young he was. Bushwick became hip when more desirable neighborhoods grew too expensive for young people with a taste for adventure and no money. Up until then, it had been a run-down, charmless, dangerous neighborhood people tried to get way from.

  Before I said anything else, he smiled le
ss confidently. Even a little sheepishly.

  “Okay, so I’m new to Brooklyn. Let’s say the book would be for people like me, who don’t know much but would like to know more. Whole armies of us. We can find the funky bars and great food, or even start our own, but honestly, some of us would like a little more insight. And so would the rest of the world. I mean you don’t have to be dead to know Brooklyn anymore. It’s completely the opposite now.” He grinned. He was quoting a famous story.

  OK. He was a kid, but he had read my mind. He added, “I didn’t get to be an editor because the boss likes my hairstyle. I do know how to do this.”

  “Hmm. I get your point. And tell me why you think I can do this?”

  So he did. He was pretty convincing. By the time he was done, even I was convinced. For the next day, busy with new ideas and a few fantasies, I overlooked one more important question. It caught up with me right in the middle of my working day.

  Why was Louisa refusing to tell the cops where she was when Towns was killed? Was she just being ornery? Insulted that they even asked? That didn’t seem too far-fetched, knowing her. I deeply wished I could take that idea, put it into a folder of answers, and label it Asked/Answered. Or better yet, Closed.

  I could not, though, because the remaining question was whether or not she actually was hiding something. Involvement in Towns’s death was too absurd to think about. I was sure of that. Wasn’t I? But still. I looked at my list and circled Sierra’ s name.

  Finally, at lunchtime, I closed my office door and called Torres’s number.

  Kahn answered. He didn’t sound happy to hear it was me.

  “Yeah, sure I talked to your pal again. The boss came too, this time. We did our two-person act very smoothly.”

  “Is that like a good cop/bad cop?”

  “You watch a lot of TV? Yeah, that’s it, only smoother than they do it.”

  “And? And?” I might have smacked him if this was taking place in person.

  “Not a word. She had nothing to say to us, and she said it. Nothing. Threats didn’t work, and charm didn’t work. But we know she’s lying.”

  “Going on both your instincts?” I didn’t know if he caught my sarcasm.

  “Nope. Way better. We found a neighbor who saw her when he came home late from work. Saw her getting out of a cab.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah. He’s quite sure about it. So that sweet old lady is up to something. Right? And if you, or she, thinks we won’t figure it out, think again.”

  He hung up on me.

  Unbelievable, but then again, no, not entirely. I had seen her with Kahn, and something was off. Even I could see it. I was dead set on talking to Sierra now. How could I find her? No last name, no phone number, no address. I knew she did not live at Louisa’s house. Hadn’t Louisa said something about how Sierra made her lunch and left for her other job, leaving Louisa a cold supper? I took a deep breath and phoned Louisa’s landline. And if Louisa herself answered, all bets were off. I would instantly hang up.

  “Gibbs home. “

  “Sierra? This is Erica Donato.”

  “Did you want Louisa? She is napping.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Do you have a minute? I am worried about Louisa—lots of us are—and I wonder if we could talk sometime soon? Tonight, maybe? Dinner, my treat?”

  “I don’t know. I have to be at my other job, and I shouldn’t talk about Louisa to people, and…”

  “Louisa asked for my help.” All right, maybe not exactly on this, but in general, she did. “And I like and respect her.” Total truth, that. “It won’t take long.” Maybe true, maybe not. “Do you have time for a walk after work?” No time like the present. And I’d always found with Chris the secrets come out when we are doing something else. “Maybe a walking meal, like a food truck snack or an ice cream cone?”

  “OK. I could do that. I finish here at 5:30? Meet somewhere?”

  “I’ll hustle right over. Clark Street subway station at 5:45.”

  There she was, on the sidewalk outside the station. She looked as nervous as I felt. We circled over to a doughnut shop and I hoped the sugar would help with the bonding.

  “So you are Louisa’s…what? Health aide? Housekeeper?”

  “Whatever. She doesn’t need health care. I take her to appointments, do some cooking, do some laundry. I help her with her mail and paperwork too. Part time.”

  “Oh?”

  “Four days a week, afternoons.” She started on a second doughnut as we walked.

  “Important work, isn’t it? How did you get into it?” I was breaking the ice. At least I hoped I was.

  “I needed a job. I don’t have family around here. I take care of myself, and trust me, there’s always jobs in this line of work. “

  “Like it?”

  “Sometimes. I like Louisa a lot. She’s a hoot. And she has no family to speak of, either. So we, like, provide for each other.”

  My opening.

  “I bet she’s not the easiest person to work for.”

  “Oh, hell, she’s fine. It’s great that she’s right out there, all the time. And she’s funny, you know? Snarky? And really smart. So she tells me all about Brooklyn in the old days, and I cook for her.” She smiled fondly. “I’ve seen her ruin a frozen pizza. She can’t cook at all. I mean, not at all. And I tell her about, like, living on my own, and tattoos. She can hardly imagine all that.” She stretched out her bare arms to show off the maze of illustrations. Among the flowers and vines, I spotted a complex, three-part version of a Celtic knot and the heart-adorned words, “Loving Care for Loved Ones.”

  She saw me looking. “This matches one my friend Willow has. It’s Wiccan.” She whispered it. “She says it means woman power, so I wanted one.”

  “What about this?” I pointed to a leaping dolphin.

  She giggled. “I just like dolphins. And see this?”

  It was a magnificent sailing ship.

  “For Louisa! Her family.”

  “I love it. I like her a lot myself. I’m worried about her now, though, and so are other friends. Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. She’s upset about the fight about her property, and she was upset about those mean old letters, and now she’s upset about these cops and their dumb questions. Can’t they leave her alone? They have no right to question her.”

  “Actually, they do. In fact, it is their job.”

  She gave me a look filled with scorn.

  “I mean, like, really? Really? How could they think an old lady like that could attack a chunky guy like Daniel Towns?”

  “You knew Daniel Towns?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She made a face. “Seen him talking to Louisa. Seriously, he was a pudgy old guy. In a fight with Louisa? Come on!”

  “I like your style.” She made me smile. “And I agree. But I’ve got to say it. She seems to be lying about that night. Do you have any idea what is going on? I can’t help her—none of us can—if we don’t know the truth.”

  “Nope. I wasn’t there that night. Usually I don’t work nights for her. I’m at my other job. And she didn’t tell me anything about it. Not that she tells me everything, anyway. I mean, we’re kind of friends but not like, sharing secrets too much. She has some, I’m sure. And I sure don’t tell her mine. You know?”

  I did know. She sounded like Chris. So we had reached a dead end for information, I thought. And we’d also reached her destination. We were in front of a large, bland brick building, sort of new, modern for the neighborhood, with a discreet sign: Downtown Care Home. I knew I had seen the name before, but didn’t remember where until much later.

  And the motto on the sign matched the one tattooed on Sierra’s arm.

  “Sierra, I’m so glad we had this talk.” I was glad, truly, but I also thought it was time to use my mom powers, such as they w
ere. I put a hand on her arm and gently but firmly made her look at me. I had a hard gaze looking back at her. “You need to tell someone if you learn anything, see anything, that doesn’t seem right.” My tone allowed no nonsense. “Tell me if you are afraid of the police.”

  “Not my place to tell anything.” She stammered, then added with hostility, “Why do you need to know, anyway? You’re not my mother. And I wouldn’t tell her, either.” The “so there” was implied.

  “If it has to do with Louisa or with Mr. Towns, you’ll tell me, or you’ll tell a detective.”

  “If it would help her, I’d tell anyone!” Her eyes filled with tears, and I relinquished my mother of steel act. I wasn’t very good at it anyway.

  “Look. I’m sorry if I scared you.” I handed her a tissue from my pocket. “There are too damn many secrets floating around. I can’t figure out what goes with what. It’s making me crazy. My whole job, my work, is piecing together the facts to see how they add up.”

  She sniffled and finally said, “But I would never do anything that hurts Louisa.” The door to the building finally buzzed and she was gone.

  I believed her about not hurting Louisa, but she was a kid in my eyes. How would she have the judgment to know if it hurt Louisa or not? Or, for that matter, helped solve Towns’s murder or not?

  As I stood there with my thoughts going round and round, and then around some more, a panel truck drove past. I dimly realized I’d seen it circling before, and then I registered the logo. Nancy Long’s company.

  A parked car moved away from the curb, and the truck slipped in instantly, not even struggling with the tight space. Nancy herself jumped out looking enormously harassed. Then she saw me.

  “Ms.—I mean, Dr. Donato? I seem to see you everywhere lately.” She was not happy about this. “I’m very late. I was trapped behind a dead car right in the middle of the Manhattan Bridge.”

  I was not moving. “We need to talk.”

  “No. Definitely no.” But I did not move. “All right, all right, but not now. Can’t now.”