Brooklyn Bones Page 20

  “Of course. I am always careful. You know I do have some street sense. And thank you so much.”

  “I’ll tell you how to thank me. Come entertain an old lady. I want to hear all about what you found, and any discoveries you make. All right? In person and over a meal. Do you like pot roast? And if you write something—that’s what you scholars do, isn’t it?—say good things about my Harry. He would be so tickled to be in a scholar’s article. It’s such a respectable thing.”

  Of course I said yes to everything. I hung up, thinking, if I could look at the records for my own block over the years, I would have a perfect little picture, a microcosm, of neighborhood change. And maybe, with luck, I would find something that would be a clue about our dead girl. Two birds with one stone: I would be keeping my promise to Chris at the same time.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I turned away from my desk but didn’t get more than a step before the computer pinged at me.

  Damn. It was a message from my ditsy cousin Tammy. She’s the only cousin I have a sort of friendship with. It’s pretty thin. A few years older than me, she moved way the heck out on Long Island, the true ‘burbs, even before I moved further into the city, and our lives diverged as much as our geography.

  “Hi, little cuz. ?4U Still MIRL today? CM ASAP SYS?”

  A grown woman sending e-mail in text-speak. Ridiculous. I could translate it, of course—I live with a teen. “Are we still meeting in real life? Call me as soon as possible. See you soon?”

  About twice a year something causes her to venture in to “the city” and she remembers how to find her way to Brooklyn, where, incidentally, she was born, raised, educated and married. I had forgotten today was one of those times; we had a lunch date.

  I had too much to do and too much on my mind and too little tolerance but it was already way too late to cancel. I called.

  “Hey, honey. What did you think of my message? I am learning how to text! Are we still on? I could really go for girl talk and some of that fancy pizza I heard reviewed on the news. My treat.”

  Trapped, I told her where to meet me. I had to eat, after all. To tell the truth, I had a soft spot for Tammy. We might have zero in common as adults, but she was the cousin closest to my age when we were kids. She defended me from her tribe of brothers and taught me how to put on mascara and shave my legs. I had warm memories of sleepovers, staying up late reading her copies of Tiger Beat, discussing who was the cutest brother on Home Improvement, and would we rather grow up to be Brenda or Kelly from 90210.

  The problem was that she was still that person. True, she didn’t read Tiger Beat anymore but she did avidly follow celebrities in US Weekly, People, and the Daily News Page Six gossip feature. I expected that today, reality TV stars, the hot actors du jour, and Brad and Angelina would likely come up. How could I keep myself from telling Tammy I could not care less? That I had a real life of my own to contend with?

  She hugged me in a flurry of shopping bags and teased out hair. “I’m so glad to see you! And I am starving.” She wore high suede boots, and a sequined t-shirt and she tactfully did not comment on my non-outfit.

  As soon as we had wine in hand, she said, “Tell me, how is your dad? He called my mom from the hospital.”

  “He did what?”

  She giggled and shrugged. “I know. I guess they must be speaking again.”

  We both giggled. Discussing the eccentricities of our respective parents is a bond that never frays.

  “So do you think they’re starting over, or what?” And we were off and running with speculation and reminiscence. We discussed our children. She assured me Chris would be less moody in a few years, and then admitted her youngest son was home from college, living in her basement, with a life plan that went no further than a job at Trader Joe. We congratulated each other that we had allowed them to continue living. Then I told her about Chris and camp, and that led to Rick.

  The giggling stopped.

  “Dear lord. Your dad knows?”

  I nodded.

  “Then my mom does, now that they’re talking again. Ya know, I remember him from barbecues and stuff at your house? Was he the guy who always organized the water fights?”

  I nodded again, unable to speak.

  “Now, none of that.” Tammy poured more wine. “You gotta keep remembering those good times. That’s something grandpa taught me, that holding onto the good memories are what get you through the bad times.”

  “Tammy, you know, that sort of helps a little.” It was actually the smartest thing I’d heard her say since she told me a boy who didn’t treat me right was a waste of oxygen.

  My surprise must have showed because she smiled. “In the immortal words of Marilyn Monroe, I can be smart when it’s important.”

  She patted my hand, and changed the subject. “Now, with Chris away, I hope you are managing to have a little fun? Getting out more? According to the Daily News, there are some hopping clubs around here now. Wait!”

  She dug a tabloid paper out of her bag and turned to photos of, yes, genuine celebrity spotting nearby.

  “See? So just tell me that you are taking part in this new local glamour?”

  “You want me to lie?” She made a face at me, and then I had an idea.

  “Actually, I did meet someone you might know about from reading those trashy rags.” I’d had enough wine by then to not care if I teased her. And she’d had enough not to care either.

  “Pfft. It’s harmless entertainment and you know you love to hear all about it. So tell me.”

  “What do you know about a guy named James Hoyt?”

  “You met James Hoyt? YOU met James Hoyt?” Her eyes opened wide.

  “Yes. Yes I did. I, um, know his nephew, sort of, and he introduced us. He’s pretty famous?”

  Her look was beyond exasperation. “This has even been in what you call the ‘real newspapers’”—she used fingers to put that in air quotes—“that you read now, Miss Highbrow. He is one of the richest men in New York and was all over the news when he had a messy divorce a while ago. You living in a cave?”

  Before I could respond she dove back into her gigantic purse, pulled out a tablet computer and next thing I knew we were online searching for gossip.

  Could I have researched James myself? Oh, yes, But this was so much more fun. Like she said, harmless escape. Even if I felt a little cheap later.

  Tammy, being Tammy, zoomed right in on juicy details of the most recent divorce. That wife, his third, was apparently famous for being a serial spouse of powerful men. Could that be a career choice? Tammy assured me it could, with the right combination of looks, ambition and luck. I thought an absence of morals probably helped.

  The rags shared all the public details, and also helpfully included pictures of wife number two, a voluptuous minor opera singer, and number one, a cool blond ex-debutante.

  There was a glamorous home décor article about wife number three and the glamorous house they were decorating in glamorous East Hampton. Of course that was when they were still glamorously happy together. Or so they told the writer from Vogue.

  “Tammy! Hey.” I had to get her attention. “This is fun but I’d love to see something with a few more facts?”

  “Sure, sure.” She took over on the keyboard. “Here. I’ll send you the link to all this, you can look again at home. And here”—she turned the screen back to me—“here is a long, juicy profile, exactly what you ordered. Whew, I’m done with this. Going back to stuffing my face.”

  The article was from Vanity Fair, the perfect source for pages of solid information mixed in with the gossip and photos. I was about to learn exactly who James Hoyt was.

  So. He had taken the very comfortable fortune his father had left him and turned it into billions by arcane financial wizardry. Reading about it, I con
cluded no ordinary person could understand how.

  With that fortune, he had taken over failing companies, astutely invested in new ones before anyone else knew about them, was active in politics, and gave both time and money to worthy cultural and educational institutions.

  There was plenty to suggest he had enjoyed every minute of it—the battles with regulatory agencies and corporate boards; the homes in Aspen, Bermuda, and Provence; the movie star girlfriends and the three marriages. Or perhaps he hadn’t enjoyed those so much.

  There was an unmistakeable undertone that he had been brilliant, charming, and ruthless and remained so even as he grew old. It sounded right to me.

  Aha. With three marriages, he had only one child, long dead. There were hints of tragic circumstances but I could not find more details, or an obituary. Was his death not newsworthy, I wondered, or had it been covered up? It was decades ago, long before there was the ability to put every rumor and scandal out in cyberspace.

  I sighed, rubbed my eyes, thought about what I had learned, and what I had not.

  “Do you want to fight me for that last slice?” Tammy pulled me back to the here and now. “I won’t lie. I’m a believer now. Twenty-five dollars for pizza seemed ridiculous but boy, this is great.”

  “Help yourself. I assume you don’t have room for dessert?”

  “Who says?”

  We put the computer away and returned to the business at hand, which was eating, but I couldn’t wait to get home and take another look. I wanted to know more about this man that I now seemed to be in bed with him. With him and his nephew. Whoops. Interesting metaphor to come crashing into my mind. I was very glad I had not said it out loud. Tammy might be ditsy but as she said, she could be smart. I would have been answering questions I did not want to hear.

  When we parted, it was with promises not to make it so long until next time. This time, I think we meant them. I had forgotten how relaxing it could be to spend time with someone who knew me when I was young and stupid.

  I made it home in time for my ringing phone. Chris.

  “Mom, mom, you’re there.” She sounded very up. “Where have you been?”

  “Lunch with Tammy. I do have a life.”

  “Whatever. I have good news. A counselor needs to go to the city soon, and they said I could drive down with her. Cause, you know, it is a special circumstance.”

  “What? Say that again. You’re not making sense.”

  “Mom, what’s up with you? Here, talk to Katherine.”

  Katherine the camp director repeated Chris’ news, and added, “Chris seems to be very worried about how you are doing, and so we are a little concerned about that. It’s against normal camp policy but you’ve had a special circumstance. She could go and then come back a few days later with the same counselor.”

  Chris suddenly home? The idea took my breath away, but this time in a good way. I said yes, and then immediately swung into mom mode. Were there clean sheets on her bed? Should I stock up on food?

  I certainly was not forgetting why we had sent Chris away—Rick and I—in the first place. Was it really safer now? Safe enough, with the help of Steven and his uncle? Dammit, yes, I told myself. Yes. For a few days, I could surely keep her out of trouble, even if it meant keeping her on a short leash. Perhaps the short leash was unrealistic but there was no way I was going to tell her not to come if she needed to.

  And if she was coming home, I needed more time off my job—I knew I was on thin ice there—I would have to swing into action right now. I needed to score a home run before asking for more time off. No post-pizza/wine/fun relaxing for me now.

  It was time to dial up Mrs. Rogow’s warehouse and get some work done. A cheerful woman’s voice assured me that Mrs. Rogow’s request had been received and everything would be ready shortly.

  When I thanked her, she said, “I’d do anything Mrs. Rogow wanted. She has been a customer here for sixty years, and she is lovely to deal with. The best. Not like…um, not like all our customers. When you come, just ask for me, Rosemarie. All the men know me.”

  The warehouse wasn’t far away as the pigeon flies, but I crossed worlds to get there. As I drove downhill toward the harbor, I left behind stable residential blocks and lively streets, moved through blocks of depressed small buildings with no street life, and into a low-end business area. There were storefront tire shops, sleazy body shops operating out of two-car garages, tiny groceries hanging on by the grace of God and the sale of cigarettes and lottery tickets. Then it became an industrial area: stone and marble and tile dealers, importers of Middle Eastern food, contractors’ warehouses.

  When I crossed the last avenue the street ended abruptly at a chain link fence. On the other side there were hulking shells of buildings scarred along their dark sides with broken windows. Between the elevated expressway and the buildings blocking the sun, it was dark down here, even on this summer day, and I suddenly wished I had brought a companion.

  When I finally found a small through street, the parking lot proved to be full of cars and trucks, with men walking in and out pushing hand trucks. It was reassuringly, normally busy. I found unmarked doors, the colors faded to generic metal. After I walked back and forth a few times, baffled as to how to find Rosemarie, one of the drivers saw my confusion and pointed to the small door between two large barred windows.

  Rosemarie turned out to be hefty and very blond, with a face that was meant for smiles and joking around. She wasn’t smiling now. Her office was filled with a stack of storage cartons and Brenda Petry. Petry was definitely not smiling.

  She was impeccably dressed and coiffed as always, almost comically out of place in the grimy warehouse, but her face was missing its usual glazed perfection. She looked stressed and tired, and for the first time, middle-aged instead of permanently preserved. I wondered if the designer clothes and shellacked hair and glittering jewelry were meant to be armor.

  She looked at me with a new expression. For a fleeting moment I thought, absurdly, that it was fear. She said, “Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  I stammered, “Not you. My research…your mother.” I took a deep breath and started again, in a voice I willed to be firm. “Would you like me to explain?” It couldn’t hurt to be polite. At least, that’s what my mother always told me. I’d give her the edited explanation with my professional and scholarly goals. Chris’ interest did not need to be part of that story.

  She stared at me with a grim mouth, and yet, still, that fugitive look in her eyes, and finally said, “I suppose it might be useful for me to hear this. Talk fast. I’m stealing time from my very busy day.”

  I did talk fast, all about my museum assignment. I added the persuasive—I hoped—point that with access to a complete company archives, I might even use it as a key part of my eventual dissertation. It could be an opportunity to tell her father’s true story and how much her mother supported this. My own shamelessness would have bothered me if she had not been so unpleasant.

  I finished with an attempt to build a more personal connection between us. “Everything seems to be pointing to my own neighborhood, and even my own block, as the subject of my dissertation.” I added, “I’d love to interview you and add your memories to this—this mosaic I have in mind.”

  “I told you before: I knew nothing about the business back then. My parents kept me tucked safely away in the suburbs.”

  “But some people remember you.” I added quickly, “It came up by accident. It would be so—so—so—enriching, to have your own personal take on it all. You would be an incredibly valuable source.” Ah, flattery. She certainly looked like the kind of person who would be susceptible

  Her sharp intake of breath was almost a hiss.

  “Your sources are quite mistaken about my past in the business and your trivial research is a waste of time to me.
It’s gone, that past. Can you tell me how it matters for your future?”

  Her face set into its glossy mask, and I was never sure, later, that I had seen anything else.

  She turned her anger on Rosemarie.

  “You cannot give everyone off the street access to our company records. That is a complete breach of your contract.”

  “Mrs. Rogow gave me the permission.” Rosemarie’s arms were folded, her frame massive. She acted remarkably unimpressed by the demanding woman in front of her. “Her word is good enough for me.”

  Petry flushed. “If anyone around here was well informed, you would know I run things now. As to my mother’s permission, she is not the person who pays your exorbitant monthly bills. You can consider this business arrangement terminated as of today.”

  Rosemarie snorted. “You got sixty years worth of records here. You want us to dump them in your fancy office? ‘Cause believe me, I could arrange it. It would be a pleasure. You’d better secure another facility before you make these types of threats.”

  “Be sure that I will. You can start pulling the paper work today.” She turned back to me. “As for you?” I had some of my own armor in place. “Give it up now and stop harassing my mother and me or there will be legal actions. Trust me that I have far more resources to do that than you have to fight it.”

  I certainly did trust her on that.

  She stalked out, and I was forced to watch the boxes—my boxes!—being hauled away after her. I imagined throwing myself in front of the carts, driven by the belief that they were filled with scholarly treasures. I was shaking with anger and shock at being the target of so much fury.

  Then Rosemarie and I looked at each other and started laughing. It began with a giggle and ended with us wiping tears from our eyes.

  When we finally stopped, she gasped, “What was that all about? She’s always a pain but I hardly have to deal with her in the flesh. She doesn’t get her manicured fingers dirty. Usually it’s her little slaves…” She shook her head. “And Mrs. Rogow was always such a nice lady.”