In the Shadow of Gotham (31 page)

“Go on,” I said, impatient.

“Sarah claimed she was wrapping up one last project—something no one else could finish as easily—before she quit. And then she told Ruth not to worry.”

“So just like Mary Bonham and Angus MacDonald, Ruth believed something happened in the days leading up to Sarah’s murder that deeply troubled her,” I said, thinking aloud. “Perhaps Isabella is right and there
is
some connection to Sarah’s work with Dean Arnold. Did Lonny Moore make any additional complaints through the dean’s office?”

“Not that we’re aware of,” Alistair said. “But let me go ahead and tell you about my conversation with Lonny. He’s well connected, Ziele. If he becomes your prime suspect, you’ll do well to remember that. His father is a high-level banker with J. P. Morgan and has influential friends throughout the city. I know some of them.”

What Alistair meant was that Lonny’s family counted themselves
among the working rich, and they maintained connections with the truly rich and powerful through service professions like law and finance.

He continued to explain Lonny’s background. “He lives alone in a single dormitory room in Wallach Hall overlooking the quad. His friends—Isabella and Horace spoke with them earlier, you recall—live on the same floor and have provided him with an alibi during the time of Sarah’s murder. They say he was in Sam Baker’s room with the rest of them, playing cards. But alibis provided by close friends sometimes crumble.” Alistair leaned back in his chair, flexing his fingers. “And Lonny did have an acrimonious relationship with Sarah—both before and after his complaint about her organic chemistry performance. Since you’ll want to speak with him and judge for yourself, I told him to be available tomorrow around eleven o’clock, following our appointment with Stella.”

I was silent a moment, thinking. Then I asked Alistair, “Do you think he is the man we’re looking for?”

“I can’t judge as of yet,” Alistair said. “He is smart enough and angry enough to be. And he is apparently in perpetual need of money—which may prove important, as Isabella will explain in a moment. You’ll have to keep your own counsel tomorrow morning. One more important thing, however. Lonny may not prove a murderer, but he has already proven to be a thief. Sarah’s advisor, Caleb Muller, was with Lonny when I arrived. The young man apparently submitted an article Sarah had drafted to a leading mathematical journal. He was hoping to pass the work off as his own.”

“That’s certainly interesting,” I said. I would make my own judgment in the morning. I turned to Isabella. “You learned something from Dean Arnold, I hear.”

Isabella’s excitement was apparent, but she poured more tea before she began talking. “Dean Arnold was in his office this afternoon, taking advantage of the weekend to catch up on paperwork with the help of his secretary, a young man named Samuel Cohen,” she said. “I learned that Sarah began working for them last January, and came in on Wednesday and Friday afternoons from one o’clock until five.”

“Did he say what sort of projects she worked on?” I asked. With my chopsticks, I picked up one of the boneless stuffed chicken wings and had to admit Alistair was right—they were extraordinary. The flavor was a unique blend of spices that were new to my unadventurous palate.

“She helped with the dean’s meetings and appointments; she checked completed dissertations for proper formatting; and she worked with budgets and grants. The dean’s office manages the budget requests for individual departments as well as grant requests from the dean’s discretionary fund.” Her eyes lit up. “The dean himself noticed nothing, but Sam—he remembered Sarah was bothered by something two or three weeks ago. In other words, within the same time frame everyone else has mentioned.”

“Did he know what?” I asked, growing eager because Isabella’s excitement was palpable.

“He did not,” she said, “but he recalled she was working on recent budgets that included Alistair’s research center. So he loaned me the papers she was working on to review, which I did once I was back at Alistair’s office.”

“And?”

“The short version: Someone has been stealing Alistair blind,” she said. “The long version, as I’ll explain, is somewhat more complicated.” She pulled some notes out of her bag for me
to see. “First, you need to understand how the budget for the Center for Criminological Research works. Alistair essentially funds his own work—but through the university, not his own bank account.”

“Why not through personal funds?” I asked. “It would be simpler, no?”

“It would be simpler,” Alistair said. “But not as good for the university. My affiliation with Columbia provides me with many benefits, so it is something I can do to help them. Essentially I funnel money to my research center through the dean’s discretionary fund so it may count as a donation. Their annual fund-raising figures are improved, which then helps them attract even more donors, since people like to donate to successful causes.”

We were interrupted by the proprietor, a Chinese man who had taken “Jimmy” as his English name. He wanted to make sure we had enjoyed our meal—as well as to push his after-dinner tobacco offerings.

“We have fine new cigars. You try?” he asked. He passed out a menu with
FINEST QUALITY OF CIGARS & CIGARETTES
written on top in all caps.

“No, thanks, Jimmy—not tonight. We’re a bit pressed for time, you understand,” Alistair said.

“Then I bring you dessert.” Apparently we had no choice in the matter.

He motioned to a waiter, and in an instant, dessert was on the table. “Star fruit, lichee nuts, and moon cakes,” he said, adding, “Be sure to look for the secret fortune inside. It’s Chinese tradition from Ming dynasty.”

Alistair broke his moon cake in half, exposing the small slip of paper inside. “
Your past success will be overshadowed by your future success.
Let’s hope so. Ziele?”

I read it aloud.
“The first step to better times is to imagine them.”
I tasted a bite of the moon cake. The texture was odd; I preferred the fruit.

Isabella laughed and added hers. “
Grand adventures await those willing to turn the corner.
If only it were so easy.”

I moved our conversation back on point. “I follow what you are saying about why Alistair’s financing of the research center is done through donations. Now what?”

Alistair shrugged. “The money stays there, earmarked for the research center, until I put in a formal request.”

“That’s something Mrs. Leab has traditionally done,” Isabella added, “with Alistair dictating the request and signing off on it. The problem is that huge sums have gone missing over the past year from Dean Arnold’s earmarked account. Checks were disbursed from the account made out to the research center, but they never made it to Mrs. Leab. Someone else managed to cash them by forging Alistair’s name.”

“You never noticed missing funds?” I asked Alistair.

Alistair looked embarrassed. “Apparently not. We are talking about funds I never requested. Whatever I asked for, I received. There seemed no reason to inquire about what was held in reserve for later.”

“How much money, exactly, do you donate every year?” I asked. It seemed inconceivable that someone would not keep tabs on what was obviously a large amount of money. But Alistair’s relationship with his money was different from that of most people. Because he had more than was ample for his requirements, he had no reason to keep close track of his funds. His answer made that clear.

“I’d have to ask my accountant,” Alistair said. “For the university as a whole, I donate my annual salary back, several
times over. But we are talking about a portion of that earmarked for my research.”

Isabella cradled her cup of tea as she leafed through the dean’s papers, which included a series of budget memoranda from various academic departments. “Sarah caught the problem because anyone who receives money from the dean’s discretionary fund is required to document exactly how it is spent, supported by receipts or canceled checks. This is done on a quarterly basis,” she explained. “What Sarah discovered was that large sums of money sent to the research center—totaling nearly fifteen thousand dollars—were never documented.”

She pushed her plate aside to make room for the papers, prompting a waiter to appear from nowhere to clear the table.

“My first question has to be whether someone from the research center could have put in for the checks, then intercepted and taken them?”

“I thought of that, too,” Isabella said. “But look”—she pushed a paper in front of us—“I compared this requisition request for $2,000 against all of our handwriting—Tom’s, Fred’s, Horace’s, even Mrs. Leab’s. It’s not a match for anyone.”

“Someone might have disguised their writing,” I said.

“Maybe,” Alistair responded, “but most of us academics aren’t in the profession for the money. We’re motivated by a passion for our field. So it’s hard to see greed leading any of my associates to concoct this sort of scheme.”

What Alistair said was no doubt true. But I could not help but reflect that Alistair’s associates were not independently wealthy, either. Their perspective might be different.

“You mentioned Lonny was perpetually in need of money, so there’s an avenue to explore,” I said thoughtfully. “Our best bet will be to contact the bank on Monday morning. The check
was cashed, so the money went somewhere. By tracing the canceled check, perhaps we can generate additional leads.”

Alistair pushed his dessert plate aside. “The important issue for now is what the discovery of this scheme may have meant for Sarah Wingate. She may well have identified the person who stole these funds. But everyone described her as upset. Theft . . . money . . . budget discrepancies . . . these strike me as annoyances, not something that would have upset her to the degree Angus MacDonald and Ruth Cabot suggested.”

“Especially since no one stole the money from
her
,” Isabella added.

“Also, let’s not forget that the person who stole from my fund may have no connection to Sarah’s murderer,” Alistair said. “The theft and the murder may be wholly separate crimes.”

“Remember the money you found at the crime scene under Sarah’s mattress?” I asked Alistair. “It was roughly the same amount that was requested here.” I indicated one of the missing sums Isabella had referenced. “It’s an odd coincidence that she possessed in cash the same amount that she recently questioned in that accounting. Maybe she
was
killed for money. But not her own money—Alistair’s money.”

None of us knew the answer. Abigail Wingate, after all, had been convinced the money belonged to her aunt. But I was relieved that we were finally doing solid detective work, following up each lead to make sure we understood every aspect of Sarah’s life as thoroughly as possible. I felt we were inching closer to building a case as we reviewed each detail of her life.

One question nagged at me: Where was the Fromley connection in all this? For I did not forget—no, not for a moment—that the perpetrator we sought was linked both to Sarah Wingate and Fromley.

“And now,” Alistair said, beginning to gather his things, “I do apologize, friends, but I must be off. I have tickets to see
Wonderland,
the new musical at the Majestic.” He put down money on the table that more than sufficiently covered our dinner. “Ziele, would you mind accompanying Isabella home? I’ll see you in the morning at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.”

“We’re near Ferrara’s, one of my favorite coffeehouses. Would you like to stop by before I take you home?” I asked her.

“That sounds lovely, Simon,” she said.

“It’s just four blocks up on Grand Street between Mott and Mulberry. They have the best coffee in the city.”

As we walked up Mott, the lanterns and jostling crowds of Chinatown yielded to Little Italy with its multitude of restaurants and music. We passed one restaurant where the strains of a violin playing “O mio babbino caro” swelled into the street. We reached Ferrara’s Bakery and Café before I knew it, and after surveying glass shelves filled with cookies, pastries, and other delectable confections, we took a table by the front window where we could watch pedestrians go by. I ordered an espresso, Isabella preferred tea, and we decided to share a large cannoli. Her brown eyes drifted behind the counter over to the espresso machine that puffed, gurgled, and then shot steam straight up in the air.

Noting her interest, I said, “No one makes espresso like they do here. I think Ferrara’s was first in the city to acquire an espresso maker. There’s an art to making a good cup; the ground beans and steam must be managed perfectly.”

“You must be careful, or you’ll become a gourmand like Alistair,” she said, laughing.

“For food, never. But coffee—well, good coffee is my weakness.”

The waiter brought our order, and Isabella gazed into the concentrated shot of dark coffee.

“You’ll be up all night,” she warned.

“I’m up most nights during an investigation, anyway,” I said lightly. Sleep came, when it came at all, in intermittent spells. However much my body might crave rest, my mind refused to unwind.

“Do you have family here?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” I said, tasting the cannoli. “I’m all that’s left.” I explained how my mother had died last winter, and my sister had long since married and moved away. I did not bother mentioning my long-absent father; he could be dead, too, for all I knew.