Brooklyn Graves (15 page)

We didn't say a word in the car, but when he dropped me off, he said again, “Any help you need, I'm on it. You and Chris are everything to me. You need to talk, figure things out some more? I'm here. If someone is treating you bad and you need him to get straightened out, I can do it. You need money, I've got some saved, too. You just gotta tell me, okay?”

“Don't, Dad. Thank you but just don't. We'll be fine.” My momentary breakdown was over.

I was already getting out of the car, and I didn't look back, but I heard his voices behind me, saying “Honey, don't let the bastards grind you down.”

***

I'd been told to come to the conference room, and there they all were, my boss, Eliot; his boss; Dixon from security; and Dr. Rhodes, our director. Some other big shots. Plus Thomas Flint. Flint looked as bad as I felt and maybe a little worse. His face was ashen and his eyes looked as if he'd been up all night. Even his sleek hair looked rumpled
.
When I saw them all, waiting, I paused at the doorway, took a deep breath and told myself to be calm. Then I went in. Ready or not.

“Erica, have a seat,” my boss said, genially enough. “We are in crisis mode here, and we need information from you to help us get out of it.”

Dr. Rhodes, the big boss, leaned forward to address me directly. I was surprised he knew who I am.

“Ms. Donato, we need to talk to you about the situation regarding Flint's unfortunate young assistant.”

“Ryan?”

“Yes, I understand that's his name. For us, as people, we must acknowledge the tragedy, but right now we are here as museum employees, with responsibility and loyalty to our institution.”

I told myself to be quiet, to wait, to let him talk. Not exactly my natural style.

“Dr. Flint informs us that the valuable documents you allowed to leave yesterday have disappeared.”

I gulped
.
Then I looked directly at Dixon and said with entirely faked calm authority, “I want it on record that I did not allow them to leave. I protested to Dr. Flint but had no authority to stop him. He seemed to believe that permission had come from higher up.” I kept my voice calm. It took some effort to do it.

Dr. Rhodes paled but said, with visible effort, “Dr. Flint presumed too much. I have to take responsibility for that.”

Flint added, in a shaky voice, “As do I. I was so excited about this extraordinary find, I got carried away. I could not get back here for a few days and I wanted to begin work immediately, first thing this morning. Now I am paying a heavy price. I don't know how I will complete any of my work without young Ryan's help.”

Was I the only person at the able who thought Ryan had paid the heaviest price? Eliot at least looked appalled and a few others looked away in embarrassment at Flint's words. At least I hoped it was embarrassment.

One of the other suits at the table said, “The issue is not who is responsible, but how in the world the museum handles this. The documents are gone. We had responsibility to safeguard them. The owner has grounds for legal action.”

Dr. Rhodes turned a little paler, but said with authority, “We are getting ahead of ourselves. Ms. Donato, let's go over yesterday's events briefly and then please tell us about last night. Dr. Flint has already informed us of your presence at his home.”

I would not lose my temper. I explained how the documents had left the building, treading carefully, sticking to facts but putting everyone's actions in the best possible light. I tried to convey that it was all a series of misunderstandings instead of the display of arrogance and bullying behavior I knew it actually was.

Their questions were mild and I believed they bought it.

Then I had to tell them about my visit to Flint's home last night. It was hard—even harder than I expected—but they were less interested in my discovery of Ryan's body and more interested in the search for the documents. Their expressions became steadily more depressed as they realized that nothing I said was helpful. Not only was I confirming that the papers had vanished, I could not give them the smallest clue about Ryan's life or contacts or anything else that might point to how someone could possibly have known about what he was doing that night.

Neither could Flint. When asked, he hemmed and hawed and finally said, “We had a proper working relationship. We never discussed personal matters at all.”

Dixon, the former cop, said, “Never? You don't know anything, after he worked for you for a year?”

“I will not accept being badgered by you. He's a student at Pratt. I assume some people there knew him more personally. I did not.”

Dixon went on. “You did know your home, though. Was anything else taken? I mean, could this have been an ordinary burglary?”

“Some items were taken, but with a home full of quite valuable antiques, they took only a few and also some of no value whatever, just objects meaningful to me. And then the papers. How could they know they were important? Or did they just make a guess because Ryan had them out?”

“Perhaps they got a clue on that if he tried to protect them.” Dixon's voice had an edge of hostility, though his face remained emotionless. “Or perhaps they were there on purpose and just trying to make it look like an ordinary burglary.”

Flint looked around the table, and shook his head. “I believe this is all aimed at me. MY home invaded, MY papers were taken, MY valuable assistant. Even the robbery at Green-Wood was related to MY life work.”

Everyone at the table snapped around to stare at Flint, while I held my breath waiting to hear more, and Dr. Rhodes said, “Tom? What in blazes are you talking about?”

“You haven't heard? There was a robbery at Green-Wood Cemetery. A Tiffany window was stolen in the night, lifted right out of a chapel. My last scholarly article was on Tiffany's work in cemeteries.” He looked around the table. “Now do you see what I mean? That this must all be directed at me somehow?”

“Tom,” Rhodes said, “you must have been up all night with police, right? You're exhausted, old friend. I'm going to ask Shawna here to take you up to my office, give you a cup of herbal tea, and let you rest for a bit on my couch. Doesn't that sound like a good plan? Then you're going home. Is your housekeeper there? Shawna, please show Dr. Flint where he can rest.”

As soon as Flint was gone he turned to all of us. “I think we can end this ineffective meeting now, except for the PR team. You stay—we need to plan. The rest of you—nothing on this, and I do mean nothing, to anyone, ever. All questions go through my office.”

Bern Dixon said, “I still have friends at Police Plaza. Want me to see what I can find out?”

“Certainly. And I will be contacting all our board members—the ones who haven't already contacted me—to see what pressure we can exert to make this a high priority.” He stopped, as if hearing his own words, and added, “Of course I know they will give this murder their attention, as they should, but I can't let our special problem get lost.”

As we all got up to leave, Rhodes looked my way and said, “Ms. Donato? You should hope that we somehow retrieve those papers because your lack of judgment remains a serious issue. If there are major consequences for us, there will be for you. You are not free of that.”

I felt myself turning red, and was ready to respond, vehemently, but saw Eliot, behind him, shaking his head slightly.

I stopped myself, and only stared at Dr. Rhodes as he said, “Not free at all.”

Chapter Thirteen

I went straight to my cubicle, wishing I had a door to slam. I felt like ripping pages out of a book. Or throwing a phone. I also felt physically ill. Lack of sleep can do that, but most of it was my frustration was over Dr. Rhodes' last words. And my fear. Let's not forget that.

I was so tempted to follow him to his own office, and demand that he tell me what he meant. Then sanity reasserted itself. A little voice—perhaps my mother's ghost—was urging me to make better choices.

I could turn to Eliot, who was a great mentor, but that might put him in a difficult position. Another mistake I've finally learned not to make: Never put your boss in a difficult position.

I admitted to myself that I could not talk to anyone right now without sounding needy, unsure, and even whiny. Any mother who's been on the receiving end knows what kind of results whining produces. Negative ones. So I would buckle down and think hard and keep my mouth shut until I had something profoundly useful to say.

I wondered if there was anything in the work Ryan had been doing that was a piece of this sad puzzle. I had all his files right here, both the copies of the papers and his computer files. It might be a long shot—I admitted to myself that it probably was—but at least it was a place to start. And if his death was in fact related to the theft of the documents, perhaps it would turn out to be the best place to start. I could hope.

I turned the office computer on and started roaming through the work he had been doing, but I was sidetracked by the ping that told me I had an incoming e-mail. Chris.

“Mom. WTH is going on? It would be nice if you told me. Like,—AHEM!—you expect me to tell you. 2 night??? Where are you now? I'll call you at lunch.”

I steeled myself for her lunchtime call, and tried to focus on the files in front of me, but it was late. She called before I had accomplished anything much.

She began with a cascade of questions and comments. “Where were you last night? Your phone call told me precisely nothing. And I had a killer math test and I was freaking about it. Alex was all weird and no one knows what to do. And where were you last night, anyway?”

I had to stop it, not with the verbal smack I felt like, but with a measured and calm, “Chris? Chris! Slow down and let me give a coherent answer.”

Dead silence and then “Okay, mom. Go.“

“Something happened last night and I am very shaken, so just listen and don't push me, okay?”

And then I told her.

This time the silence went on so long I was not sure she was still there.

“How can that be?” It was a little tiny voice. “He was there in your office. I talked to him…”

“I know, hon. I'm feeling the same way. How can this be real? It was terrible; I won't tell you how bad. “

“Do they know what…what happened? Or why? I mean, he seemed so…uh…harmless. And clueless.”

“They didn't tell me anything. Probably they didn't even know yet. It was literally the start of their work, but I'm sure….”

“Well, did you tell them everything you know about him?” The voice was still tiny but my smart daughter was coming back. “Did you?”

“The sad thing—one of the sad things—is that I don't know anything to tell. We only worked together for a few days, and we mostly talked about work. He was an art student. He liked graphic novels. That about all I know. “

“That's pathetic. And awful.” Her voice was rising with each sentence. “I don't understand grown-ups. If it was me, we would have exchanged life stories in the first hour. Don't you care?”

I gasped. “How can you say that? May I remind you I found him? How could I possibly not care? But I'm sure the detectives will start with his classmates…”

“Mom! Geez! I know you live in the past but please. Look for him on Facebook. Duh.”

“Facebook? He did not seem like the kind of guy…”

“Oh, please! There is not a Facebook kind of guy. It's everyone.” She sighed a martyred teenage sigh. “You do still have the Facebook account I set up for you, don't you? Do I have to come by after school and walk you through it? You need to know about him.”

Humbled, I said thank you but that I could handle it. Who knows? Maybe she was right. I had an account but was far too busy to ever look at it. I thought I was up to the simple task of finding someone. I'd get to it as soon as I finished Ryan's notes.

Just on the unlikely chance that the missing papers were stolen on purpose, could there be something in them that was important? Not just important to a select circle of history and art nerds but important in the bigger world? The one most people would call the real world? I wasn't sure Flint or Ryan were well-acquainted with that world, but I was, so I was the one to do this searching.

So. Back to the computer. Open the files Ryan was working on to see what he had done. We had split reading the letters. Now I would look over his half as carefully as I had read mine.

Meticulous Ryan had set up a meticulous table to organize all the details found in Maude's letters. I still needed to fill it in for my half, refreshing my memory as I went.

I was discouraged to see that I had not overlooked a single detail about the exciting possibility of an unknown window. I had been hoping, against all odds, to make a discovery that would answer all the questions.

I did enjoy being back in Maude's world, though. I'm far too much of a historian to really believe life was better in the “the good old days.” There were no good old days. It was just that right now Maude's life looked a lot better than mine.

I attacked Ryan's half of the letters first. He had noted every theme in his chart: Tiffany—sub-headed into studio, art, people—life in NY, and Maude's personal comments. Precise to the nth degree, but not too personal, so I went back to the letters themselves.

This time around, doing more than my initial skimming, my attention was caught by the way she wrote some letters to “Dear Mama and Katie” and others to just Katie.

She confided only to Katie that a theater party included a young man with a handsome blond mustache and twinkling eyes. She told them both that she loved the speed and sense of freedom her bicycle gave her, but only told Katie about the dashing man who rode with her. And when she assured her mother she was faithfully attending Madison Square Presbyterian church, only Katie knew the same companion carried her prayer book.

Hmm, I thought. This was a theme we had not picked up earlier.

I returned to my own stack of letters. Had I been so excited about the Tiffany details that I had missed something else? Oh, yes.

She wrote Katie that she had dinner alone in a respectable restaurant with “my friend” and explained that this was not as daring as it would be at home. She told only Katie she had been to see Loie Fuller, the avant-garde dancer and was mesmerized by her delicate butterfly costume. “She is a client of Miss Driscoll, you know, but I would not have gone if my friend had not escorted me.”

Even as the letters began to trail off, and focus on her work almost entirely, there were brief references to a picnic in a secluded park and dining in quaint restaurants in obscure German and Italian neighborhoods. She did not write any more about outings with a group of friends, and she never named the companion who was taking up so much of her time, but she did say, once, “No, Katie, I do not know where this may lead, but do not worry about me. I am not unhappy.”

“Oh, Maude,” I thought. “It seems you had a few secrets. You are not that naïve young thing from the Midwest anymore, are you? But you are certainly not giving me one new thing to help understand what happened to Ryan.”

Maybe it was just a robbery after all. I put my head down on the worktable. Someone knew Flint had a house full of valuables, and it was just Ryan's tragic luck to be there. I had come to a dead end on this.

I sat up, refusing to let Maude's story dead end, too. I had been wondering what became of the mysterious companion, of Maude herself, even of Katie. I smacked myself, because I did know where to look for answers. If I found some, maybe I could start redeeming myself here at work.

Here was the name of Maude's hometown in Illinois, River Bend. A quick web search gave me the name of the local newspaper,
River Bend Daily
, and—aha!—it still existed. It had a website. Its electronic records only went back a few decades, but there was an e-mail address for a librarian. I shot off a note with Maude's and Katie's full names and asked how I could learn if there was ever anything about them in the paper, anything at all. I hit “Send” just as Chris looked in the door.

I stood up and embraced her in a long hug. At that moment, it did not matter to me at all if she wanted one. After the death of a young person, I needed to hold tight to my own child. She stiffened at first and then hugged me back.

She broke first and said, “What did you find out about Ryan? I came because I know you won't do Facebook without my help.”

“Yes I will! I'm sure I can do a simple name search, but I had to do my own work, so I don't lose my job. You know, that pays your phone bills and puts food on the table?”

She gave me an exasperated look, sat herself at my computer and said, “Now pay attention. First you need to do this.”

Ryan's page was up there in seconds.

“About time!”

“Chris, please cut it out.”

“No, I won't. I'm really mad at you. Okay, I know—I know—last night was awful for you. But you never called back. Two people I know died this week. That's crazy. And then you stay out till all hours and I don't know what is happening to you and I get scared. How would you like it if I did that?”

“Chris…”

“I thought you would help more with Alex and his mom. Because…you know. He is only my oldest friend and I want to help him and I don't know how. He worries about Natalya. He said today that when Dima left for Green-Wood that night…”

“What did you just say? Say that again!”

Bewildered, she stopped the torrent of words and said, very slowly, “He worries about his mother…

“No! The part about Green-Wood.”

“Oh. That's where he worked a couple of nights a week. Night watchman.” She looked bewildered. “You must have known. He used to joke that he liked it because none of his customers could talk. “

“I had no idea.” My mind was spinning now. I jotted down a few notes, thinking about what connected.

“Mom? You're zoning out again. Which was my point. Okay, just forget about it. I'm going home.”

She was down the hall before I could even answer.

I wanted to reason with her. Smack her. Apologize to her. Cry. Chase her and drag her back. She wasn't making sense, and yet she was.

I wanted to call my friend Darcy who has raised three teens and cry on her shoulder. She would be at work now, so I poured out my heart in an e-mail and knew she would call me tonight. I even knew what she would say: Let her calm down and get calm yourself before you try to talk it out.

Easier said than done. I couldn't obsess about Chris and still have my breathing and heart rate returned to normal. There was Ryan's Facebook page. Now I would concentrate on exploring it.

I learned that Ryan, mild-mannered and meek in person, could be quite snarky online. I learned he only had a few friends, but they seemed to be involved in an intense, endlessly looping conversation about girls, comic books, and the meaning of life. And dumb jokes.

I looked at what he wrote his last few days, even while I flinched at the thought that they were his last few days. Headed to his “artpeeps”:

Unfuckingbelievable day at work. We're going through these old letters I told about and it looks like we found something BIG for real—a Tiffany window no one even knew exists. Yeah for real. As good as finding an original Superman #1 comic book? (ha, ha) Nah. (But then what would be?) But good enough to make Dr. Flint my SOB boss happy? Yeah. Good enough to get my name on a paper he will most likely write about it? Yeah. Good enough to get me to graduate with honors. Yeah, maybe. Today we did the slave work—made back up copies, made notes, sent him an e-mail. His mind will be blown when he gets back. Yahoo!”

I stopped breathing for a minute. Oh, Ryan, I thought. You dope. No wonder you turned red when Dr. Flint said keep it a secret. You had already failed at that. So other people did know what we found and not just your friends, either. Even I know there are no secrets if it's out there in cyberspace. Did someone come to Flint's house looking for more details and find you instead?