Brooklyn Graves (17 page)

“You got all these weird events, right? Maybe just coincidences? Nothing to do with you, anyhow. But you want to know if they are connected? Yeah? That's all it is?”

“I guess. Yes.” His cold water actually did seem to make it less of a muddle. “At least, it's a start.”

“Hmm. Back when dinosaurs roamed Prospect Park and I was a hot reporter, we started with Churchy Lafam.”

“What? Who the hell…”

“Churchy Lafam, cookie. Find the girl.” He looked smugly amused. “You never heard that expression? And you a doctoral student?”

The fog cleared. “Oh, for God's sakes. You mean
cherchez la femme
. Very funny.”

“Well,” he said mildly, “we used to think it was.”

“Doesn't apply here. There are femmes all over the place. Natalya. Chris. Bright Skye. Dr. Reade.”

“Go home and make a list with notes. Put in all the names, no matter how unimportant. Sometimes your typing hands know what your brain hasn't figured out. Know what I mean? And, no, you can't do it here. No one but me touches my keyboard. Then the other old saying is ‘Cui bono.'”

“Leary!!! Dammit. I came for help, not mind games.”

“Okay, okay. In courtroom English, ‘Who benefits?' or, translated to Brooklyn English, ‘Follow the dough.'”

“That might make more sense, or it might if I had any answers.” I checked them off on my fingers. “Dima—no one benefits…”

“That you know about…”

“As I was about to say, maybe his scary brother, if Natalya is right. Ryan, whoever broke in? Window theft, the thieves. Duh. I feel like I am the place where it all connects.” I got up and paced his cluttered living room. “I knew Dima. I have had dealings at Green-Wood about a Tiffany window. The Tiffany letters were in my possession. And if there is a mystery about Maude, it's my job to solve it. But I'm totally useless. I can't make any sense of any of it. “

“Nah. You just need to noodle it some more. Start with what you know most about, those letters. Or tackle your most solvable personal problem and get it out of the way. Or,” he said, with unusual gentleness, “you could just let it go. It used to be my job but it ain't yours.”

I thought it over, ignoring his last sentence.

“The window is just a theft. Probably. It's appalling, but yeah, it is not personal. I only really, deeply care if it has something to do with the rest. Do you think it does?”

He shrugged. “Not thinking anything, because we don't have enough to go on. Ever hear of facts first, then theory?”

“And Dima—that's for the police. Totally their job. I do know that. But people I care about care about that. A lot. Natalya. And Alex, who I know is in pain. I've known him since he could barely walk. Even Chris.”

“And this kid? Ryan, is it?”

“I don't think I can forget about him either.”

“Ha. I wouldn't know about this, personally—thank God!—but sounds like a mom kind of feeling in there? Yeah?”

“Maybe. Yes. “

“Well, get rid of it! It's not helping you. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, have I taught you nothing? You need to think, not feel.”

I considered smacking him, but after silently staring away for a long minute, I decided to make better use of him.

“You've been around a long time. What do you know about Russian crime in Brooklyn?”

“Not a damn thing.” He didn't hesitate for a second. “After my time. In my day, Russian crime meant spies, cloak-and-dagger stuff. All I know is that when the USSR opened up immigration, not all of them were bleeding-heart-worthy refugees. Sure, there's a mob, maybe more than one. Why should they be different from any other Americans?”

“That is not helpful. I was thinking about Natalya's brother-in-law.”

“Sorry. Like I said, after my time. When they came in, I wasn't covering Brooklyn anymore and then I wasn't working anymore at all.”

He grinned. “You just got to keeping pulling on those threads until it starts unraveling. Start with the one thing most likely to get you results. And okay, I do know who might know something. I already got my phone calls in. I might have an answer as soon as tomorrow.”

“And you'll tell me as soon as soon as you have something?”

“Maybe.” He saw my face and laughed. “Yeah, you little persistent mosquito, I will. See, I always said you have the makings of a reporter.”

“You know, Leary, if we went online….”

“Ha. Even I thought of that, but not everything is out there, ya know? And what you maybe don't know is that not everything reporters learn gets into print. I've still got a few sources so I'll do it the old school way—we'll talk.”

***

I left feeling better all around. Surprising—no, incomprehensible—that a visit with a grouch like Leary had helped lighten my mood.

I walked the block to my car, quickly, purposefully, and with a posture that tried to say, “Mess me with me and I'll rip your eyes out.” Attitudes can be armor. I hoped. And I hoped the guy in that doorway across from my car was just waiting for a friend. Or someone to mug that looked more vulnerable than I do. And that he was not looking at me. Or for me.

Chapter Fifteen

I thought some extra time at work would give me the chance to pull on some of those threads.

Then the chance came to me. Dr. Flint was at my doorway, just in time to interfere with my need to find some giant cookies. Stress eating was kicking in full force and I did not care.

Even in my present distracted state I could see he did not look well. The perfect hair was sticking out oddly, the elegant clothes were mismatched and rumpled.

“I am going to have things out with you. No more nonsense.” He stepped in without being invited. His eyes were like marbles and his tone was belligerent. I gave him a glassy cold stare in return. Country clubs are not the only place to learn how to stare people down. Not even the best place.

“Really? Just what is it you have to say to me? Let me rephrase: just what is it you
think
you have to say to me? And why should I listen?”

He checked, perhaps surprised, and then seemed to reboot. “You made a fool of me in front of my colleagues. I am not having a little snip like you demeaning my reputation…and my professional integrity.…”

I folded my arms, and said, “I could not have made a fool of you without your abundant help. I didn't force you to steal—yes, steal!—those documents. I tried to stop you. And if that's all you have to say, get the hell of my office.”

I dimly knew this might be a career-damaging moment. I no longer cared.

“Your job is to assist me! I am doing this for the museum as a favor, at nothing like my usual fee. You were assigned to work for me. Who are you to question my judgment, a little student with no experience? You overstepped…”

His words felt like shouting but his voice was a sinister whisper.

At that moment, I knew had some choices. I could collapse, as he obviously expected. Or I could start shouting for real, as I deeply, sincerely wanted.

With fierce calm, I said, “I so did not overstep. In fact, I got into trouble for not stepping further. I work for the museum. Their needs, not yours, are my job. Do I look that stupid? You are not here as a great culture vulture do-gooder. Whatever you find here will feed into your glorious reputation. Ryan told me that, as if I could not have figured it out for myself.”

He face went from sickly pale, to red, and back again.

“Now you can leave my workspace and let me get on with my true job.”

And then, all of a sudden he seemed to collapse into his clothes and onto my single office chair. He put his head in his hands.

“Everyone knows. I don't know how it all got out. I am being criticized everywhere. Attacked. If I lose my reputation—probably it's already lost—I have nothing. No career, no standing professionally or socially. My whole life is being destroyed.”

“And I am to blame for this?”

His head, still buried in his hands, went from side to side. Was that a no?

Then what was he doing in my office?

“Dr. Flint? Do you have a reason for being here? I have work to do. “

He seemed to shake his head again and whispered something.

“What is it that you think I can do for you?”

His head was still buried in his hands but this time I could hear him. “That poor boy.”

“Ryan?”

He did not look up.

“Dr. Flint!” I still had not an atom of sympathy but I had a wisp of curiosity.

“He was an odd young man,” Flint whispered. “A lost soul. Clueless is the word he used himself. Not part of my vocabulary but it is descriptive. And classless. Not my usual type of assistant but he did the job brilliantly. And I never told him—never said a word—but he was hugely gifted in his art. There, he had that spark…”

“All this—this emotion—is about Ryan? Really?”

Flint finally looked up. He looked like a ghost. “Perhaps.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps. I am not a complete monster. I live my life as I have chosen, no regrets, but I know that if Ryan had not been at my house…I've spent my life studying artists, but he was a real artist. Do you see the distinction? And I've never been wrong about that. Now that promise…it's all lost…because of me…I was too eager…those papers…”

“Dr. Flint? Perhaps we should go out for a walk?” He didn't move. “When did you last eat? You come with me and have a coffee, at least.”

He stood up and turned toward the hall, without actually looking at me. I led the way out, and over to the farmers market on the courthouse plaza. He followed. I didn't care what he needed, but I needed fresh air at that moment, and I couldn't leave him sitting in a stupor in my office. I also needed a fresh-picked apple. Or maybe a cider doughnut. Or maybe a whole bag of them. I bought him a ham and cheese sandwich, too.

I didn't ask him. I sat him on a plaza bench, thrust a sandwich half into his hand and set the cups of hot coffee, heavy on the sugar, on the bench between us.

“Now eat,” I ordered. “Start with the doughnut.”

He looked mildly surprised at that and mildly surprised at his surroundings.

But he picked it up and ate.

Between my personal high stress and the overall weirdness of the situation, the food had no flavor. I chewed and it helped somehow. The coffee seemed to have no flavor and no aroma, but it was hot. That was enough.

When Flint's sandwich had disappeared, and I was sufficiently fueled, I finally turned to him. “You tell me what is going on right now. And no more verbal abuse, or I will leave you right here to have a nervous breakdown all alone, in public.”

“My life is over.” He said it clearly enough, though he still could not look at me. “I spent my whole life…created my whole life from nothing…nothing…and now I am…nothing again. Calls and calls from the professional journals…and my colleagues…all oozing sympathy but smiling behind my back…I don't use all those online things…Ryan did it for me…but I'm sure they are buzzing. I made a misjudgment…they don't understand it was from good motives!…and someone died. That harmless young fool.” He stopped suddenly, then added, “Does that explain it enough?”

“Not even close. I had a second when I thought it was about Ryan. Now I'm back to thinking you are just embarrassed.”

He turned even whiter. “Is that how it seems? Have I lost all my social skills? It's not at all…well, maybe some of it is…but there is more.…”

I waited. And then I kept waiting. And then I stood up, and said, “I am going back to work. We're done.” I turned and walked away.

He caught up with me at the first stoplight, and kept pace with me back to the building and into my office. Again. Before I could start protesting, he said softly, “I will never have children. Never wanted them. I never even wanted to mentor young people. I wasn't good at it when it was forced on me. I used interns occasionally only if they were thrust on me by a patron, or I was desperate for help. I preferred ambitious debutantes with art history majors. The world was already their oyster, they were useful enough and they didn't need anything from me.”

He stopped talking.

“And this matters to me—why?”

“Ryan was different. I did need him. He solved problems for me and then he got to me. In my own, not-very-warm-hearted way, I tried to help him. To become a person who could belong somewhere in the world. Now I am…”

“You are sad.” An emotion I knew too well.

“Sad? No, not possible. I have not been sad about any personal thing for…forever. Professional disappointment—the rare occasions!—certainly. And I did not after all know him well. He was not important to me as a person.”

He still had not apologized to me. He still was barely looking at me. And he still was not leaving. I had an inspiration.

“Dr. Flint, how about doing some work today? We have copies of all the original documents. Why don't we spread them out in the workroom and you can look them over again for anything I might have missed? Ryan and I might have missed?”

I did not think we had missed a thing, but it would get him out of my office. I set him up with a computer, pulled my notes and Ryan's, showed him how to navigate and then he seemed so confused, I went and printed it all for him.

I couldn't settle back into productivity because something was nagging at me. Finally I went into the workroom and said, “Stop what you're doing. I want to show you something.”

He accepted my bossiness and stood up right away. It must have been a measure of how shaken he was.

I had Ryan's Facebook page up on my screen. “Do you know what this is? It's a network. People write about their lives and other people—anyone they give permission to—can read it. Some people have hundreds of Facebook friends. Maybe even thousands.” I pointed. “Read this.”

It was Ryan's foolish musing about this project.

“He wrote about it? After I told him to keep it quiet? How could this have happened?”

I shrugged. “Before you told him. And they forget. Young people just forget that nothing on the Internet is private, even if it feels like a dormitory bull session. And then word can spread from Facebook friends to, well, everyone. But do you see? Other people knew about this. Give yourself a break.”

I knew I had given him that break. I wasn't sure he deserved it, but still.

Some color came back into his face. “Maybe it wasn't me. I can…”

He looked right at me for the first time that day. “Who do I seem to be, to you?”

“What?”

“Yes, who do I seem to be?” He ticked off on his fingers. “Supremely well-educated. Brilliant at my work. I do everything with style, refined yet suave. Right? Would you assume I came out of a prep school background? Old money? The world of Edith Wharton and Louis Auchincloss? Because believe me, that world still exists.”

I was so taken by surprise by this train of thought, I barely nodded. It was all true. That is exactly what I thought.

“Behold Pygmalion. And Galatea. Or Eliza and Higgins. Shaw knew. I created my own new self from the son of a dairy farmer in overalls with manure on his work boots. No one knows that.” He shook his head, surprised, perhaps, that he was talking about it now.

“The right Ivy degrees, the right tailored clothes, the right ways of speaking. Do it well enough and you have the perfect disguise. Ryan was doing it, too. That's why I even made some efforts—not so large, but large for me—to give him guidance. He was wearing a disguise, too. His was an ugly one.” He shuddered. “But he mistakenly thought it to be edgy. In any case, it prevented people from seeing who he really was—a kid off an alfalfa farm in one of those rectangular Midwestern states. Chemical fertilizer on
his
work boots.” He rubbed his eyes. “I'm going home now. I am better. And I will deny everything I have just said, so I wouldn't repeat it if I were you. Who will they believe, you or me?”

He left and then turned back. “You and Ryan did a fine job on the Maude Cooper papers. Who would have expected it from a Brooklyn guttersnipe and a farm boy? But you missed the underlying story. She's hiding something, too.”

“Oh? I had that feeling, too.”

“She's hiding something, just like me and just like Ryan. I have no idea what, but I know she is. I can feel it.”

He was gone and I was left trying to take in everything he had said, my mind really too full to absorb one more new idea.

***

I went to the workroom and put away all the document copies Flint had left out. Then, mindful of Leary's words, I tackled one more doable task. I wanted to talk to Natalya about Dima and his job.

“Ah, Erica, you have read my mind,” she said when I called. “I was wondering if you had some time tomorrow. I could use help, Alex and me. We are meeting with police. Is there…could you…I am nervous to ask. Is there any chance you could come with us? They scare me. Just going to their building scares me. “

“But Natalya? You did battle with the Soviet bureaucracy. What are New York cops compared to that?”

“I know.” She sighed. “It's true. They are little baby chickens beside what I dealt with back then, but also I was young and stupid so I could be fearless. And I could talk my ways through in Russian. With cursing, if needed. Or flirting or humor, whatever it took. Now I am not fearless. And you would help, in case that I do not understand all their English?”

I was pretty sure that Natalya's English comprehension was way more than adequate, but I guessed she needed to know someone had her back.

“Do you know who you are meeting with?”

“Ah, yes, that Detective Henderson.”

That clinched it for me. Whatever else I might have done would wait.

“I'll be there for sure. Now I have a question for you. Did Dima work at night at Green-Wood Cemetery?”

“Yes, of course he did. He was a night watchman a few nights a week. I worried, having him work all week and also nights. He started last year. But you knew this?”

“Strangely, I didn't. How did I not know?”

“Ah, it started when you were so upset last year, so many problems, your grant, your father. And then I suppose it just didn't come up.”

That made sense at last. It had been one of those times when life was throwing one thing after another and I was just barely getting through my days. We didn't talk much then.

“So that's the job he was at, that night, and left during the night.”

“They say. That's what they say, he unlocked the gate with his card in the middle of the night. The people there, oh, they are so sympathetic but they want him really to not be killed there, it is bad for them, for their name. And it changes their insurance, too, I think.” She sighed, a sigh from her toes all the way up. “The police say it, too. You see why I am upset to talk to them?”

“Oh, sure.” I said it absently; I was not sure I understood but I would be there tomorrow. I hadn't talked to Natalya for a few days so if she needed me now, I was there.