Deep Pockets (27 page)

She informed me that Mr. Fitch was unavailable. News flash. I feigned dismay, intimated that I’d probably lose my job because of my dumb, dumb mistake. My boss
really
needed that name.

She was young, new to the job. She wanted everyone to like her and she didn’t want me to get in trouble. She zapped me on hold, then came back a few seconds later to eagerly reveal that Horace Matheson was the name I wanted. I thanked her gravely. She wasn’t going to last long in the legal business.

I hung a quick left out of the steak house’s lot. Fitch, the lawyer, had given me the gift of advice: Don’t discuss Brinkman’s sudden withdrawal from the case with Harvard’s legal representative; talk to someone in Admissions instead. Was it genuine advice, or a stall? You don’t get to work in Admissions unless you have some discretion, and I wondered what tool I could use to pry information out of Matheson. Brinkman was dead; there was no compelling reason for her file to remain confidential, but there was no compelling reason to release information, either.

The office for undergrad admissions is housed in Byerly Hall, one of three main buildings linked by colonnades in dignified Radcliffe Yard, between Brattle and Garden streets. The building’s known less for its architecture than for the multiple chimneys that vent the laboratories inside. They worked well; instead of stinking of chemicals, the entryway smelled of old books and fresh coffee, and I wondered if Harvard had found a way to bottle the scent, like new-car spray.

I followed discreet signs to the Admissions office. It was high-ceilinged and spacious, with a reception desk set far enough from the door to allow easy entry. When I asked to see Mr. Matheson, the receptionist gave me raised eyebrows and a quick once-over.

“You have an appointment?”

I handed over a card. “I can wait.”

I can wait
— the most fearsome words a receptionist hears. The dark-haired woman eyed my card, caught private investigator, and hesitated, one hand on the telephone, considering, perhaps, the effect the announcement that a private investigator wished to see Mr. Matheson might have on the assembled doting parents and potential students.

“I’ll be right back,” she said firmly as she disappeared down the hall.

The waiting area had twin sofas, four upholstered chairs, two reading lamps, and a coffee table stacked with copies of
Harvard Magazine
and the
Harvard Crimson
, the undergraduate newspaper. A young man with a stalk for a neck and wire-rimmed glasses sat next to his similarly long-necked mother on one of the sofas. They clutched various maps of the area. A teenage girl, wearing a black suit, occupied one of the armchairs. Her attire was designed to make her look more sophisticated, but it wasn’t working. She kept staring around the office and grinning widely. Every time someone entered, she glanced up eagerly, as though expecting Tommy Lee Jones to stroll through the room. No, not Tommy Lee. Her age, she’d be happier with Matt Damon or Ben Affleck. Natalie Portman. I wondered whether Harvard would live up to her expectations. A youngster who looked barely sixteen had another chair. He read the
Wall Street Journal
with devoted intensity.

One reason I was so willing to wait was that I’d brought my reading material with me. I sat as far as I could from the door, the desk, other people. I didn’t want anyone peering at Denali Brinkman’s autopsy report over my shoulder.

Here’s the deal: When I was a cop, the guys made a big production out of trying to gross out the rookie broad. They made book on how long I’d be able to stand waiting in a stifling bedroom with a bloated corpse for the ME’s crew to show up and haul the body away, on whether I’d puke during autopsies. I’d steeled myself, and little by little, by not passing out, not crying off, refusing to react, I passed the stupid hazing ritual.

The yellow envelope measured ten by fourteen. I opened the string closure and slid out seven typed pages.

The name on the initial sheet was Jane Doe, but someone had crossed it out with typed
X
’s and written in “Denali Brinkman.” “Approximate Age” came next: “20–30 years.” “Sex: female. Height: 60" (residual). Weight: not applicable.”

Residual height meant the body had been so badly charred that portions of it were missing. I skipped to the findings section, read that the cause of death was asphyxiation due to the inhalation of smoke, with carbon deposits in the tracheobronchial tree. The inhalation of carbon monoxide was also listed, with carboxyhemoglobin saturation at 15 percent. Global charring with some body mutilation. Inhalation of smoke meant that Denali had been alive when the fire was set. She hadn’t been murdered first. The arson wasn’t a blind. So much for that theory. I flipped the pages, looking for the tox-screen results.

Ethanol: negative in the blood, positive in the urine. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Positive for carbon monoxide. I scanned the list. Amphetamines, barbituates, benzodiazepines. A positive hit on the benzos, but what did that signify? Anyone planning to kill herself, certainly anyone planning to kill herself in such a terrible way, might have taken whatever drugs she had on hand. Why save them?

The receptionist’s voice startled me. “Miss Carlyle?”

I shielded the pages. “Yes.”

“Mr. Matheson will be tied up for some time. Perhaps you’d care to make an appointment for another day.”

“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Perhaps you’d care to mention what this concerns?”

“I’ve just spoken with Ted Fitch, and I have some questions concerning Denali Brinkman.”

She nodded crisply, turned, and made tracks down the hall again. I went back to the beginning of the autopsy report, learned that the body had been presented to the ME in a blue body bag, that it was wrapped in a tannish white sheet, that the remains were mixed with a quantity of collapsed and burned construction debris, including dry-wall and fragmented glass. The body had been basically intact, but the distal phalanges of the right foot were broken away. Soft tissue was extensively charred and macerated, and had a moist, pasty texture. I turned the page to the internal examination, read about Brinkman’s cardiovascular, pulmonary, and gastrointestinal systems. A life weighed in grams. The last line on page seven read “Identification made from dentals records.”

Beaubien had included a glassine envelope of autopsy photos. I hoped he’d copied them, not stolen them. I’d known he’d get them somehow, wouldn’t want me to miss the gore.

The room smelled faintly of lilac. There were soothing paintings on the walls, one of them a view of the old Yard, dominated by Massachusetts Hall. A stern-faced portrait hung over the fireplace, probably one of the early presidents of the university. There was a framed photo of a young John F. Kennedy in graduation robes and mortarboard, one of seven U.S. presidents who had attended Harvard. Every so often, the young man with the newspaper cast a reverent eye at the picture.

Where had they come from, these young people? Harvard admits from every state in the union, as well as from overseas, and takes pride in the diversity of its freshman class. These kids all looked the same, polished and well dressed, bright and white.

I was avoiding the autopsy photos. Another young woman entered the room, glancing around with apparent delight, her face dimpling as she gave her name to the receptionist. Had Denali Brinkman come here to take her freshman tour? Had she sat on the edge of her seat, wondering whether JFK had sat there before her?

Photos are photos — no more, no less. They don’t include the smell of charred flesh. Still, I’d never seen a body so badly burned, so blistered and charred. It was a human figure, no doubt about that, but — I inadvertently raised my hand to my mouth, but I don’t think I made a noise.

The photos were safely back in their envelope, so I must have put them there. I could understand why the ID had been made through the teeth. I couldn’t see anyone — father, mother, lover — recognizing that ghastly, blackened, skeletal face. I paged through, found the dental chart. All thirty-two teeth, three cavities.

The cheerful young woman in the black suit was ushered to an inner office. The stalk-necked boy and his mother followed. I felt inside my backpack, found a banana with intact skin, fairly well browned, but edible. I wasn’t hungry after what I’d been viewing, but it was nice to know I’d have something to fall back on when it got late.

The receptionist called my name. I stood, anticipating success, and approached her desk.

“Mr. Matheson said to tell you he’s referring all queries concerning Ms. Brinkman to Legal Services. He suggests you make an appointment.”

“He won’t see me.”

“Correct.”

I considered my options. I could lurk by the back door of Byerly. Fine, except I didn’t know what Matheson looked like. I could stake out the parking area, but I didn’t know what kind of car he drove, if any. If I worked smack in Harvard Square, I sure wouldn’t bother with a car. I’d take the T.

Frustration ate at me, but I had no string to pull. I didn’t know why Albert Brinkman had changed his mind about suing Harvard, and I didn’t know what it had to do with the office of undergrad admissions. Possibly, Theodore Fitch had pulled a fast one; maybe there was nothing to know.

I’d go home, call Geary. Call Beaubien, thank him for the report. I swallowed a bitter taste and took a final look around the elegant room, trying not to think about what fire had done to perfect Denali Brinkman, rowing champion, petite, blond, brilliant Denali. At perfect Harvard.

I glanced at the young man with the
Wall Street Journal
, who was still waiting, still hoping for the big yes, the dream future. I felt sad, and it wasn’t just from staring at the photos of Denali’s body. I felt sad for the teens who sat in the perfect armchairs, and for the teens who’d never sit there, for the hopeful and the hopeless. I considered the earnest young man. What did he expect? That this storied place would somehow change him, mold him, make him into someone special and different and unique? I pondered the new crop of Harvard freshmen, culled from the best and the brightest, the small fish about to take a dive into the big pool.

Would they find success here, or failure? Would they find despair? Like Denali Brinkman.

My cell had been getting a workout. I
decided to make a few calls from home, use the bathroom, grab a Pepsi without paying two bucks for the privilege. I’m glad to report I’d already visited the facilities when all hell broke loose.

“All hell” may seem extreme when used to describe two teenage girls, but believe me, it’s not. When I encountered them as I stepped out of the bathroom into the hall, I didn’t recognize the first one, period. What the hell is she — I stopped even as my mouth opened to ask her the question. The second one was Paolina, but not Paolina as I’d seen her before.

My little sister, five three, barely fifteen years old, has got the all-American ideal figure, the heavy breasts and boyish hips, and the whole package was practically on full display. She wore shorts that started low on her hips and ended high on her thighs, with a waistline drawstring begging to be tugged. Her shirt was — well, it was transparent, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. She was perched on heels I wouldn’t wear to impersonate a hooker, a thankless task I used to perform for the police department.

“That’s not what you’re wearing to the party.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

She and her friend goggled at me. The friend — I recognized her now — Aurelia — my God, she’d grown — wore a skirt the size of a Band-Aid, paired with a low-cut tank top. Both girls wore makeup, their lips glossily painted, their lashes caked with mascara.

“You gotta problem?” Aurelia asked.

I considered possible retorts, knew enough to watch my mouth. “Halloween, right?” wouldn’t go over big, and they wouldn’t know what I meant if I asked whether I should drop them off at the Greyhound bus station, where the professionals congregate.

I sucked in a deep breath. One of the things about kids, one of the saving graces, is that when you look at them, you see more than a simple imprint; you see layers. When I look at Paolina, I see her at fifteen, yes, but underneath I see the faint outline of the twelve-year-old, the ten-year-old, the little girl. When she was small, Paolina dressed up as a policeman, as a fireman, trying on life. She was trying on femininity now, and I knew I had to be careful.

“Paolina,” I said. “Look at me.”

She clenched her jaw.

“Aurelia, you’re not my responsibility. You can wear whatever you like. You can leave or you can stay, but if you stay, you’ll be quiet.”

She pulled a face but kept her mouth shut.

“Come into my room. There’s a better mirror, better light.”

I led them in, watched as they pranced in front of the full-length glass. To my eyes, they were just this side of ridiculous, just this side of pathetic. They looked like plastic dolls, like wanna-be Barbies. But that was through my eyes. Through theirs, they were glamorous, sexy women. Hot.

“Do the shoes hurt, Paolina?” I sat on the unmade bed, feeling creaky and ancient, at least ninety-five.

“No. Not really.”

“They
will
hurt,” I said. “You could sprain an ankle. No more volleyball.”

“So?”

“I think we need to compromise here.”

“I’m not gonna wear the same thing I wear to school,” she said. “It’s a party. And I was gonna wear a bra. I just couldn’t decide what color.”

What color would be moot with a different shirt. It’s so damn unfair, I thought, how quickly kids grow up, how fast their bodies mature, how slowly caution catches up.

“Do you remember the perfume?” I asked Paolina. “My very best perfume.”

“That Sam gave you.” She sat on the floor, cross-legged, a child and a woman, and Aurelia joined her, a tumble of color on the rug. I should have known that’s what Paolina would remember about the perfume, that a man gave it to me. She’d always adored Sam.

“What about perfume?” asked Aurelia. “Oops, sorry. I’m like not supposed to talk.”