The Gravedigger's Ball (13 page)

“Finally, we need to know how this raven ties in to all this, and why it matters to the killer. Lieutenant Jackson, you’ll be responsible for that. The captain here will give the three of you whatever support you need. And I’ll be checking in throughout the day. I want this killer caught, I want him caught now, and I don’t want to hear any excuses. You’re dismissed.”

The three of them walked out with their marching orders, and Coletti stopped to get the computer and cell phone off Mann’s desk.

While Coletti was gathering the items to take them up to IT, Lynch came out of the office and spoke to his old friend so only he could hear. “There was one other thing I wanted to tell you, Mike.”

“What’s that?” Coletti said as he finished wrapping the items.

“I need you to talk to Kirsten Douglas.”

“Why?”

“She questioned why you were working the case after what happened with Mary. I told her you don’t have a personal stake in it, but we both know Kirsten. She’s not gonna let it go.”

“She shouldn’t talk to me, then, ’cause if she questions my integrity I won’t be nice about it.”

“No, you
will
be nice about it, Mike, because I promised her you’d talk to her.”

“Why would you do that?” Coletti asked in disbelief.

“So you can find out what she knows before the paper does, and get this killer off the street.”

Coletti sighed.

“Whatever you tell her doesn’t have to be for attribution. You can be an unnamed source with knowledge of the investigation. Besides, she just wants a few exclusive tidbits. I don’t see any harm in giving her that. Make her think she’s getting more than she’s giving. Who knows? She might like it. You might, too.”

Coletti looked at the commissioner and shook his head. Then he walked out of the office and saw Mann and Sandy in the hallway. They were standing together near the front door. Mann was on the phone placing a call to the Edgar Allan Poe house. Sandy was trying not to let her personal feelings show. From what Coletti could see, she was failing miserably in that effort.

Mann waved at Coletti and then turned back to Sandy as his partner made his way upstairs. “We’re set for the Poe house,” Mann said to Sandy. “And Lenore Wilkinson’s ready to be picked up.”

Sandy was quiet because she didn’t want to be anywhere near Lenore, and she wasn’t even certain she wanted to be bothered with Mann. Sandy wanted to tell him that she had to supervise her officers, or that she had duties in the district office, or that she had to go back to check on the scene in the park. But the commissioner had given his orders, and Sandy was bound to comply.

“You ready?” Mann asked as he prepared to leave.

Sandy nodded.

Mann walked out, but Sandy lagged behind, so he stopped to wait for her. “You seem preoccupied,” he said when she caught up to him.

“I
am
preoccupied. I want to find Smitty’s killer.”

“I was hoping you wanted to find more than that,” he said, turning to her with a forced smile.

“Don’t play with me, Charlie. You know you don’t mean that.”

“Yes I do.”

“Then show me,” she said, her tone a mix of skepticism and frustration.

They stopped and looked at each other, each of them hoping that Charlie Mann had rediscovered the thing that he’d lost two months ago. After a few seconds, however, it was apparent that he hadn’t, so he dropped his gaze, knowing that he wasn’t quite ready. Sandy knew it, too, but she liked that he was trying.

“I’ll meet you at the Loews,” Charlie said as he turned and walked to his car.

Sandy watched him and thought of what she’d come to headquarters to say.

“Charlie?”

He turned and looked at her.

“I love you,” she mouthed silently.

For the first time in a long time, he had to force himself to respond. “Me, too,” he said with a grin.

Sandy wanted to believe what he’d said, but there was no life in his words, no emotion in his voice, and no joy in his smile. Sandy knew he couldn’t possibly love her. The look in his eyes said he didn’t even love himself.

CHAPTER 7

Lenore Wilkinson looked out the window of her hotel room and stared at the city below. The Loews building that formerly housed the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society had once been one of the tallest buildings in the city. Though it had long since been dwarfed by the likes of One Liberty Place and the Cira Centre, it still provided a bird’s-eye view of everything that made Philadelphia tick.

She could see the traffic crawling along Market Street, and the towers of City Hall. She could see the people below, like dots moving along the sidewalks. It all seemed so insignificant from up there. No one seemed to matter any more than anyone else.

Lenore knew appearances could be deceiving, however. There were distinctions between the dots she saw moving below. The one on the corner of Thirteenth Street who sat on the sidewalk in utter defeat, his arms outstretched for a coin or a morsel, was less significant than the one stepping into the cab a block away. The one whose Bentley was stopped at a Market Street traffic light was vastly more valuable than the bike messenger dipping in and out of traffic.

Lenore knew that this was the way of the world, because this was the life that she lived. Her beauty had vaulted her far beyond her own humble beginnings and had taken her to the higher echelons of society. She’d paid a price for that, of course. It was a price that she was no longer willing to pay.

She thought about how she had met John Wilkinson. It was a year after she’d graduated from Princeton with a bachelor’s in philosophy. She was enrolled in a master’s program at NYU and still living on a budget with a teaching assistant’s job that paid a small stipend. Five days a week, Lenore traveled back and forth from Princeton, New Jersey, to Manhattan on the cheap. One day she decided to splurge and take Amtrak instead of Greyhound, and there was a charming older man doing what everyone does on Amtrak—trying to find two empty seats so he wouldn’t have to sit next to anyone. The train was crowded, though, so he ended up next to Lenore.

She was surprised at first that he didn’t behave like most older men. He didn’t ogle her. He didn’t make silly conversation. He didn’t offer her the world on a silver platter. He simply took out his laptop and went to work on a proposal.

Lenore was relieved that she wouldn’t have to find a way to nicely rebuff his advances. But then, when he got off the train at Penn Station, he left his briefcase behind. Lenore didn’t know much about high fashion, but she knew that a Louis Vuitton briefcase could be two thousand dollars or more, so she opened the briefcase and found his business card inside. Then she took the day off and set out to return it to him.

When she did finally find his company’s headquarters, high up in an office building on Fifth Avenue, she walked into the lobby and saw a veritable shrine to John Wilkinson. There were framed magazine covers sporting his face, including
Money
,
Fortune
,
Forbes
, and
Newsweek
. There were pictures of him with various dignitaries from around the world. There was a young secretary who looked Lenore up and down as if she were the competition.

Lenore often thought of that moment—the moment when she had a chance to turn around. It was at that moment that John Wilkinson stepped out of his office to tell his secretary something, and for the first time he looked at the young woman whom he’d sat next to on the train.

Because he was so accustomed to having gold diggers throwing themselves at him, John was taken with the innocence of a woman who would actually take the time to return one of the trappings of his wealth. He asked her out, and she refused at first, which made him want her all the more.

He took the time to learn her every interest, to study her tendencies as if he were chasing yet another business deal, and when he finally was able to make his way into her heart, he wooed her with the same simplicity that he saw in her personality. By the time he finished, she was putty in his hands. Two years into their relationship, they were married.

But as John’s business empire expanded, his once encyclopedic knowledge of Lenore’s interests waned. She began to complain that they no longer spent time together, and he threw money at the problem, giving her every material thing she could possibly want. Still, Lenore realized that the chase for her was over, and he was now chasing his true love—money. While doing so, he relegated Lenore to the status she’d tried so hard to avoid. She was a trophy, and John was never there for her, not even in the moments when she needed him most, like right now.

She dialed his number once again on her cell phone. It was her third call in an hour. She knew that he was returning from Europe on business, but that was no excuse. John traveled in private planes where calls got through. If he hadn’t answered her by now, it wasn’t because he couldn’t. It was because he chose not to do so. When the phone rang for the fifth time and there was no answer, Lenore declined to leave another message. She simply hung up the phone.

As she gazed out her window at the people below who looked so insignificant, she realized that she was just like them. The distinctions that separated rich from poor were of no consequence if the money couldn’t buy happiness. In Lenore’s case, it couldn’t even buy satisfaction.

There was a knock at the door, and she turned from the window. “Come in,” she said.

“Mrs. Wilkinson, Detective Mann is on his way up,” said the uniformed officer who was posted at her door. “We’ll be ready to move you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” she said with a grateful smile.

She went to the mirror and teased her hair into place. Then she put on some lipstick and tried not to look as sad as she felt. She told herself that she was finally doing something that she wanted to do. She was finally out to learn who she really was. That was why she was going to stay to find the answers that had eluded her for a lifetime. It wasn’t about John, or her father, or her sister, or anyone else but herself. Knowing that would have to be enough.

There was another knock on the door, and Lenore pasted on a smile. “I’m ready,” she said, walking out of the room to meet Charlie Mann and the two officers who’d been detailed to her.

“Right this way,” Mann said, walking down the hall as the uniformed cops followed them.

Mann looked at Lenore when they got on the elevator. “We’re going to make a stop before we go to the safe house,” he said.

“You’re just full of surprises,” Lenore said absently.

When they reached the lobby and walked out the door, Lenore saw yet another surprise. Sandy was sitting in her patrol car, watching as she came out the entrance. At first, the look on Sandy’s face was friendly. But when Sandy looked at Lenore, her friendliness turned to something else.

Sandy got out of her car and walked across the sidewalk as Mann opened his car door for Lenore, about whose looks Sandy had heard much. When she was close enough to get a good look at the woman in Charlie’s passenger seat, Sandy’s posture changed even more, and though Sandy tried to hide it, everyone within thirty yards of them could see.

“Lieutenant Sandy Jackson, this is Lenore Wilkinson,” Mann said as Sandy stuck her head in his car window.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sandy muttered. Then she turned to Mann and kissed him on the cheek.

Mann was surprised by the gesture. There were no public displays of affection while in uniform. But Sandy was more than a cop now. She was a woman—
Charlie’s
woman—and she wanted Lenore to know it.

“I’m going over to the Poe house,” Sandy said before glancing at Lenore once again. “I’ll meet the two of you there.”

*   *   *

Poe’s stoic face stared out from a colorful mural on the side of the housing project on Seventh Street. The painting was the Housing Authority’s feeble attempt at making the development blend in with the nearby red brick house where Poe had once lived. The effort was a failure.

The writer’s sullen image looked on with disapproval at the way the land around his former house had gone from country meadows to a mix of mean streets and hastily constructed new development. To add insult to injury, the man who’d invented the modern detective story was now at the center of one, and from the look on the mural’s painted face, he was none too pleased.

Sandy pulled up within sight of Poe’s staring image. She parked her cruiser and looked at the corner where the National Park Service, which ran Poe’s former house, vied with the neighborhood for control. Judging by the broken glass and tiny red plastic baggies that littered the ground near the national historic site, the neighborhood had fought the government to a draw.

She looked at the mural and the housing project that had thus far survived the neighborhood’s gentrification, and she realized that she was now part of the fight to hold that corner. Having transferred from the ninth district to become a lieutenant in the sixth, she was still learning her new environment. From what she saw, it was a world apart from the other side of Center City.

In her five years in the ninth, Sandy had gotten to know the beggars and security guards, shopkeepers and salespeople in the high-end shopping district on Rittenhouse Square. She’d learned the rhythms of the skyscrapers that loomed within walking distance of City Hall. She’d come to recognize those faces that belonged downtown and those that didn’t. Moreover, she’d recognized her place in it all.

She was the mediator—the one who knew the district better than it knew itself. As such, she was required to adjust her persona to fit the needs of the moment, and she did so to great effect. She was reassuring to the rich and a counselor to the downtrodden, a disciplinarian to the recalcitrant, and a supporter of her subordinates. More than any of those things, she was a lover to the one who made her rough edges smooth—Charlie Mann.

But she wasn’t in the ninth district now. She was in the sixth, and things had changed. Her job was different, her location was different, and as she watched Mann pull up at the corner with another unmarked car following closely behind, she realized that her relationship was different, too. That grieved her, but Sandy had watched too many women stifle themselves and the men they purported to love simply because they refused to let go. Sandy didn’t plan to be one of those women.