Chapter 16

Bebe woke up (and woke us up) in a good mood on Monday morning. She came to our room dressed for her final meeting with her crosstown bosses. She wore another blouse I’d never seen, an off-white tuxedo-front style, and I wondered if she’d sneaked in another shopping trip this week without Maddie. The Lex was within walking distance of Lord & Taylor, after all, and almost directly above the vast lower level mall in Grand Central Station. She accounted for part of her outfit before I could ask, holding up her new scarf, in brown hues, to give us a closer look. “I got this at that shop two doors down from here, ‘Scarves and More.’ It’s, like, Manhattan’s motto. Everything’s ‘And More.’ I love it.”

Maddie and I loved it, too, we said, as we piled extra pillows behind us and sat up in our beds, both in our night clothes from a suburban mall with a meager food court. Bebe had taken the only chair in the room and began an unsolicited preview of her final presentation to her corporate overlords. During their time together without me, Maddie had worked with Bebe, taking advantage of the services and equipment in the hotel’s business center, and together they’d produced impressive color graphics with data on the crafts fair. I was convinced that Maddie had done more to act as Bebe’s companion and assistant at the show than I had, but, as her grandmother, one who’d supplied some of her genes and paid for her airplane ticket, I felt I deserved a certain percent of the credit.

“My bosses will be so amazed at these charts,” Bebe told us, holding up a graphic that highlighted the takeaways from the show. “They’re not just interested in the bottom line, though the sales figures are phenomenal, but all the networking with the other vendors, making points with Jackie Cromwell, who organizes shows all over the country, plus getting to know the events coordinator and her staff, and the security staff here at the Lex.”

“And more,” Maddie said, clever even half-asleep.

Bebe gave Maddie a smile and a nod, and I took it that she meant to apply about ten percent of that gratitude to me, for the genes if nothing else. She took off for her meeting, seeming satisfied that we’d connect with her for dinner, but probably not before then.

“I promised we’d help Cynthia go through her aunt’s closets this afternoon,” I’d reminded her. “It’s a tough thing to tackle, but it might be a little easier if she has company.”

“I’m glad she has you,” Bebe said, nodding, and I knew she really was in a spectacular mood.

For some reason, Bebe seemed on an energy high, while I was at a low point, all the busyness and the stress of the week catching up with me. Once Bebe left, I looked over at a still heavy-lidded Maddie.

“We shouldn’t waste our last morning in Manhattan in bed,” I said, as I slid down to a supine position under the covers.

“Uh-uh,” Maddie said. “I wanted to go skating in Rockefeller Center this morning.”

As soon as I could twist my body in that direction, I looked over at my granddaughter, hoping she was kidding, but she’d nodded off.

It was a good thing the knock from housekeeping came at eleven o’clock, or we would have wasted the entire morning, and, worse, missed our lunch with the NYPD at their headquarters.

* * *

I expected a strange look or comment when at eleven-thirty I asked the Lex doorman, a young man we’d never seen before, for a cab to One Police Plaza. I wasn’t disappointed. “Going downtown to catch another thief, huh?” he asked, with a wink at Maddie.

She came back with “When’s it going to snow?”

“Maybe tonight,” he said.

Once in the warm cab, Maddie went through her ritual, removing her gloves, flipping off her hood, loosening her scarf, and taking her journal from her backpack. She found her SNOW page and added to her tally, coming up with seven separate doormen who’d given the same answer to her snow question: “Maybe ­tonight.”

In this direction, the streets were not as well manicured as those going west toward Park, Madison, and Fifth Avenues, prompting Maddie to ask, “Is this a fringe neighborhood? Dad asks me that almost every night. I’m writing him a postcard.”

I looked out at the sooty sidewalks dotted with trash that had spilled out of plastic bags, plus a few stray paper cups with fast food logos. The pedestrians, however, seemed to be the same, well-dressed professionals hurrying to an early lunch. “I wouldn’t call it that,” I said. “It does look a little less cared-for in these few blocks, but there’s nothing scary.” Never mind the narrow alleys between the buildings, that might well look threatening on a dark night. “It’s just not as dazzling as the median strip along Park Avenue.” I couldn’t see what Maddie was writing, but assumed it was nothing to cause her father grief.

Our cab driver continued toward the East River, talking into his headset at breakneck speed, in a foreign language. Nothing new in our driver experience this week. Maddie took a picture of the green sign, FDR DR as we turned onto it. “I know what that stands for,” she said, and gave me a little history lesson about the thirty-second and longest-serving president. I added my own tidbit, that FDR was born in upstate New York on the Hudson River side, and that his home there was a national historic monument. We talked about adding a visit to Hyde Park to our list for our next trip.

Once we’d merged onto the FDR, we picked up speed and Maddie had a hard time taking pictures until we exited. She snapped into action when she saw a sign for the AVENUE OF THE FINEST, a clue that we were nearing police headquarters. “Wow,” she said, clicking her camera button. “I wish we had a street name like that in Palo Alto.” I came close to asking if she’d been keeping track of how many wishes she’d made since the beginning of the trip, when she’d wished she had a doorman that first night as Cynthia handed over her car to Duncan in front of her building.

Our cabbie, another fan of music that was dissonant to my ear, complained (in English, to us, I finally realized) for about a mile about the wide buffer zone around One Police Plaza that forced him to spiral in toward the building. The fourteen-story, fortress-like structure was as imposing as any other city landmark. Block-style architecture had not been high on Ken’s list of favorites. “They don’t call it ‘brutalist’ for nothing,” he’d said during its period of increased appearance in the United States. “It’s okay for government buildings like the police headquarters downtown, but I wish they’d kept it off university campuses.” Then he’d rattle off all the places where schools had added a brutalist touch to their landscape, from New Haven to Pittsburgh to Chicago to Minneapolis.

I called Buzz as we approached the building just before noon.

“Meet you”—a phrase that sounded like meecha—“on the southeast corner of the plaza,” he said. Maddie was turned in her seat, looking straight out the window at the expanse of red-and-blue brick, snapping away with her phone. I wondered again how we would have managed in the days when we’d have had to buy loads of film to accommodate her new obsession. I tapped her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry to ruin your last day by forcing you to stop at the NYPD.” She giggled and snapped my picture. Served me right.

Buzz was waiting for us at the edge of the plaza, ready to greet us with an apology. “I realized too late that we should have met at the Police Museum instead. You can’t get very far without a badge of your own in this building.” We assured him we were already impressed by the outside view and that we would put the museum on our ever-growing don’t-miss list for next time.

Our personal police escort (in civilian clothes) led us across a narrow street behind the police building. Buzz continued in his tour-guide manner as we walked to “the best pizza this side of Little Italy,” he promised. I knew from my own youth that to a New Yorker, Little Italy was head and shoulders above “Big Italy” as a tourist destination.

“Forensics and all the hands-on stuff like lab analysis is in Queens, so there’s not much to see here at One PP, except the tactical response unit, the major case squad, emergency services, and a high-tech computer center with something like thirty-three billion public records.” Maddie gasped, which, I assumed, was Buzz’s goal. “Next time, I’ll be more creative and find a way to sneak you in.” He held up a tote with the NYPD logo. “But I did manage to pick up a few souvenirs. We’ll make our trade at lunch. You give me an authentic Lincoln Point Police Department patch, and I’ll give you a pile of New York Police Department junk.”

Maddie beamed her appreciation, still a bit speechless at the size of the building and plaza now behind us and what was housed inside. “That building’s on TV all the time,” she finally squeaked out.

“You watch those shows?” Buzz asked.

“I’m almost twelve,” she answered.

“As long as you don’t believe everything you see. Like the crime scene guys going in with guns blazing before the cops get there—not! Even worse, the ME starts collecting evidence—not! The crime scene belongs to the police; the ME just gets the body. Oh, yeah, another huge goof is how the DNA results come back right after the commercial—”

“Not!” Maddie shouted, but even her outdoor voice was swallowed up in the noise of the traffic speeding by and the ­ubiquitous orange-vested construction workers digging up roads or putting them back together.

Buzz laughed. “You got it.”

“Uncle Skip tells us that all the time. He says you hardly ever really would have, like, six or seven police cars with sirens, all pulling up to a house at the same time. And instead of, like, forty-five minutes to solve a crime, it’s more like forty-five months by the time there’s a trial and everything. Do you have a bullet-proof vest?”

The out-of-the-blue question, slipped in, didn’t faze the retired cop. “Yes, I do. I almost wore it today, it’s so cold out.” From the look on Maddie’s face, I thought her next question might be “Do they come in kids’ sizes?”

* * *

The majestic view of the Brooklyn Bridge, unmistakable from any angle, dominated the side windows at the hole-in-the-wall Plaza Pizza, and rivaled what we saw of Central Park from Cynthia’s apartment. “Wow,” Maddie said, claiming a window seat. She snapped photos of the bridge, and then of the brick walls with floating oak panels, the wood-fired stove, the friendly wait staff, and the sign over the service counter: COME FOR THE PIZZA—STAY FOR THE COPS.

“I figured you guys would be tired of all the Upper West Side class and might enjoy a simple slice,” Buzz said.

“How did you know?” I asked, comfortable in this less formal environment. Paper napkins in a metal dispenser. Self-service drinks. Shakers of parmesan cheese and crushed red pepper on the linen-free tables.

Buzz ordered an extra-large New York, then switched into cop mode and said to me, “Sorry the handwriting angle didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “You never know. At least you gave it a shot.”

I expected a Yogism at that point, but none was forthcoming. I explained that I still had a couple of doormen that I needed samples from. “But they’re part-timers and not likely candidates,” I admitted. “The handwriting we’re trying to match is almost calligraphy, and I can’t imagine that would be a hobby of any of the men we’ve dealt with in the lobby.” I took a sip of coffee. “I’m losing heart.”

“It happens. That’s when you need to stick with it.” Were cops trained as therapists, also? Like Skip, Buzz had a way of imparting advice that didn’t seem patronizing or insulting. “How’s your friend holding up?” he asked.

I described Cynthia’s attitude as better than it was last week—that I noticed she’d softened, that she was no longer as desperate-sounding, and that I hoped she was closer to accepting the NYPD verdict. “She was disappointed at first, but I think she realizes that there wasn’t much for the police to go on, except her own intuition about her aunt.”

“In the beginning it’s always a let-down. People expect a full-scale investigation no matter what the circumstances. Sure, every case rates an autopsy, unlimited computer power and forensics, and at least two detectives dedicated to it for however long it takes. That’s what loved ones expect. But, practically speaking—”

Maddie tsk-tsked like an old lady. “Like on TV, again,” she said, shaking her head, enlightened as she was.

“Exactly,” Buzz said. “There are pluses and minuses to being in a big city over a small town. On the one hand, the smaller departments don’t have the resources. In a small town, you might not even have a medical examiner, just a coroner who might also own the local meat market, for example, and has the coroner’s job because he’s the only one in town with a large refrigerator.” I gulped and put my arm around Maddie, as if to protect her from unpleasant details of life and death. “Here we have a full-time medical examiner with a staff and a budget, a huge department, but we also have more cases and have to make choices. The homicide rate has been going down for sure, hitting a forty-year low last year. We pay attention to those things.” Buzz paused for a drink of his soda. “Say, have you heard the joke? How low is the homicide rate in New York City?”

“How low?” Maddie asked, already laughing.

“It’s so low, anyone can afford one.”

Maddie laughed hard. I doubted she understood the underlying meaning, unless all the crime dramas she watched and detective stories she read had taught her a few things. Talk of crime was interrupted by the arrival of the largest extra-large pizza I’d ever seen. And the largest individual slices in the country, I imagined. A thin, but not too thin, crust, fresh sauce, and an aroma to make the world seem right. “Wow,” Maddie said.

“Okay, no more serious talk,” Buzz said. “Except one more thing. Maddie, I’ll bet you’re a techie, right?” She nodded. He took a Plaza Pizza napkin and wrote in large print. “Here’s a URL for you to look up. It has everything you want to know about the NYPD, including crime statistics. Charts, trends, pdfs. You’ll love it. And while we’re at it, we should exchange cell phone numbers.”

Once we’d all entered and saved our contact information, Maddie took the napkin Buzz had written on and looked at me. “Should we analyze this handwriting, Grandma?”

Buzz guffawed. “You’re related to Skip all right.”

“Did you pass the test for your new assignment?” Maddie asked. My eyebrows went up. She who didn’t miss a thing was once again on the verge of embarrassing me, this time with the NYPD.

“No worries,” Buzz said, addressing my flushed face, no doubt. “I passed everything, but now I have to wait for a case to come up. There are quite a few of us doing this retire-then-return thing these days and we have to wait our turn.”

“It must be exciting to be a detective,” Maddie said.

“Is that what your uncle Skip tells you?”

Maddie grinned. “No, he says it’s mostly paperwork. I was just checking.”

After one (Maddie), two (me), and three (Buzz) slices of outstanding pizza, we were ready to exchange tchotchkes. I handed Buzz a small gift bag with the patch from Skip, plus a couple of treats for Rosalie. I’d brought several small holiday boxes of chocolates and California tea towels with me for just such an occasion, and was happy I had swag left for Rosalie. Maddie had made a “nice-to-meet-you” card from scraps at the crafts table.

Buzz outdid us with as many souvenirs as I’d seen lined up across our hotel dresser last night. Amazingly, there wasn’t a single duplication of the items Maddie had bought in the Times Square shop. She pulled the treasures out of the tote Buzz handed her—a note cube, a lapel pin, a charm in the form of tiny handcuffs (an extra squeal for these), a bumper sticker and car-decal set, a headband, a package of stickers, pens, and pencils, all with the NYPD logo. The funniest: a black T-shirt with white letters that spelled: SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE—LEAVE FINGERPRINTS. After much laughter from Maddie and me, she pulled out the last item, a small, fuzzy blue teddy bear wearing a badge and an NYPD cap.

“I guess I misjudged how sophisticated you are,” Buzz said. “Maybe you can give that to someone’s kid sister.”

“I love teddy bears,” Maddie said. I rolled my eyes, remembering how she’d gotten rid of every stuffed animal in her room at least three years ago, and refused to entertain the idea of keeping even one such memento from her childhood. Now, in a pizza parlor in the shadow of One Police Plaza, I’d have bet that if there were an NYPD bib in the bag, she would have embraced that, too.

* * *

One more cab ride to the Upper West Side, this time with a Middle-Eastern–sounding driver who engaged us with his desire to move to a warmer climate. His brother-in-law had moved his family to Florida, we learned, and as soon as he had put together enough money, our driver planned to follow suit. I’d been back in New York City long enough to suspect that this might simply be a “tip generously and send this guy south” speech, preying on the sympathetic nature of grandmothers and granddaughters.

Duncan was on duty to welcome us, for the last time, as we arrived at Cynthia’s building. He touched his cap. “Always a pleasure,” he said offering me his gloved hand. “I’ll bet Ms. Bishop is waiting.” Once in the lobby, out of the cold, Maddie handed Duncan our last box of chocolates.

“A small token of thanks,” I said.

His gratitude was profuse, ending with a laugh. “I guess you haven’t heard the joke? Why didn’t the doorman want to go on strike?”

Maddie took the bait again. “Why?”

“Because it would be more work than when he’s working.”

I loved the way New Yorkers poked fun at themselves.