16

Adam paused in the entranceway to admire the view. The hallway in front of him opened up into a cavernous library. Row upon row of books on polished wood shelves covered the walls, glimpses of gold wallpaper peeking out between the shelves. The low morning sun broke through small leaded glass windows, creating patterns that danced on the walls and bookshelves. The room glittered in the morning light, as if he’d walked into a bank vault instead of a library. Of course, these were all historical tomes, he reminded himself, worth a tidy sum in their own right.

He continued down the hall to the office door and knocked, entering on Heyward’s call.

“I don’t think this is the appropriate time or place, Detective.” Heyward’s response was curt when Adam introduced himself and explained the purpose of his visit. “This is my place of business.”

“I understand that, sir. I knew this was where I would find you this morning.”

Heyward nodded and stood from the small leather sofa on which he had been lounging. He placed the volume he’d been holding on his desk and guided Adam out of his office. He glanced up and down the hall as they walked. “Let’s take this outside, hmm? It’s a beautiful morning, just a little brisk. No reason for my colleagues to develop suspicions that I am being investigated by the police, eh?” He smiled, but Adam could see the nerves behind the smile.

“This is a wonderful place to work, I imagine?”

“Oh, yes, quite. The Veriatus is a library and museum that collects historical texts and displays them,” Heyward continued to speak as they walked, as if offering a friendly tour to a neighbor. Adam didn’t know if he truly was excited to share his work with Adam, or if he was covering in case someone saw them.

“Our organization relies on our members, you see,” Heyward finished his tour. “Though my focus is really on the resource and how our members can interact with them. I am the curator, you see.”

“And you live nearby, I understand?”

Heyward nodded, gesturing again toward the grand front entrance, encouraging Adam to follow him out to the square. “Yes, indeed. A five-minute walk to my home, through Washington Square. Quite a pleasant commute.” He smiled thinly.

“I know that you knew Judge Ryan-Mills, Mr. Heyward.”

“Dr. Heyward.” He adjusted his glasses on his nose with the fingers of his left hand. Bruises from the day before still darkened his cheek.

“Yes, of course, sorry. Did you know the judge from graduate school?”

Heyward tipped his head to one side and narrowed his lips. “It’s true, I went to Penn undergrad and grad, but I am younger than the judge, you know. I didn’t know him then at all.”

“Penn undergrad and grad? That’s pretty impressive.”

“Yes, Detective, I have been very fortunate. I grew up in a comfortable home, funded through grad school, fell into my job — to tell the truth, there’s not a lot of competition in the field. Of course, I am one of the best.” He lowered his eyes in modesty.

They crossed 6th Street and entered Washington Square, turning left to walk around the perimeter. “I understand from some of your neighbors that you’re generally not outspoken except on one issue.”

“You’ve been looking into me. Interesting. Yes, I’m not often outspoken, as you say. It’s not that I’m shy, I’m quite confident in my abilities. I just don’t see the need to be outspoken, to build networks, as they say. I have everything I need from my friends and family. I’m quite happy, you know.”

He lifted his glasses off his nose for a second time with the thumb and first finger of his left hand.

“Do you have a large family?”

Heyward shook his head. “A son. From a blessedly short-lived marriage. That was a mistake, but it ended easily, without acrimony. And now I have a son, which is better than I ever imagined.”

“That’s great. I hope to have children myself one day.” Adam smiled, then kept prodding. “So if you didn’t know the judge from school, how did you get involved with him?”

Heyward gave an exaggerated sigh. “Oliver approached me after a civic association meeting with advice on launching a legal fight against the casinos. Well, at first I rebuffed him. After all, Oliver was the one who allowed them to move forward from the beginning. But over the past year I started to understand Oliver’s position, his need to always do the right thing and the moral complexity that requires.”

“So you became friends? You collaborated in your efforts?”

“To a degree, I suppose. I lead the committee against the casinos, and for that I relied on Oliver for support. But…”

“What?”

“Well, I will tell you that I didn’t completely trust Oliver. His relationship with that developer.” Heyward spit out the word.

“Roc Lubrano.”

Heyward actually shuddered. “Yes. Oliver had a relationship with him that… well… that didn’t really make sense. Frankly, it made me suspicious of his motives.”

“But you did work with Oliver, nevertheless?”

“Yes, it’s true. I started working with him, taking his advice on what to read, who to talk to, what I needed to know. Oliver was only an advisor, nothing more, this was my fight to lead. To preserve our neighborhood, hold onto the legacy of the city’s history and culture.” He waved his arm to encapsulate the history before them.

A few people were out in the square this morning, some residents, some tourists taking pictures at the eternal flame. A team of workers was busy tearing down the fancy setup from the night before, a pile of black trash bags growing around one of the trees. A park ranger stood near the memorial, talking to a group of elderly women. As they walked closer, Adam recognized Matt Thompson.

“Now there’s a man you should talk to, Detective.” Heyward gestured toward a thin figure coming toward them from across the square. “Marcus Cory could probably tell you more than you ever wanted to know about everyone who lives in this neighborhood.”

The young man coming toward them walked with a cool efficiency, as if using the least amount of energy necessary to propel himself across the square. He’d wrapped a gold scarf around his neck, over his impeccably fitted coat, a scarf with some sort of metallic thread running through it. In the morning light, he almost glittered while he walked.

His expression was calm, impenetrable, though as he passed the grounds crew working in the square his lips shifted into a shadow of a sneer. He saw Adam and Heyward watching him and slowed as he approached them.

“Marcus Cory, may I introduce Detective Adam Kaminski.”

Adam shook Marcus’ hand. The other man didn’t remove his leather gloves.

“You must be the policeman who accosted Grace last night.”

“I’ll just leave you two to talk, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, Heyward scuttled away across the square.

“So you work for Grace Evans, is that right?”

Marcus gave a slight nod but said nothing, waiting for Adam to continue, a small smile on his lips.

“I hear that Ms. Evans was close with Oliver Ryan-Mills. Can you tell me about that?”

“I can’t speak about Grace’s private life, Detective. You’d need to ask her about that.” Marcus’ voice was smooth as ice.

Adam nodded, considering. “What exactly do you do for Ms. Evans?”

“I serve as her personal assistant. I thought you knew that.”

Adam bit his tongue. “Yes, but I don’t know a lot of people who have personal assistants. What exactly does that entail?”

The other man frowned and shrugged, an elegant gesture, and slowly pulled his gloves off. “I support her in a number of ways. I have a background in business management. I oversee her finances and investments, I manage the household, I… well, I run errands as she needs them.”

Adam thought about a life in which he had someone else to run his errands, do his shopping, pick up his dry cleaning. That would be nice. “So did you spend a lot of time with Oliver Ryan-Mills as well? Did you know him?”

“I knew him. But not well.” A small electric truck passed them on the wide sidewalk, heading toward the grounds crew. Marcus sniffed and narrowed his eyes as the truck passed, driven by a large African American man who didn’t seem like he would fit in the tiny vehicle. “He was a good man. Successful. Accomplished. He would come over for dinner occasionally.”

“Do you cook as well?” Adam asked, surprised.

Marcus smiled, this time the smile actually reaching his eyes. “On special occasions. It’s not really part of my job description, but I do enjoy whipping up a barigoule now and then. Or a crème brûlée.”

Adam’s phone trilled a light tune.

“Is that all, Detective? It seems you have a call.”

“For now, thank you. If I have any more questions, I know where to find you.” Adam smiled, baring his teeth.

Marcus’ lips turned down into a thin line. He nodded once, turned on his heel, and continued toward whatever errand Grace Evans was sending him on this morning.

Adam tapped his phone to life. “Jim, I’m glad to hear from you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have good news, Detective. I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t able to contact your friend?”

Jim Murdsen’s voice, already tense, dropped even lower. “I’m not sure I can call him a friend. But he made it quite clear to me that he has no interest whatsoever in talking with the police.”

“I see.”

“Yes, perhaps.” Murdsen correctly interpreted Adam’s tone. “Though he assures me he has nothing he can share about the illegal art trade. He got quite upset that I’d asked, in fact. I had to apologize profusely for even thinking he could help.”

“He protested a little too much?” Adam glanced over at Matt Thompson, still standing with the group of women, each of them looking up at him with adoration in their eyes.

“Perhaps, yes. But I won’t be involved in exposing him. This is not my fight, you know.” Murdsen paused long enough that Adam thought he’d said all he had to say, but a faint cough made it clear there was something else on his mind. “Detective, about Sylvia…”

“What’s bothering you, Jim?”

“You have a good relationship, a strong relationship?”

Adam stopped walking, the hair on his arms tingling as he grew wary. “Why do you ask?”

“Just that there are rumors around the college—“

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Jim. If you’re about to say something about Sylvia that you’re gonna regret later, you should rethink that. I don’t appreciate people spreading rumors about my girlfriend.”

“Oh … of course, no, you’re right. I do apologize. I’m putting my foot in it left and right these days, aren’t I? Good luck with your case, Detective.”

Adam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cashmere coat and turned toward Ranger Thompson.

The customer scratched at an itch above his eye as he entered the lobby. No elegant tinkling bell greeted him here. Only the benign smile of the doorman from across the room. Why the hell did Sal want to meet here?

He glanced at his watch. Dammit, Sal was late, on top of everything. He tried to look casual, strolling across the shining marble floor toward the seating area. He chose a high-backed white chair with his back to the doorman and sat. He crossed his legs. Then slid his leg back so his ankle was on his knee. He didn’t want to look feminine. Weak.

“My friend.” Sal smiled widely as he slid into the chair next to him. “I’m glad I was able to get back to you so quickly.”

“Sure, Sal, me too.” He tried a smile, then felt his cheek vibrate and turned it into a frown. “Why’d you want to meet here, anyway? Anyone could recognize me.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the doorman, who simply met his gaze.

Sal shrugged and laughed, a tinny sound. “You’re an art collector. I’m an art dealer. So what if anyone recognizes you.” He waved his hand dismissively, just the right amount of white cuff showing below his sleeve, a gold cufflink catching the light. “Anyway, I had to be in the neighborhood for some other business. This was convenient for me.”

“Right. Uh-huh.” He tried on another smile, then jumped as the elevator chimed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man and a woman step out of the elevator, cross the thick white rug to the front doors. Heading out to work, perhaps. Or breakfast with clients. Through the glass front of the building, he saw the couple cross the street and walk into Washington Square.

A group of women standing in the square caught his eye, visible over the brick boundary wall. He couldn’t identify them, but he did recognize the uniform of the man standing with them. A park ranger, standing head and shoulders taller than the women around him, his flat hat visible from far across the square. Dammit. He shouldn’t have met Sal here.

“I have something to show you.” Sal’s eyes twinkled as he smiled again. How could he be so comfortable? So relaxed?

With a graceful gesture, Sal reached into his satchel and pulled out a small item wrapped in cloth. Slowly, carefully, Sal peeled back the layers of the cloth to expose the prize within.

He choked as he tried to swallow a gasp. It was beautiful. Black rhino horn. Carved into a small round cup that would fit in the palm of his hand, its center hollowed out and sanded until it shone. Intricate carvings danced around the lip of the cup, the light shades of the bone beneath the surface jumping out against the dark exterior.

It was a thing of beauty.

Sal had been watching him silently, letting him appreciate the work of art he held in his hand. Finally, he spoke. “These are said to have healing properties, you know that, right?”

He coughed, cleared his throat. “I do, yes. I’ve read up on them. They’re highly valued.”

Sam smiled. Nodded. He moved as if to cover the cup back up again. “Have you tried drinking from the other one you have?”

“Hardly.” He gave Sal his strongest glare, but Sal didn’t flinch. “I wouldn’t dare dirty such a beautiful work of art.”

Before Sal could finish wrapping it, he reached his hand out and picked it up. He cupped it in both hands, the fingers of his right hand running along the carvings. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. He swore he could smell ancient Chinese herbs, even though this carved piece of bone had never made it to Asia as originally intended.

When he opened his eyes, Sal was grinning at him. “You understand that I’m doing you a favor, right? I can’t sell you this sort of thing.” Sal shrugged, his lips dancing around both a smile and a frown. “But since you are such a good customer, I’m willing to give this to you… as a gift. Depending on your next purchase, of course.”

He cleared his throat again. “Of course, of course. And you know I’m interested. Anything you want to sell me, I’ll buy.”

He didn’t care if he sounded desperate. This was what he deserved. It was his birthright. Who he was now. A member of the upper class, not just a working man, a rich man. A man with desires, a man who deserved to own beautiful things.

Sal had pulled out a ledger book. He made scratches in it with a tiny pen, his notes illegible to anyone but himself. After a few more notes, he nodded and glanced up. “I have a group of statues and some coins I can sell to you for fifty thousand.”

He didn’t need to think about it. “Perfect, wrap them up and ship them to me. I’ll take this now?”

Sal looked into his eyes. As if he were unsure at first. Then he leaned back and smiled. “Of course. I trust you — that is, I trust you not to do anything stupid, right? We understand each other?”

He barely nodded, just smiled and looked down at the cup in his hands. “We do.”

He wasn’t greedy, he knew that. He simply knew what he liked. And he was finally getting what he deserved.

The three late middle-aged women clustered around Matt Thompson, their faces glowing as they smiled up at him, gathered in front of the memorial wall in Washington Square. Matt stood tall, his expression serious, though Adam was sure he could tell his audience was enamored of him.

“Matt, how are you?” Adam approached and nodded to the women.

“Adam. Ladies, may I introduce Detective Adam Kaminski. He’s working on the investigation of the death of Judge Oliver Ryan-Mills.”

The three women tut-tutted and shook their heads.

“Mary Godwin.” The tallest stuck a hand out and Adam shook it. “And these are Joy French and Rachel Woodruff.”

Adam nodded at all three. The women looked eerily similar to each other, as if cut from the same cloth. Fresh, clean faces, no heavy make-up attempting to cover the lines that cut across their foreheads and around their mouths. They were each dressed for exercise, well-fitting zip jerseys over sleek running pants. Neon stripes decorated the sides of their walking shoes. The expression on their faces looked honest. Fearless. Perhaps they simply had nothing to fear.

“I ran into these ladies as I was on my way back to headquarters. We were talking about Ryan-Mills,” Matt explained.

“Such a good man, such a shame what happened to him.” Mary Godwin nodded as she spoke. The other two nodded along, in clear agreement.

“Did you know him well?”

“Well? Only as one does, you know. A neighbor. He wasn’t particularly involved in the community, though.” Mary turned to look back at the building behind them. The building where Oliver Ryan-Mills had, until recently, lived.

“He kept himself apart,” Joy added, her gaze following Mary’s. “I believe he felt it was his duty. As a judge.” Joy turned back to smile up at Matt as she spoke.

“Yeah, I heard that about him.” Adam did his best to let his questions blend into their conversation, to keep the gossip going rather than turn this into an interview. “But I understand he’d been getting out more. Since his wife passed.”

“Beautiful woman.” The other two women murmured in agreement as Mary answered. “What a loss that was. She was so engaged in the community, you know. Very good woman.”

Rachel chimed in, “We miss her, indeed. And I’m sure he did, too.” The women seemed to turn toward each other as they spoke, as if they were sharing a chain of thoughts rather than having a discussion with Adam or Matt. Adam tried to follow as best he could, though he clearly didn’t have the right expertise.

“He went out, but not locally. Despite Grace’s best efforts.” The others twittered in agreement.

“Oh?”

“Well, she did try, didn’t she?”

“Try?”

“To catch the man, dear,” Rachel explained.

“Husband number three he would have been,” Joy added.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. She seemed to work her way through them.”

“Getting richer after each one, I might add.”

“So her previous husbands died?” Adam tried to jump in, but the women were moving forward even without his prompting.

“Yes, what was it…?”

“Heart attack, I think?”

“That would have been number two. The first, I don’t remember the details…”

“Yes, there was something interesting about that one, wasn’t there. But it was a few years ago, now. And so many of our friends have passed on since then.”

“And that assistant”

“Marcus.” Joy looked like she understood more than was being said. “Well, he’s efficient.”

“Oh yes, quite.”

“But he has plans, doesn’t he?”

“Plans?” Adam tried to keep up.

“You can see it in his eyes, he’s looking for an opportunity.”

“Exactly.” Mary bobbed her head up and down. “To move on, to move up.”

“So Grace was pursuing Ryan-Mills?” Matt brought the conversation back to the point.

“Oh, yes.”

“And Grace is not one to take no for an answer.”

“He told her no?” Adam asked.

“In that way that men have. He said no, but he was polite. He was kind. He was not firm.”

“Hah, not firm enough for Grace, anyway.”

“Yes, she would get what she wants. And she had decided she wanted him.”

All three women laughed, then one laugh turned into a cough and Joy put a hand over her mouth.

Grace Evans strode toward them across the square, her mink coat — far too much for this balmy fall weather — flapping behind her as she walked. She wore running shoes that on anyone else would have looked ridiculous with the rest of her outfit, yet she managed to make them look elegant.

“You there,” she raised her voice and waved at them. “What’s going on here?”

“That’s my cue. Ladies.” Adam turned back to the group. “Thank you, it’s been a pleasure meeting you all.” He patted Matt on the arm, then turned toward Grace.

He walked quickly toward her and for a second it almost seemed as if they would collide. But their routes stayed separate, Adam nodding at an angry Grace as he passed and kept walking the path that would lead him, eventually, back to his own home. He didn’t need to check in at the precinct again for a couple more hours. He could still put a little more time into Pete’s case before getting back into the work he was supposed to be doing.