Life’s a game of give-and-take. That’s what Mrs. Vincent used to say when I was a kid and didn’t want to do something. Her words have stayed with me. Only, over the years I’ve learned that things often work out better if you do the taking before you do the giving.
“No!” Atkinson’s voice echoed around the courthouse’s dome. The early rush of lawyers and clerks and jurors had passed, but plenty of heads still turned. “How many times? It’s just not possible.”
“It must be possible.” I tried to keep my voice reasonable, and above all, quiet. “You showed them to me before. It stands to reason that you can show them to me again.”
“You were a suspect before. You’re not one now. There’s no reason to show you again.”
“Think of a reason.”
“Give me a reason. Why do you want to see them again, anyway?”
“They could help me shed new light on the case.”
“How? You’ve got to understand, access to crime scene photos is controlled, and for good reasons. The events we’re talking about happened more than six months ago. The case became inactive, officially, so everything was archived. A record’s made of every request to see them now. I’d need justification.”
“Hypothetically speaking, if Pardew’s court file was found, would that reactivate the case? Give you justification to request your own archived files?”
“Have you—”
“I’ll take that as a yes to the justification. So. Once the Pardew file is back on your desk, an untraceable copy of the photos could fall into my hands, guaranteed never to see the light of day?”
“Are you saying—”
“I’m not saying anything until I know how quickly those photos could hit my inbox.”
Atkinson was silent for a moment. “Not on email. That’s too easy to trace. But hypothetically, if Pardew’s file was returned to me, an envelope containing copies of the photos could be at your brownstone—if I have your word they’ll be returned, and not copied—within twenty-four hours.”
“Detective, why don’t you stay here awhile. Give me five minutes. Let me see what I can find.”
Atkinson grabbed my arm. “You know where the file is? Is there anything in it about Pardew’s whereabouts? That’s what I really want.”
“I doubt there’s anything in the file that would reveal where he currently is. He might still be in the city. Or we might never see him again. I have a feeling we’ll know one way or the other, very soon.”
I felt a little bad misleading Atkinson over the file. I knew I’d feel worse, though, if I found that he’d been involved with faking a crime scene. Or embellishing one. I watched him head out of the courthouse with the bulky envelope under his arm and wondered whether he was walking into a trap. Or setting one for his partner, Kanchelskis. I wouldn’t have minded that so much. Kanchelskis had rubbed me wrong from the start.
I made my way to the basement. I figured there was no point trekking all the way to Westchester to talk to Mrs. Vincent unless she returned my call and confirmed she was home. In the meantime, I could work. I enjoyed it, and I didn’t know how much longer I’d be at the courthouse. I came to find the file. I’d done that. It felt strange now that it was out of my hands. The Pardew chapter would soon be resolved, one way or the other. I still had to tie up the loose ends with Hendrie and Klinsman. Then I’d have a decision to make. To quote The Clash, should I stay or should I go?
I heard laughter coming from the janitors’ room and when I went in I saw three guys sitting at one of the tables. Carrodus was standing by them. He nodded to me, slapped the nearest guy on the back, then hurried over, put his arm around my shoulder, and steered me into the corner.
“I need to ask you something, Paul. Where were you last Thursday?”
“I was here, working. Then I went home. Why?”
“Where were you working, exactly? Which floor?”
“I was allocated to the third, all last week.”
“Did you go up to the fourth, for any reason? Particularly on Thursday?”
“Is someone accusing me of doing extra work?” I winked at him. “I’m ex-army, Frank. You know the rule. We never volunteer.”
“I get that. But there’s been a complaint. Some kids. They said that one of the janitors took their keys, threw them in a toilet, and made them clean a bathroom.”
I shrugged. “So?”
“The description they gave matches you to a T.”
“I’m sure I’d remember if I’d done something like that. Did the kids say what they’d done to deserve such treatment? I can’t imagine anyone would respond that way without a good reason.”
“Even if there was a reason, you can’t go around hurting people and keeping them in bathrooms against their will.”
“That goes without saying. Although, thinking about it, are there any guidelines in the employee handbook? Things like this are best spelled out, to avoid any misunderstandings. I could take a—” My phone rang and I checked the screen. “I’m sorry, Frank—this is my father’s lawyer. I need to take it. There are still some details I need to iron out.”
Carrodus nodded and drifted back to the table. I stayed in the corner. There’s something about lawyers that makes me feel the need for privacy whenever I have to talk to them.
“Mr. Ferguson, thanks for calling back. I have a question I need your help with. It’s to do with the record of an expense for a service my father may have ordered a few weeks or months before he died.”
“I’ll certainly help if I can, Paul. That’s not the reason I’m calling, though. I’m afraid I have some sad news. It regards Mrs. Vincent. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but she passed away. I’m sure this comes as a blow, because I know the two of you were very close for many years.”
The room floated out of focus for a moment, and the others’ voices seemed muffled, as if they were underwater. “When did she pass?”
“Last Wednesday. She was visiting with friends in California. It was very sudden. Turned out she had a rare heart condition that must have finally caught up to her.”
I hadn’t known Mrs. Vincent had any friends in California. I hadn’t known if she had friends anywhere. A sudden pang of guilt jabbed me in the chest. “Who’s making the arrangements? We’ll have to bring her home. Sort out some kind of funeral.”
“There’s no need. She’s already been cremated. There was a note in some papers she left with me for safekeeping, years ago, that explains how she had a horror of mortuaries and couldn’t stand the thought of her body being kept on ice for an extended period. It’s a little strange, but not the strangest thing I’ve seen over the years. All that’s left is to secure the house against intruders—and from the cold, since winter will soon be on its way—until you decide what you want to do with the place. Would you like me to send someone over?”
“No.” I shook my head even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “I’ll go. I’ll take care of it myself.”
Carrodus must have seen the look on my face, because as soon as I hung up the phone he hurried across to check on me. “You OK, Paul?”
“I’m fine.” The reality was at odds with my automatic, conditioned response, and it took my brain a moment to take the reins from my tongue. “Actually, I’m not. That was bad news. Someone’s died. My…” How could I explain Mrs. Vincent to him? What word was big enough to describe the role she’d played in my life? My father’s housekeeper didn’t come close, yet I didn’t know what else to say. “Someone I cared about. There are some things I need to take care of, now.”
“Take the rest of the day, Paul.” Carrodus took hold of my arm. “Take as long as you need. Go. Do what you need to do.”
I shook my head. “It can wait till after my shift.”
“That’s your grief talking.” Carrodus steered me toward the door. “Go. Be where you need to be. I’ll cover for you here.”
I figured there was no particular rush—I’d been at the house on Sunday and everything seemed pretty well squared away—but I felt the need to be doing something. I started by heading to the brownstone and picking up the keys to the rental car that I hadn’t gotten around to returning. Robson offered to come to Westchester with me, but I told him to stay. Someone had to watch Pardew. And if Atkinson came through with the crime scheme photos, I wanted the envelope to fall into safe hands.
I found myself passing the botanic gardens and realized I had no memory of driving through Manhattan, let alone heading up the Saw Mill. I wondered if I should have let Robson drive, after all. I was on autopilot, strangely numb, with a head full of weirdly practical thoughts. I’d be free to take the furniture from the house now. Where had my father’s car ended up? In California, with Mrs. Vincent’s friends? Who were they? Where did they live? How would I get it back? Would it be worth the trouble? They were all impersonal, trivial details, but they were tripping over one another in my head and degrading my ability to think.
When I arrived at the house and climbed out of the car I was struck by how quiet the area was. There was no equipment roaring away in anyone’s yard. No traffic noise. No aircraft overhead. That was unusual, like the neighborhood was lying low in an instinctive show of respect. As I stood there it struck me that my mother had gone. My father had gone. And now Mrs. Vincent had gone, leaving me with no living relative or close human connection. The house was no longer a home without her. It was just a large wooden box full of memories. Most of them distant. Not many of them warm.
I was right by the gate but found myself reluctant to go through. And as if I needed more reasons to hesitate, I started to worry that I wasn’t the best man for the job. What did I know about house maintenance? I’d only owned a house for a few weeks. If I wanted to blow it up and make it look like an accident, I could do that. If I needed to leave a body inside and stage it like a suicide, that would be no problem. If I had to wire the place for sound and pictures, that would be a piece of cake. But what do you do about shutting off the water? Dealing with the appliances? Do you need to close the drapes? Honestly, I was clueless.
I pushed the negative thoughts away, opened the gate, and made a plan as I walked up the path. I didn’t need to leave everything in perfect shape. In a situation like this, good enough would do. I’d just make sure everything was locked and powered down. Take care of any flood or fire risks, and secure the place against intruders. Then we could locate Mrs. Vincent’s next of kin, unless Ferguson already knew where they were, and ship her possessions to them whenever it was convenient. The same thing applied to the books and the furniture. And maybe the kitchen stuff. That could all be shipped to the brownstone when I had more time to deal with it. Along with my father’s personal possessions, if there were any I wanted. There was no need for any drama. I should be in and out within ten minutes, maximum.
I unlocked the front door and stepped into the hallway. It was a wide space with a high, angled ceiling that I was used to hearing echo with the sound of footsteps or voices or Mrs. Vincent’s radio. Today it was silent, as if the house itself was in mourning. I shivered and glanced through the doorway on the right. It led to Mrs. Vincent’s bedroom. I realized I’d never been inside. I pushed the door a little wider open. The air still carried a hint of her soap—she never wore perfume. The bed, with its head against the far wall, was neatly made. The closet wasn’t closed all the way. Inside, I could see spaces on the hanging rail and shoe rack, presumably left by the things she’d packed for her visit to the West Coast. Her bathroom door wasn’t closed, either, and I could see an empty toothbrush mug on a shelf above the sink. I crossed to the window, checked the lock, and pulled the drapes. I took another glance around, then went back out to the hallway. I checked the rest of the first-floor windows. Unplugged the TV in the living room, and the coffee machine in the kitchen. Opened the dishwasher a little wider, just in case Mrs. Vincent had been right about the mold. Then I headed up the stairs. Looked in my father’s room. And my old bedroom. I paused there for a minute. There were tiny marks on the walls from where the corners of my posters had been attached. I could still picture the way they were set out. I lay on my bed, and remembered staring up at the ceiling, all the nights I couldn’t sleep. I remembered thinking of Marian. But never about the army. Never about all the places in the world I’d end up serving in. And never about returning here under circumstances like these.
I made it halfway back along the landing, and stopped. I’d checked every room except one. The room I’d always been forbidden to enter. The one where my mother had died. I was standing by its door. There was no one to tell me to stay out now. But the question was, did I want to see inside? Was it a picture I wanted in my head, after all these years? I reached for the handle, expecting it to still be locked. Then I could tell myself I’d tried. I’d have the opportunity to withdraw with my honor intact.
The handle moved. The door opened. Before I could stop myself I stepped forward. The room was dark. The shades were drawn. As a kid I’d had little understanding of the reality of dying in childbirth, though it always conjured nightmarish visions of blood-soaked sheets, torn flesh, lifeless eyes. There didn’t need to be a lock to keep me out. My imagination did that job on its own. Horrible pictures rushed back, filling my head and making me hesitate to turn on the light. I took a breath. Reached for the switch. Flicked it up. And saw no evidence of carnage at all. Just a crib and a stroller that had been mine, lined up by the wall, ready to be reissued. Half a dozen cardboard boxes with the words Baby Clothes stenciled on the sides. And a bed. It was neatly made. There were no signs of blood or gore. Just an alarming 1970s turquoise flowery comforter.
I crossed to the bed and stopped at the side, near the pillow, where you might stand to say good night to someone. Or chat with them. Or stroke their forehead if they were sick. My mother had died right there. So had my sister. I knew I should feel something for them, now that I was so physically close to the spot where they’d drawn their final breaths. I tried to feel something. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. They were theoretically two of my closest relatives, but in reality they were just ideas. I’d never known one of them. I didn’t remember the other. Not in any meaningful way. I was used to living with the knowledge that they were dead. That was normal to me, like knowing that snow was cold or you get hungry if you don’t eat. I guessed that was sad, but there was nothing I could do about it now.
The far wall in the room was dominated by a fireplace, with a mirror hanging above it and a closet on either side. I started with the one on the left. It was full of my mother’s clothes. Outdoor wear mostly—coats, boots, nothing too personal. I recognized a ski suit, from a photograph that had been in a frame on my father’s desk. That was the only picture of my mother he ever displayed. I’d often gazed at the image, growing up, so now it felt strange to see the outfit she’d been wearing, full-sized, hanging where I could reach out and touch it.
The right-hand closet was filled with shelves, making it more like a bookcase with doors. They were lined with rows of bankers’ boxes. I picked one at random and lifted it down. It was full of books. They were my mother’s, from grade school. The other boxes held all kinds of other academic souvenirs, from her high school days through college. She’d gone to MIT and majored in electronics. Or so the documents showed. I’d had no idea. My father had never mentioned it, and I’d never asked him.
It was strangely intimate to be suddenly poring over my mother’s things, like I was finally getting to know her through the items she’d chosen to keep. There were circuit diagrams. Articles. Research papers. Pages and pages of handwritten notes and sketches and ideas for inventions and projects and experiments. I couldn’t follow all the science—it was simultaneously outdated and too complicated—but it seemed like her specialty was sound engineering. She’d been working on new techniques for eliminating interference from live recordings, and had drawn up a bunch of detailed plans for fitting out some kind of advanced studio. Advanced for her times, anyway. Now I’d bet you could do more with your phone. I couldn’t help wondering how she’d have felt about that. And whether, if she’d had the chance to continue her work, my teenage years would have been spent sitting in on sessions with Lucinda Williams and Alanis Morissette rather than enduring lectures about profit and loss and cash flow from my father.
I stayed in the room, reading for another hour, then repacked the boxes and put them back on their shelves. I closed the door I’d never expected to open, went back downstairs, and was about to leave the house when a final thought crossed my mind. It was too late to ask Mrs. Vincent about my father and whether he had tea on the night he died. But the next best thing was waiting for me in the kitchen. The cups, lined up in the cabinet. With a telltale space among them. Or without.