She was tempted to go to the drawer, get out the tape and play it again. It was at least a hint of a future that might be happier. But she knew that the special, almost magical feeling hearing it had given her last night would not be there today.
In fact, she had a feeling of dread about the day ahead of her. She sensed that something terrible was going to happen. She had known it when she first opened her eyes this morning, after a fitful and dream-filled sleep. There was a catastrophe hovering in the air around her, in much the same way a tornado’s spiraling black cloud hangs from the sky before touching ground and obliterating everything in its path.
She sensed all this, but felt powerless to prevent it, whatever it might be. She was part of it, an actor in an inevitable scene that had to be played out, that could not be avoided. Through her own experience over the years, and also because of Gert’s influence, she had come to understand that what she was experiencing was precognition.
Precognition: The knowledge of a future event through extrasensory means.
Gert had explained it to her. It had happened to her a few times.
As Nell touched her lips with gloss, she tried to reason with herself. I thought it was precognition the other day when I experienced that sense of heat and burning and gasping for air. But when Dan’s mother suffocated in that fire, that’s what she must have been going through. Did I pick up some vibrations from her?
Only time would tell.
Once again, the questions that had haunted her dreams all through the night echoed in her mind. Did someone really get off that boat? If someone did escape that explosion, was it Winifred? Or was it perhaps a paid assassin who had been hiding in the engine room?
Or was it Adam?
It was a question she had to have answered. And if she was right, she knew how to find that answer.
seventy-six
AT NOON, Dan Minor pushed open the door of the medical examiner’s office on Thirtieth Street and First Avenue. Mac was waiting for him in the reception area.
“I’m sorry to be late,” Dan said.
“You’re not,” Mac said. “I’m always early. Nell said it’s my way of getting the edge on people.” He clasped Dan’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry it turned out like this.”
Dan nodded. “I know you are, and I appreciate your help.”
“Nell was shocked when I told her. I’m sure you’ll hear from her.”
“I already did. She came over to keep me company last night.” A hint of a smile touched Dan’s lips. “After informing me that I had almost nothing in the cupboard, she even cooked dinner for me.”
“That sounds like Nell,” Cornelius MacDermott said. He nodded to the door past the reception room. “A clerk back there has your mother’s file ready for you to look at.”
They had photographed Quinny’s face and nude body. So thin, Dan thought—she must have been anemic. It was clearly the same face as the computer-aged picture, but in death it seemed to him that a certain tranquility had returned to it. The high cheekbones and narrow nose and wide eyes were those of the young woman he remembered.
“The only distinguishing marks on her body were some scars on her palms,” the clerk said. “The examining physician attributed them to burns.”
“That would make sense,” Dan confirmed, his voice low and sad.
There was a photograph of the same snapshot he always carried.
“Where is that picture now?” he asked.
“They’re keeping that as evidence. It’s in the property room of the 10th Precinct.”
“Evidence! Evidence of what?”
“It’s nothing to get upset about,” Mac said soothingly. “She certainly didn’t mean to burn that building down, but the way the experts figure it, September 9th was an unusually chilly night for that time of year. Quinny apparently threw some odds and ends in the fireplace, started a fire and went up to the bathroom. The damper wasn’t open, and her stuff was too near the flames. In minutes the place was an inferno.”
“My mother may have died in that fire, but she did not set it,” Dan said positively. “And let me tell you why.” He took a deep breath. “Better yet, let me show you why.”
seventy-seven
NELL WAS JUST on her way out the door when Gert phoned. “Nell, dear, you’re still planning to drop off those boxes at the thrift shop tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I hadn’t forgotten.”
“Now remember, if you need any help packing them, I’ll be glad to come over.”
“Thanks, Aunt Gert, but they’re boxed and ready to go,” Nell said. “I’ve arranged for the car service I use to send over someone with a van. The driver will help me get the cartons to the shop and then unload them, so I’ll be okay.”
Gert laughed apologetically. “I should have known you’d have it all figured out already. You’re so organized.”
“Don’t say that, because I’m afraid it isn’t so. I’m on top of this thing only because I wanted to rid this place of so many memories.”
“Oh, Nell, that reminds me: I was going through some photographs, trying to decide which ones to put in my new album, and—”
“Aunt Gert, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’m running late and need to get going. I’m due in White Plains in less than an hour.”
“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. By all means, get going. Then I can count on seeing you tomorrow at the thrift shop?”
“Absolutely. The driver will be here at ten o’clock, so you can expect me by around ten-thirty.”
“That’s fine, Nell. I’ll let you go now. Bye, dear. See you tomorrow.”
God love her, Nell thought as she replaced the receiver. The stock of whatever phone company Aunt Gert uses will drop 20 percent the day she dies.
BEFORE GOING TO MRS. JOHNSON’S ROOM, Nell stopped at the nurse’s desk on the second floor. “I’m Nell MacDermott, here to see Mrs. Johnson. We spoke this morning.”
The nurse, a pleasant-faced woman with graying hair, got up. “I told her you were coming, Ms. MacDermott. I thought it would perk her up, and it did, but only for a while. Since then she has had a call from her landlord. Seems he wants the furniture out of her apartment, and that has her terribly upset. I’m afraid you may get the brunt of it.”
As they walked down the corridor, they passed a small dining room with three tables occupied by people being served luncheon. “We have a main dining room downstairs, but some people think it’s friendlier to have their breakfast and midday meals served on their own floor, and we try to accommodate them,” the nurse said.
“From what I’ve seen, there’s almost nothing you don’t do for the residents here,” Nell observed.
“We only fail them in one way: we can’t make them happy. And, unfortunately, it’s probably the one thing they need the most. It’s understandable, of course. They’re old. They hurt. They miss their husbands, or wives, or children, or friends. Some adjust very well to living here. Others don’t, though, and it’s painful to see them suffer. There’s an old saying: ‘As we get older, we get more so.’ We find that the people who were naturally optimistic have the best chance of being relatively content.”
They were almost at Mrs. Johnson’s room. “I suspect Mrs. Johnson hasn’t adjusted well,” Nell said.
“She knows this is as good as it gets, but, like anyone else, she’d prefer to be in her own home—and in her case, also running the show. You’ll hear all about that, I’m sure.”
They stood at the partially open door leading to Mrs. Johnson’s apartment. The nurse tapped on it. “Company, Mrs. Johnson.”
Without waiting for a reply, she pushed the door back. Nell followed her in.
Rhoda Johnson was in the bedroom of the small suite. She was lying on top of the bed, propped up on pillows, with an afghan thrown over her.
At they entered the bedroom, she opened her eyes. “Nell MacDermott?” It was a question.
“Yes.” Nell was shocked to see the visible difference in the woman since her
last visit.
“I want you to do me a favor. Winifred used to pick up a coffee cake for me at the bakery in the mall about a mile from here. Would you get one for me today? I can’t eat the food here—it’s tasteless.”
Oh, boy, Nell thought. “I’d be glad to, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Have a nice visit,” the nurse said cheerfully.
Nell pulled up a chair and sat by the bed. “You’re not feeling that great today, are you, Mrs. Johnson?” she asked.
“I’m all right. But people around here aren’t very friendly. You see, they know I didn’t come from much, so they ignore me.”
“I don’t know about that. The nurse who was with me just now was the one who suggested I drive up to visit with you today because you were feeling a bit low. And the lady who brought me up last week also seemed very fond of you.”
“They’re okay. But I promise you that the people who work in room service and clean up the place, that sort of thing, are definitely not treating me the same since Winifred isn’t around to slip them twenty-dollar bills.”
“That was generous of her.”
“A waste of money as it turns out. Wouldn’t you think that now she’s gone they’d have a little sympathy?”
Rhoda Johnson began to cry. “It’s always been like this . . . people taking advantage. I’ve been forty-two years in that apartment, and now the owner wants me out in two weeks. I have clothes in the closets; my mother’s good china is there. Would you believe that in all these years, I never broke one single cup?”
“Mrs. Johnson, let me just ask the nurse something,” Nell said. “I’ll be right back.”
She was gone less than five minutes. “Good news,” she reported. “It’s just as I expected. You’re allowed to bring your own furniture here, if that’s what you want to do. Why don’t we plan for you to drive with me to your apartment next week, and you can select your favorite things to bring back here. I’ll arrange to have them delivered.”
Rhoda Johnson looked at her suspiciously. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you’ve lost your daughter, and I am sorry,” Nell said. “And if having your favorite things around you will give you comfort, I’d like to make that happen.”
“Maybe you think you owe me something because Winifred was on your husband’s boat. If she’d stayed with Walters and Arsdale, she would have gone straight home after work, and she’d be alive today!”
Rhoda Johnson’s face crumbled as tears spilled from her eyes. “I miss Winifred so much. She never skipped coming to see me on Saturdays—not once. She didn’t always make it in the evenings during the week, but Saturday was our day to visit, always. The last time I saw her was the evening before she died.”
“That would be Thursday night, two weeks ago,” Nell said. “Did you have a nice visit?”
“She was a bit upset. She said she wanted to stop at the bank, but she got there too late.”
Instinct made Nell ask the next question: “Do you remember what time she got here that night?”
“It wasn’t really night. It was Thursday evening, a little after five. I remember because I was having my dinner when she came, and I always have my dinner at five.”
Banks close at five o’clock, Nell thought. Winifred had plenty of time to get to one in Manhattan before she drove up to White Plains. She must have been using a bank near here.
Rhoda Johnson wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t go on so. I know I’m not going to be here that much longer. My heart’s about as bad as it can get and keep going. I used to ask Winifred what she would do when something happened to me. You know what she always said?”
Nell waited.
“She said she’d quit her job and be on the first plane to nowhere. That was her little joke, I guess.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t hold you up, Nell. You’ve done me a lot of good coming here. Now you did promise to get me a coffee cake today, didn’t you?”
THE BAKERY was at a mall, about a ten-minute drive from the nursing home. Nell bought the coffee cake, then stood for a moment on the sidewalk outside the bakery. The rain had let up, but the skies were heavily overcast. She could see a large bank, off at a right angle to the mall. It had its own circular driveway and separate parking lot. Why not? Nell thought as she headed to her car. It’s a good place to start.
She drove to the bank, parked and went inside. A window at the far end had a metal sign on the counter: SAFE-DEPOSIT BOXES.
Nell walked over to the counter and opened her shoulder bag. She took out her wallet and extracted the small manila envelope she had found in the inner pocket of Adam’s jacket.
She opened the clasp and let the key slide out onto the countertop. Before she could even ask if the key belonged to a safe-deposit box in this bank, the clerk smiled and handed her a signature card to sign.
“I’d like to speak to the manager,” Nell said quietly.
Arlene Barron, the manager, was a handsome African-American in her early forties. “This key is tied to an ongoing criminal investigation,” Nell explained. “I need to call the Manhattan district attorney’s office immediately.”
She was told that both Sclafani and Brennan were out, but were expected back shortly. She left the message that she had found the location of the safe-deposit box for key number 332, and gave Barron’s name and phone number.
“I’m sure they’ll be up here with a search warrant, maybe even before you close today,” Nell told her.
“I understand.”
“Would it be violating security to tell me in whose name the box is registered?”
Barron hesitated. “I don’t know if . . .”
Nell interrupted her. “Is it only registered to a woman, or is Harry Reynolds a cosignatory?”
“I really shouldn’t divulge that information,” Arlene Barron said, as, almost imperceptibly, she nodded the affirmative.
“I thought so.” Nell got up to go. “Please tell me one more thing. Has the box been opened since June 9th?”
“We don’t keep those records.”
“Then if by any chance someone tries to get into that box before the police get here, you’ve got to stall them. If the box hasn’t been cleaned out already, it may contain crucial evidence in a multiple homicide.”
She was at the door when Arlene Barron called to her, “Ms. MacDermott, you forgot your package.”
The bag with the coffee cake was on the floor next to the chair in which she had been sitting. “Thanks. I didn’t even realize I’d brought it into the bank with me,” Nell said. “I’ve got to deliver it to a lady in a nursing home. God help her, she’s earned every bite of it.”
seventy-eight
WHEN SCLAFANI AND BRENNAN ARRIVED at the 13th Precinct station house, they found Mac and Dan Minor there.
“Take a look at who’s at the desk,” Brennan murmured to his partner. “Congressman MacDermott. Wonder what he’s up to?”
“There’s a great way to find out.” Sclafani strode over to the desk. “Hi, Rich,” he said in greeting to the sergeant, then with an expansive smile, he turned to Cornelius MacDermott. “Sir, it’s a pleasure to see you. I’m Detective Sclafani. Detective Brennan and I have been in constant touch with your granddaughter since the boating tragedy. She’s been very helpful to us.”
“Nell didn’t mention anything about you, but that shouldn’t surprise me,” Mac commented. “I raised her to be independent, and I guess I’m a world-class teacher.” He paused to shake hands with Sclafani. “I’m here on a totally separate matter. Dr. Minor here needs information concerning his mother’s death.”
Brennan had joined them. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said to Dan. “Was it recent?”
Mac answered for Dan. “It was nine months ago. Dan’s mother was a troubled woman whom he has been seeking for a long time. She suffocated in the fire at the Vandermeer mansion last September 9th.”
The two detectives looked at each other. Ten minutes later the four men were seated together
at a long table in the station’s private conference room. Captain John Murphy, the ranking officer on duty had joined them. The case file and the box with Dan Minor’s mother’s personal effects were on the table.
Captain Murphy extrapolated the most significant information from the file. “Smoke was spotted coming from the lower floor of the Vandermeer mansion at about 7:34 in the evening, and an alarm was sounded. By the time the first fire equipment arrived some four and a half minutes later, much of the building was engulfed in flames, the fire apparently having traveled through a dumb-waiter shaft, which allowed it to spread quickly to the roof. Despite the danger, four FDNY firemen connected by a tether explored the first two floors, which were almost fully engaged. The hook and ladder company sent in additional personnel to search the third and fourth floors. They found the body of an adult Caucasian female in the bathroom on the fourth floor. She had taken refuge in the bathtub and had covered her face with a wet cloth. She was removed before the fire reached that floor. Despite intense efforts at CPR, she did not respond and was declared dead at 9:30 P.M. Cause of death, suffocation due to smoke inhalation.”
The captain glanced at Dan, who was listening attentively, his eyes downcast, his hands folded on the table.
“It may be some consolation to know that the fire never touched her. The intense heat and smoke, however, did kill her.”
“I appreciate that,” Dan said, “but what I need to know is why she is being held responsible for setting the fire.”
“It began in what had been the library on the first floor. The window of that room blew out fairly quickly, and some papers landed on the street, including a human services or soup kitchen card as we call them. That was why your mother was misidentified for some time. It turned out that the card belonged to another homeless woman who claimed that one of her shopping bags had been stolen hours before.”