My godmother was propped up against a mound of pillows, looking tired but awake. Her curly brown hair framed a pale face dominated by wide brown eyes. She was not tethered to any machines, they’d been pushed back to the wall. She recognized me instantly and held her arms out for a hug.
“Are you taking me home?” Lanny asked. “It’s impossible to rest here.” Her voice was low but clear and her words understandable but ever so slightly slurred. Medication perhaps. “I’ve a terrible headache and they won’t give me anything for it,” she was plaintive, not a tone I’d ever heard from her.
Behind us, Dag cleared his throat, probably a signal to steer away from the subject of pills for headaches.
Several times Lanny asked why she was in the hospital yet she didn’t question me further when each time I told her she’d been in an accident.
“Do you remember anything about the accident?”
“No,” she said.
“We were meeting at the club for lunch,” I tried to prod her memory.
“Were we?”
“I came in just after you’d gone upstairs to one of the offices.”
Lanny looked at me and didn’t say anything.
“Andy at the front desk said some man who’d probably been to see the current show was on his way out but turned back and followed you in. He was a stranger, not a member, and Andy said he couldn’t hear what was said but the man seemed angry.”
“My dear, I truly cannot remember anything or even think about anything right now,” my godmother said.
She closed her eyes wearily, and was asleep instantly. I kissed her cheek and fussed with smoothing her covers, reluctant to leave. Finally, I walked over to where Dag sat.
“I guess everyone’s asked every possible way if she remembers anything about the attack?”
“Yes,” Dag said. “Lars even suggested I ask a few questions if I thought there was a good time to do so but I’m afraid there hasn’t been one yet.”
“It’s a relief to see Lanny awake and unhooked from all the equipment. Has she been given something for the headaches?”
Dag nodded. “Whatever they try, nothing lasts. Her headaches must be terrible.”
“That’s not good,” I said, filing the information away. Something other than medication might help. Chiropractic work or shiatsu, the Japanese version of acupuncture. No needles in shiatsu, only skillful finger pressure on the body.
“Tomorrow’s the big day, homeward bound?”
“If she continues stable, Mrs. O can leave then.”
“Welcome news.”
“Tina, the private nurse, was in today––you know she’s trained in security, also?”
I nodded.
“Tina’s been on rotation with me for several days so she and Mrs. Oldenburg can get to know each other. Tina’ll come back tomorrow and help take Mrs. O home if all goes well. As you see, rest is needed.” He hesitated then continued, lowering his voice. “Her attention span is, well…fractured is the word that comes to mind. So far, she doesn’t remember the attack. She definitely has amnesia about that day and the days before it, and she rarely remembers what she’s told, even a moment later.”
“That’s classic with TBI,” I said. “If there’s frontal lobe damage, it’s the short-term memory that’s affected. Rehabilitation takes time and work but it’s possible.”
I told Dag I’d call the next day to see if Lanny was actually going home and thanked him for all he’d done to look after her while she was in the hospital.
“It’s one of the quietest duties I’ve ever had,” he confessed. “The consulate can be hectic between visiting dignitaries and UN activities. While I was here, I read a lot.”
The next morning I was at my desk just before 8 AM. Minutes after I settled down to work, the call came from Lars.
“Lanny has the doctors’ blessings to leave. Tina and I will take her home soon.”
“Fantastic. I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got my suitcase so I’ll come over after work.”
That evening, I was anxious to leave. Even though I had more to do to prepare for the conference, it was mostly revisions and polishing. As I thought about what other uses there might be for the equipment Fred Anders had created, I realized I probably had information the police did not. Ought I to call Dan Riley and mention my suspicions? It was possible he’d dismiss my suspicions the way he’d dismissed my concern about Mary Sakamoto’s warning of danger. I certainly didn’t have any evidence. No, I damn well wasn’t going to call the police, why waste time, mine and his? Then it struck me. If I really was serious about this suspicion, I ought to do something to protect the information about Fred Anders’ work. Usually, I’d back up everything I’d written about the prototypes on a flash drive and lock that in the filing cabinet in my office or, if I had time of an evening, I’d take the flash drive home to see if I could get some more work done. From here on, I’d always take the flash drive with me when I left the college. That decision felt satisfying, almost as if I’d made some progress, though all I’d done was take a precaution. What was it a precaution against? Probably nothing, time would tell.
By now, it was five, and although often I worked late, I was eager to see Lanny back on home turf. It was time to leave. Staying at 34 Gramercy Park, the first cooperative building in New York, would be like old times, when I was a student, working evenings at the club. Back then, I’d leave the club after my shift, walk the half block to Lanny’s and stay overnight. In the morning, I only had to walk the few blocks to college. A perfect arrangement. The spacious apartment where Lanny lived alone since the death of her husband and daughter was one of the few that remained true to the architect’s 1895 plans. Most of the original units, which had rambled grandly, three to a floor, had been carved up into smaller apartments. Ceilings in the Queen Anne style building still soared magnificently and windows and the ornate, brass-hinged doors had matching proportions.
The original staff quarters on the top floor, small, low-ceilinged rooms, had been converted into an apartment for the super and his family. The super, who ran the place with meticulous care, loved the personal side of the building’s history and was proud of former residents like Margaret Hamilton, whose most famous role had been as the Wicked Witch of the West in “The Wizard of Oz.” The locals said she was charming in person. As for James Cagney, turned out he definitely was not a tough guy in real life.
When I rang the front door bell, the doorman peered out from his cubby at the opposite end of the cavernous lobby. He recognized me and buzzed the door open, not bothering to amble the length of the hall. He stepped into the elevator after me and prepared to take me up. The place, built by the man who developed Gramercy Park to induce people to move downtown and into the building, still had an Otis hand-run elevator, the last in the country, a gem of inlaid wood and mirrors. All the operator had to do to run the elevator was tug gently on the cable. Usually the takeoff or landing was silk-smooth, unless you got the old timer who enjoyed a jug or two of wine of an evening. Then you were guaranteed a bumpy ride. Every ride had background music of clanks and wheezes as you rose or descended at a leisurely pace.
Lars let me in and I took my case to my old room. The apartment was in the shape of a capital L. The enormous, formal living room on the short stroke of the L overlooked Gramercy Park, so did the two small rooms next to the living room. These were opposite a bathroom and a small butler’s pantry. The long part of the L had a vast kitchen and next to it was a cozy family room. Then came two generous bedrooms and a second bathroom. The furniture was warm wood, Scandinavian style, the curtains, chairs and couch in the brilliant fabrics Swedes use to brighten their long, somber winters. After I dropped my case in my old room, I found Lars in the kitchen, snacking on dark bread coated with blackberry jam, no butter—his country’s national memory of food shortages from centuries of war, nothing to do with calories or cholesterol levels.
“Lanny went to bed right after she got home, she was exhausted. She’s b
een resting ever since. Tina left some time ago,” he told me. “For some reason, I’m exhausted, too. How about I whip up a cheese omelet?”
I watched as he moved around the kitchen and my nose twitched at the aroma of butter sizzling in the pan. We ate and talked more about Lanny’s rehabilitation.
“When will we get the old Lanny back?” Lars asked.
“Give Lanny time to settle in, she’ll be different in many ways,” I said, rather than give him the bald truth that we might never see the old Lanny. “I put that book, Endless Journey, by Janet Stumbo, on the hall table for you.”
Lars stared at me for a long moment then nodded in tired acceptance.
The next morning, I left before anyone else was up. Lars and I had both gone to bed early and I woke at the crack of dawn, enthusiastic about starting the day. SUNY was tranquil at this time in the morning, not many people in yet, and I was deep in work when the phone rang. It was Beth Bazin. We’d graduated together and kept in touch, although she was in private practice in New Jersey.
“Is the place crawling with government types?” she demanded.
“Here? Government types?” I was at a loss.
“You haven’t heard about Matt Wahr?”
My heart sank. Someone else out of commission?
“Beth, it’s not even nine. News circulates later when people gather for coffee. What’s up?”
“Some Albany politician was picked up in a sting operation. He’s given Matt’s name in return for an immunity deal. Story is a lot of fiddling was going on, books being cooked. The auditors swooped down on the college late yesterday afternoon with agents from the Department of Finance and checked Matt’s office and found discrepancies in the records. It looks as though he’s the only person who could be responsible. Matt denied it but he’s been locked out of his office, told to wait at home until they finish going over the files. Didn’t I always say he had unplumbed depths?”
The news took my breath away. I couldn’t remember anything remotely like it happening at the college. Beth’s source had to be her husband. An ad executive, he worked in mid-town and car-pooled in from the suburbs with one of the college administrators.
“As I recall, you always said Wahr was a dreamboat and you were sorry he was married,” I teased Beth. “What sort of discrepancies?”
“Major. Fiddling the taxes. Big question is, who was getting the loot? I’m relying on you to check out what people are saying. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? We always thought Matt was one of the best, we all did. Whoever did this, it’s a disaster for the college.”
I agreed. Theft, if that’s what it was, would hit hard. Our budget was perennially anemic, every dollar stretched thin. Was I ever glad my responsibilities were clearly defined. I wore two hats. As one of the optometrists at the Infants’ Clinic, I examined patients, gave them vision therapy and kept their charts current. As a researcher, I worked on whatever projects my boss assigned me. I had absolutely no connection with administrative or financial matters and always had pitied those involved with the college’s budgetary workings.
Promising Beth I’d get back to her as soon as I had any news, I headed for the staff lounge on a scouting mission. Coffee was a good enough excuse to mingle. How had I missed the arrival of the auditors the previous day? Then I realized that usually Matt Wahr or Allan were my sources of news and gossip and I hadn’t seen either after lunch.
I didn’t have to go far. Halfway to the lounge, I caught up with Martin Collins walking down the hall deep in conversation with Len Preston. Both were senior faculty. They stopped talking when I caught up with them but read the knowledge and query on my face.
“You’ve heard,” Dr. Collins said gloomily. He waved us into his office and closed the door firmly.
“The dean’s preparing a statement. Until further notice, no one’s to fraternize with Wahr.”
‘Is it definitely Matt?” I asked.
The two men exchanged looks.
“It looks that way,” Dr. Preston said finally. “It’s alleged, you understand.”
White-collar crime. I thought of all the patients who could have been helped, all the corners we’d trimmed, all the equipment we could have afforded with that money.
“Any idea how much is involved?”
“Too much. Yoko, we must keep a tight lid on this. Some details will be public knowledge soon enough but beyond that, do your best to neutralize any rumors, particularly with students.”
I walked back to my office, leaving the faculty lounge for later. The sooner I gave Beth accurate news and the all-important warning, the sooner the grist mill would have truth for grinding. She was busy and our conversation was short. All afternoon, students stopped by my office with questions. I let them ramble but corrected flights of fancy. Predictably, people were upset, outraged and titillated in equal part, most defending Wahr, certain he could not have done wrong. He was well liked and it was hard to believe he’d steal from the college.
Allan kept popping in and out like a damn yo-yo. Fact-finding missions, he said, but before he’d share his news, he’d quiz me about what I’d heard. Only then would he tell me what his latest visitor had said. He alternated between sad and angry.
“How could Matt do this? We thought he was a man of integrity. How terrible to steal from us.”
“Allan, it’s not proven,” I reminded him. “Remember, innocent until proven guilty.”
“You’re too generous, Yoko. From all I heard, there’s little doubt that Matt is implicated in fraud.” He tapped his nose knowingly. He wouldn’t say more and for the nth time I wondered how he always had the latest news.
By the time the day was over, I was starving and I was down to pretzel crumbs. I was eager to get back to Lanny’s to see how she’d coped with her first day at home. I called and left a message on her answering machine that I’d bring in deluxe subs, one sausage and cheese, the other grilled veggies. Foraging for breakfast that morning, I’d spotted salad makings in the fridge so dinner was set. I let myself into the apartment quietly and as I walked through to the kitchen, a young woman came out of Lanny’s bedroom at the end of the corridor, closing the door softly behind her.
“You must be Tina, is Lanny resting?” I asked, introducing myself.
“Sleeping, she’s exhausted,” Tina answered. “It’s a combination of being home, welcome though that is, and medication. Plus she has a definite tendency to try to do too much.”
“Doesn’t want to give in and admit she’s tired?”
“Exactly,” Tina agreed. She eyed the packages I held. “Smells good. Salad’s ready in the kitchen. I ate with Lanny but I can sit with you and tell you what happened today. Lanny managed really well. She handled the move from the hospital to home base with a minimum of fuss but she does complain a lot about serious headaches.”
The details were much as I’d expected. Tina, a nurse as well as trained in security, had experience caring for other TBI survivors and was prepared for the bursts of bad temper and frustration over even simple tasks. When Tina was ready to leave, we tiptoed down the hall and peeked in on Lanny, who lay fast asleep, her face tranquil and relaxed. Lars arrived as Tina was on her way out and I left them to their quick conversation.
‘Lanny, you, and extra-long subs, my lucky day,” Lars said when he joined me in the kitchen. We sat rehashing what Tina had told us. Lars admitted he was dismayed at Lanny’s spotty memory.
“She forgets the simplest thing almost immediately. She always had a good memory. When will it come back?”
“That’s a tough one,” I said. “She’s on a learning curve, a re-learning curve. Give her time. She’ll start therapy soon and you’ll see changes.”
“You warned me,” Lars said. “It’s so hard to accept the difference in her. It’s like she’s another person.”
“She really isn’t the same and may not ever be the person you once knew. Accepting that is a challenge for her and everyone else.”
There, I’d said the d
read words, that Lanny might never be the same person that we’d known and loved. I had faith that Lanny and all of us who knew and loved her would surmount the challenges of her TBI.
“Yoko, would you mind going up to the super’s apartment?” Lars asked after we’d rinsed the dishes. “Let him know it’s okay to fix the disposal unit in the kitchen sink tomorrow, any time he wants. Normally, I’d not bother him after five but he left a note asking me to let him know this evening. I think he really wants to hear about Lanny. Besides, he’ll be glad to see you.”
The resident super, Ian Campbell, a gruff-sounding Scot, ran the building with an iron hand conspicuously lacking a velvet glove. Yet underneath his brusque manner was the proverbial heart of gold. He went fishing once a month and moist parcels of the day’s catch appeared on your doormat if you were in his good graces. His father, a World War II veteran, had spent time in Japan with MacArthur and passed on to his family a liking for soba noodle soup and sushi. I always had a warm welcome from Mr. Campbell.
When I reached the hall, I could hear the hum of the elevator on its way up. It stopped on the floor below and then someone rang for it from the ground floor. Rather than wait, I took the stairs. The elevator didn’t go to the top floor anyhow, since that had originally been maids’ rooms. The super’s wife said her husband was in the furnace room. After I’d told her Lanny was home and doing well, I clattered back down the stairs to the basement. The super was coming out of the enormous room where the furnace, a goddess of heat two stories tall, was housed. Lars was right, the super wanted to know about Lanny.
Eye Sleuth Page 13
