“Maybe you’re right, but all the same, he didn’t say anything to me about this project. Could you at least keep me up to date about what you find out? I don’t like to nag, and in any case I’ll be leaving the city, but we can talk over the phone.”
I promised I’d contact her if I discovered anything significant about Flynn, and she took a crumpled piece of paper from between the pages of a notebook, then smoothed it and laid it on the table between our tea mugs, pointing at it.
I picked it up and saw that on it were a name and a cell phone number.
“On the evening when Richard got the call I told you about, I waited until he was asleep and then I checked out his cell phone’s call log. I wrote down the number that matched the time of the call. I was ashamed of acting jealous, but I’d grown very worried when I saw what a state he was in.
“The next day I called the number, and a woman answered. I told her I was Richard Flynn’s partner and that I had something important to pass on to her from him, something that oughtn’t to be discussed over the phone. She hesitated but then accepted my proposal, and we met not far from here, in a restaurant, where we had lunch. She introduced herself as Laura Westlake. I apologized for having approached her and told her that I’d gotten worried about Richard after I saw his behavior following their conversation that evening.
“She told me not to worry, that Richard and she were old acquaintances from Princeton and that they’d had an unimportant disagreement about some past event. She said that they’d shared a house for a few months, but that they’d been nothing more than friends. I didn’t have the courage to tell her what Richard had said about her after their talk, but I claimed that he’d told me they’d been lovers. Her response to that was that Richard probably had an overactive imagination, or maybe his memory was playing tricks on him, and she emphasized yet again that their relationship had been entirely platonic.”
“Did she tell you where she worked?”
“She teaches psychology at Columbia. We left the restaurant, went our separate ways, and that was all. If Richard talked to her again after that, he did so without my finding out. The phone number might still be valid.”
I thanked her and left, promising again to keep her up to date on Richard’s part in all this.
I had lunch at a café in Tribeca, connecting my laptop to its wireless. This time, Google was much more generous.
Laura Westlake was a professor at Columbia University Medical Center and ran a joint research program with Cornell. She’d earned a master’s at Princeton in 1988, and a PhD at Columbia four years later. In the mid-1990s, she’d taught in Zurich, before returning to Columbia. Her bio contained lots of technical details about specialist training and research programs she’d run over the years, as well as a major prize she won in 2006. In other words, she’d become a big shot in psychology.
I tried my luck and called her office as soon as I left the café. An assistant named Brandi answered and told me that Dr. Westlake wasn’t available at the moment, but wrote down my name and number. I asked her to tell Dr. Westlake that I was calling in connection with Mr. Richard Flynn.
I spent the evening in my lair with Sam, making love and telling her about the investigation. Later that night she was in a nostalgic sort of mood; she wanted more attention than usual, and she had the patience to listen to everything I had to say. She even set her cell to silent, which was very rare, and thrust it into her handbag, which was lying on the floor by the bed.
“Maybe Richard’s whole story is just a charade,” she said. “What if he took a real occurrence and fictionalized the events around it, like Tarantino did in Inglourious Basterds—remember?”
“Possible, but a reporter deals in facts,” I said. “For the time being, I’m going on the assumption that everything he wrote is true.”
“Let’s get real,” she said. “The ‘facts’ are what editors and producers choose to put in the newspapers, on the radio, or on the TV. Without us, nobody would have cared that people are slaughtering each other in Syria, that a senator has a mistress, or that there was a murder in Arkansas. They wouldn’t have a clue that any of those things were happening. People have never been interested in reality, but in stories, John. Maybe Flynn wanted to write a story, and that’s all.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
“Exactly.”
She rolled on top of me.
“You know, a colleague told me today that she’d just found out she’s pregnant. She was so happy! I went to the restroom and cried for ten minutes—I just couldn’t stop. I pictured myself old and alone, wasting my life on things that in twenty years won’t be worth anything, while I lose sight of the really important stuff.”
She laid her head on my chest, and I lightly stroked her hair. I realized that she was sobbing softly. Her change in attitude had taken me by surprise, and I didn’t know how to react.
“Maybe now you ought to tell me that I’m not alone and that you love me, at least a little bit,” she said. “That’s what would have happened in a chick-lit book.”
“Sure. You’re not alone, and I love you a bit, hon.”
She lifted her head off of my chest and looked me in the eye. I could feel her warm exhalation on my chin.
“John Keller, you’re lying your head off. In the old days they’d have hanged you by the nearest tree for that.”
“Hard times back then, ma’am.”
“All right, I’ve pulled myself back together, I’m sorry. You know, you seem really caught up in this story.”
“Another reason they’d have hanged me, isn’t it? Didn’t you say it’s a good story?”
“Yes, I did, but you risk winding up in some boarded-up old house on Nobody Street in a couple of months, without being able to make head or tail of anything. Did you think of that?”
“It’s just a temporary job, which I’m doing because a friend asked me to. I might not find anything spectacular—nothing to make a splash, as you like to say. A man fell in love with a woman, but for various reasons it turned out badly and he probably lived with a broken heart for the rest of his life. Another man was murdered, and I don’t even know whether the two stories are even all that connected. But as a reporter, I learned to listen to my guts and follow my instincts and anytime I didn’t, I screwed up. Perhaps this story is like one of those Russian dolls, each of them hiding a different one inside. Well, a bit absurd, isn’t it?”
“Every good story is a bit absurd. At your age, you ought to know that by now.”
We lay there holding each other for a long time, not making love, not even talking, each of us wrapped up in our own thoughts, until the apartment grew completely dark, and the noise of the nighttime traffic seemed to be coming from another planet.
Laura Baines called me the next morning, while I was in the car. She had a pleasant, slightly husky voice, one you could fall in love with even before laying eyes on its owner. I knew she was over fifty, but her voice sounded much younger. She told me that she’d received my message, and asked me who I was and what my connection with Richard Flynn was. She knew he’d died recently.
I introduced myself and told her that the subject I wanted to present was too private to discuss over the phone; I suggested we meet.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Keller, but I’m not in the habit of meeting strangers,” she said. “I’ve no idea who you are or what you want. If you want us to meet, you’ll have to give me more details.”
I decided to tell her the truth.
“Dr. Westlake, before he died, Mr. Flynn wrote a book about his time at Princeton and the events of the fall and winter of 1987. I think you know what I’m talking about. You and Professor Joseph Wieder are the main characters in his story. At the request of the publisher of the book, I’m investigating the veracity of what’s claimed in the manuscript.”
“Am I to understand that a publisher has already bought the manuscript?”
“Not yet, but a literary agency
has taken it on, and—”
“And you, Mr. Keller: Are you a private detective or something of the kind?”
“No, I’m a reporter.”
“What newspaper do you write for?”
“I’ve been a freelancer for two years, but before that I worked for the Post.”
“And you think that mentioning the name of that tabloid is a good recommendation?”
She had a perfectly calm and measured tone, almost devoid of inflection. The midwestern accent Flynn talked about in his manuscript had completely vanished. I pictured her in the lecture hall, talking to students, wearing the same thick-rimmed spectacles she had in her youth, her blond hair tightly tied in a bun, pedantic and confident. It was an attractive image.
I paused, not sure what to say next, so she went on: “Did Richard use real names in the book or did you merely deduce that it refers to Joseph Wieder and myself?”
“He used real names. Of course, he referred to you by your maiden name, Laura Baines.”
“It gives me a strange feeling hearing that name, Mr. Keller. I haven’t heard it for very many years. This literary agent, the one who hired you, is he aware that a lawsuit could halt the publication of Richard’s manuscript if its contents cause me any material or moral damage?”
“Why do you think that Mr. Flynn’s manuscript might damage you, Dr. Westlake?”
“Don’t try to be smart with me, Mr. Keller. The only reason I’m talking to you is that I’m curious to find out what Richard wrote in his book. I recall that he dreamed of being a writer in those days. All right, then. I propose a trade: you give me a copy of the manuscript and I agree to meet you and talk to you for a couple of minutes.”
If I did what she asked, I’d be in breach of the nondisclosure clause of the contract I’d signed with the agency. If I refused, I was certain she’d hang up on me. I chose the option that seemed the least damaging in that moment.
“I agree,” I said. “But you should know that the agency only provided me with an excerpt of Richard’s manuscript in hard copy, the first few chapters. The story begins at the time when you first met him. There are about seventy pages or so.”
She considered this for a few moments.
“Very well,” she said finally. “I’m at Columbia Medical Center. What do you say we meet here in an hour, at ten-thirty? Could you bring the pages with you?”
“Sure, I’ll be there.”
“Go to the McKeen Pavilion and ask for me at reception. Good-bye, now, Mr. Keller.”
“Good-bye and—”
She hung up before I could thank her. I quickly set off back home, cursing Peter in my mind for not having given me the manuscript in electronic form. I picked up the excerpt from my apartment and went looking for a copy shop, eventually finding one three blocks away.
While a sleepy guy with a silver ring in his left nostril and forearms covered with tattoos was copying the pages on an old Xerox, I wondered how I should approach her. She seemed cold and pragmatic, and I reminded myself not to forget for a single moment that her job was to root around in people’s minds, just as she’d warned Richard about Professor Wieder all those years ago.
FOUR
Columbia University Medical Center was in Washington Heights, so I skirted the park to Twelfth Avenue and turned onto NY-9A, then I followed 168th Street. A half hour later, I arrived in front of a couple of tall buildings linked by glass walkways.
The McKeen Pavilion was on the ninth floor of the Milstein Hospital Building. I gave my name at reception, said Dr. Westlake was expecting me, and the secretary called her on the interior line.
Laura Baines came down a few minutes later. She was tall and good-looking. She didn’t have her hair tied back in a tight bun, as I’d pictured her, but had a rather simple hairdo, with her wavy locks falling to her shoulders. She was attractive, there was no doubt about it, but she wasn’t likely the kind of woman you’d turn your head to look at in the street. She wasn’t wearing glasses, and I wondered whether she’d switched to contact lenses in the intervening years.
I was the only person in reception, so she came straight up to me and extended her hand.
“I’m Laura Westlake,” she said. “Mr. Keller?”
“Pleased to meet you, and thanks for agreeing to see me.”
“Would you like some coffee or tea? There’s a cafeteria on the second floor. Shall we?”
We went down seven floors in the elevator, then through a couple of corridors, before reaching a cafeteria, one of whose walls was made of glass, providing a great view of the Hudson River. Laura had a determined gait, she walked straight-backed, and all the way there she seemed lost in thought. We didn’t exchange a single word. From what I could tell, she didn’t use makeup, but she was wearing a discreet perfume. Her face was smooth, with hardly a wrinkle, and slightly tanned, with well-defined features. I bought myself a cappuccino, and she opted for a tea. The place was almost empty, and the art nouveau–style interior alleviated the feeling of being in a hospital.
Before I could open my mouth, she spoke again.
“The manuscript, Mr. Keller,” she said, peeling back the foil on a capsule of milk and emptying its contents into her cup of tea, “as you promised.”
I took the pages from my bag and handed them to her. She leafed through them for a few seconds, then carefully inserted them back in their folder and placed them on the table to her right. I took out a small voice recorder and switched it on, but she shook her head disapprovingly.
“Switch it off, Mr. Keller, I’m not giving an interview. I agreed only to talk to you for a few minutes, and that is all.”
“Off the record?”
“Absolutely.”
I switched off the recorder and put it back in my bag.
“Dr. Westlake, may I ask you when and how you met Richard Flynn?”
“Well, it happened so long ago . . . As far as I can remember, it was in the fall of 1987. We were both students at Princeton, and we shared a small two-bedroom house for a while, out by the Battle Monument. I moved from there before Christmas, so we lived together for just three months or so.”
“Did you introduce him to Professor Wieder?”
“Yes. I told him that I knew Dr. Wieder well, so he insisted on my introducing them, as the professor was a very famous public figure at the time. In a discussion with Richard, Dr. Wieder mentioned his library. He wanted an electronic record of it, if I remember rightly. Flynn needed the money, so he offered to do the job, and the professor accepted. Unfortunately, afterward, I understand, he had a lot of problems and was even considered a suspect in the case. The professor was brutally murdered. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know, and actually that’s why the agency I’m working for is so interested in this case. Were you and Flynn anything more than roommates at any time? I don’t want my question to sound out of line, but Richard states very clearly in his book that you had a sexual relationship and that you were in love with each other.”
A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.
“I find it slightly ridiculous to talk about such things, Mr. Keller, but, yes, I remember that Richard was in love with me—or, rather, obsessed with me. But we were never involved in a love affair. I had a boyfriend at the time—”
“Timothy Sanders?”
She seemed surprised.
“Timothy Sanders, that’s right. Do you know the name from the manuscript? It means Richard must have had a fantastic memory, or maybe he had notes or a diary from that time. I would not have thought that he could remember such details after so many years, though in a way, I’m not surprised. Anyway, I was in love with my boyfriend, we lived together, but then he had to go to Europe for a couple of months as part of a research program, and the rent on our apartment was too high for me to pay by myself, so I found another place. During the time Timothy was away, I shared a house with Richard. When Timothy returned, we moved back in together, just before Christmas.”
“Yo
u never use the shorter forms of people’s names, not even when you’re talking about people who are close to you,” I remarked, remembering what Flynn had said in the manuscript.
“That’s right. I think diminutives are childish.”
“Richard says in the manuscript that he was somewhat jealous of Professor Wieder and that for a while he suspected that you were having an affair with him.”
She gave a start, and the corners of her mouth drooped slightly. For an instant, I got the feeling that I could see her mask starting to crack, but then her poker face rapidly returned.
“It was one of Richard’s obsessions, Mr. Keller,” she said. “Professor Wieder wasn’t married, he didn’t have a partner, so some people supposed he must be having an affair and that he was keeping it secret. He was a very charismatic man, although not very handsome, and he had a very protective attitude toward me. I think that ultimately he wasn’t very interested in romantic relationships, being completely dedicated to his job. To be frank, I knew that Richard had his suspicions, but there was nothing of that nature between Joseph Wieder and myself, apart from a normal student-professor relationship. I was one of his favorite students, that much was clear, but that was all. I also helped him significantly with the project he was working on at the time.”
I asked myself how far I could go without risking her ending our conversation, then plowed ahead.
“Richard also says that the professor gave you a spare set of keys to his house and that you often went there.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t think he ever gave me the keys to his house, not that I remember. But I think that Richard was given a set, so that he could work in the library when the professor wasn’t at home. That’s why he had problems with the police.”
The Book of Mirrors Page 11
