New Year's Eve Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Suddenly, Lucy was convinced she’d found the missing part of her dream, the piece that had been floating around just outside her consciousness. Somehow, she was certain, Governors Island was the key.

  “Did they ever do germ warfare research out there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. They might have. It makes sense, if you think about it. I mean, if you’re going to play around with deadly microorganisms, it’s better to do it on an island than in the middle of a big city.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous, poking around a place like that?” asked Elizabeth. “What if some of the stuff is still around?”

  “If anything’s left, and I very much doubt there is, it would be harmless. That’s the big problem with infectious agents. It’s hard to sustain viability over the long term….” He slapped his forehead with his hand. “Except for anthrax. Boy am I dumb! That could be where it came from! It can be viable for forty or fifty years, that’s one of its advantages.” Lance had pulled a laptop computer out of his book bag and was opening it up.

  “Do you think they actually did anthrax research over there?” asked Lucy.

  “I know how we can find out,” said Lance, clicking away on the keyboard.

  “From the computer?” asked Lucy. “That research would probably be classified, and it was all done long before computers, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not doing research,” he said. “I’m e-mailing Geoff. He says he’ll meet us at the marina at three o’clock and take us over there.”

  Lucy was puzzled. Somehow it had never occurred to her that such a thing as a marina existed on the island of Manhattan. “Geoff has a boat here in the city?”

  “Sure. A twenty-two footer. How else could he do the research for the project?”

  “Of course.” Lucy was still trying to get used to the idea. Somehow New York Harbor, with its ferries and water taxis and tugboats towing barges and container ships and enormous oil tankers, didn’t seem like a good place for a little twenty-two-foot boat. Not even for the short crossing to Governors Island. “Is it safe?”

  “Sure. We do it all the time.”

  That was reassuring, kind of, but she didn’t think that the makeover outfit she was wearing—a light wool-blend pantsuit with a silk blouse and high-heel boots—would keep her very warm on a small boat in winter. “I’ll need to change into some warm clothes. Maybe Sam has some stuff I can borrow.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Lance, reluctantly dragging his eyes away from Elizabeth. “We’re also going to need some protective gear like gloves and masks if we’re going to be looking for biological toxins. Better safe than sorry.”

  Lucy couldn’t agree more. “And where are we going to get those?”

  “This is a hospital, right?” Lance had a naughty gleam in his eye.

  “Oh no,” cautioned Lucy.

  “Don’t worry. I know where there’s a supply closet.” He was out the door before Lucy could protest.

  “I better stop him before he gets in trouble,” she told Elizabeth, as she shot out the door after him, teetering on her high heels.

  Lance was already at the end of the corridor, and Lucy was afraid she’d lose him. She was hampered by those darned boots and she didn’t dare run for fear of attracting attention. Lance, on the other hand, was wearing athletic shoes, had awfully long legs, and knew his way around the hospital. She could see him at the end of the hall, rounding a corner, but when she got there found he had vanished into thin air. Lucy’s feet hurt and she was out of breath; she was deciding that she might as well go back to Elizabeth’s room when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She whirled around and saw an arm extending from behind a door; she quickly stepped inside the supply closet.

  “This is stealing. It’s not a good idea,” she told Lance, who was scanning the shelves of neatly stacked boxes of supplies.

  “They’ll never miss a few masks and gloves,” he said. “Put your weight against that door.”

  “Oh, great, now I’m an accessory,” said Lucy, bracing herself with her feet

  “Why are they hiding this stuff?” muttered Lance, peering into box after box.

  “Probably because of people like you,” said Lucy. She was about to make a joke about the high cost of health insurance when she felt pressure from the opposite side of the door. “Help!” she hissed, throwing her weight against the door. “Somebody’s trying to get in.”

  “Push harder.”

  “I’m trying,” gasped Lucy, pressing with all her might. It was barely enough; she was terrified the door would give.

  Lance had joined her and was also pressing against the door. His eyes were round with panic. “What are we going to do?” he whispered.

  “Pray,” said Lucy, as the pressure on the door continued. She was horrified at the thought of being discovered in the closet. Stealing was bad enough, but even worse was the fact that Lance was a very attractive young man. She couldn’t imagine anything more embarrassing than being discovered in a closet with him.

  “This door is not supposed to be locked,” declared a stern female voice. The knob rattled. “Darn!” They heard footsteps, clicking down the hall, away from the closet.

  “That was close,” said Lucy, breathing out a huge sigh of relief. She stuck her head out in the hall to make sure the coast was clear while Lance frantically searched the boxes. She was about to abort the mission when he finally found some masks and a second later got the gloves.

  “We’re out of here,” he said, stuffing them in his pockets. But as they strolled ever so casually down the hallway Lucy couldn’t help wishing Lance had been a little less impulsive. They were lucky this time, but she was afraid their close escape didn’t bode well for the expedition to Governors Island.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LOOKS THAT GO FROM DAY TO NIGHT!

  After trying three times to reach Sam by phone, Lucy finally acknowledged the gruesome truth that she would not only have to stick close to Lance in order to keep an eye on him but also have to borrow his clothing. There was no way she could venture out on the water in her makeover black pantsuit and sleek, black leather city boots. Why oh why had she been so quick to give up her duck boots for these pointy-toed numbers with a three-inch heel? Her feet were killing her, too. How did these women do it?

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of clothes,” Lance assured her as they exited the subway a few blocks from his dorm.

  “Slow down,” she gasped, out of breath from trying to keep up with him. “You’re twenty and have long legs. I’m five-two and, well, never you mind how old I am but I am old enough to be your mother.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He looked genuinely abashed. “I didn’t think.”

  “No problem. You don’t usually hang out with old fogies like me.”

  “You’re hardly an old fogey, Mrs. Stone. You’re actually pretty good looking for somebody your age.”

  Lucy wasn’t sure which was worse: being too old to keep up with his young legs or his condescension. Pretty good looking for her age—ouch!

  “My room’s on the third floor,” he said, full of concern. “Do you think you can make it?” he continued, adding insult to injury. “It’s no problem if you can’t because there’s an elevator, but you’re only supposed to use it if you’re handicapped.”

  “I don’t think it will be a problem as long as there’s oxygen available,” she said.

  He looked at her oddly. “Oxygen?”

  “Just a joke.” Lucy was dismayed. What was the matter with kids today? They had no sense of humor and apparently, if Lance was typical, absolutely no ability to focus. While Lucy pointedly checked her lobster watch and tapped her foot, Lance paused in the dorm lobby to check his mail and chat with a friend. Then, when they’d reached the second-floor landing he dashed off, leaving Lucy standing in the stairwell, getting madder by the minute.

  “Where did you go?” she demanded when he returned.

  “I got these for you.” He held out a sturdy pair of well-worn winter
boots. “They belong to my friend Julie. Do you think they’ll fit?”

  “They’ll do,” said Lucy. Maybe he wasn’t such a doofus after all. “Thanks.”

  They were starting down the hall to his room when Lucy asked where the bathroom was.

  “Just around the corner,” he said, pointing.

  Lucy had a frightening thought. “It’s not coed, is it?”

  “Nope. The guys’ room is on the other side.”

  What a relief. “I’ll meet you in your room.”

  “Okay.” He started down the hall.

  “Uh, Lance,” she said.

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “Your room number?”

  “Uh, sorry. It’s 306,” he said.

  But when Lucy emerged, Lance was still in the hallway, leaning against the wall and deep in conversation with another student. “You can borrow my notes, man, no problem, but they won’t do you any good ’cause all Philbrick cares about is dates. If you get the years right that’s a B, throw in the months and you’ll get a B plus and if you get the days you’re guaranteed an A.”

  “Shit. I suck at memorization,” moaned the kid, who had shaved his head and was wearing an earring, nose ring, and eyebrow ring. “Uh, sorry,” he muttered as Lucy approached. “I didn’t know your mom was here.”

  “She’s not my mom.”

  The kid’s eyes widened. “Whoa, cool. Like Ashton Kutcher, huh?”

  “Not like that,” said Lance, opening the door to his room for Lucy.

  “Who is this Ashton Kutcher?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” he said, showing her in with a flourish. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Lucy knew all about messy rooms and had fought a running battle with her oldest son Toby for years over his habit of dropping clothing on the floor, but she’d never seen anything to compare with Lance’s room. It not only smelled like a laundry hamper, it looked like one. In fact, Lucy felt as if she was actually inside one.

  “Just take what you want,” he said, gesturing generously.

  “Aren’t there any clean clothes?”

  “I don’t think so.” He opened the closet door so she could see. It was empty except for a lone blue blazer hanging crookedly on a wire hanger.

  “Waiting for the laundry fairy?”

  He laughed feebly. “If only.”

  “That’s why they invented washing machines.” As soon as she said it Lucy realized she was talking like a mother, but she wasn’t his mother. He was helping her investigate the anthrax poisoning that had killed Nadine and sickened Elizabeth, and she had no business talking to him like that. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.

  “This sweatshirt isn’t too bad,” he said, holding out a thick, hooded number. “And I’ve got lots of sweatpants and sweaters. I think we better wear dark colors. There’s watchmen on the island….”

  “Point taken,” said Lucy, unbuttoning her jacket.

  He pulled a CD out of a wire rack. “Uh, well, you’ll probably want some privacy, and I promised to lend this to the girl next door.”

  “Don’t be long,” said Lucy. “We’ve got to meet Geoff in half an hour.”

  “We’ve got plenty of time,” he told her. “It only takes about ten minutes to get there by subway.”

  “Right.” She didn’t believe him for a minute, but she was tired of sounding like a nag.

  When he returned ten minutes later Lucy was ready to go, although she felt like the Michelin tire guy in two pairs of sweatpants, a turtleneck, sweatshirt, and sweater topped with a windproof jacket. Everything was much too large, of course, but the boots were only a size or two too big thanks to two pairs of extremely fragrant gym socks, and she had her own gloves and hat. It was a good thing the editors at Jolie couldn’t see her now, she thought as she clumped down the hall. Or smell her.

  Once they were outside the smell didn’t matter; the air was filled with noxious gray smoke.

  “Is it often like this?” she asked, assuming it was air pollution.

  “No,” said Lance. “There must be a fire.”

  As they approached Broadway they saw the street was filled with fire trucks, and hoses were snaking down the steps to the subway station. Cops were busy setting up a barricade and blocking people from the stairs, which were filled with exiting passengers. Some were able to make their own way out; others were carried on stretchers to waiting ambulances with flashing red lights.

  “We’ll have to go to the next station,” said Lance.

  “That’ll be a waste of time. Trust me. Something like this will shut down the whole line, maybe the whole system,” said Lucy. “We better grab a cab.”

  A lot of other people had the same idea, so they started walking down Broadway in hopes of finding a taxi where it wasn’t so crowded. Lucy checked her watch and it was already five minutes before three. They’d never make it in five minutes.

  “There’s a gypsy, come on.” Lance grabbed her hand and pulled her into the street, darting in front of a slow-moving bus and directly into the path of a big black Mercedes, which didn’t actually hit them although the driver expressed his deep disappointment at the missed opportunity. Lucy found herself clambering into a beat-up white sedan with a light on top but no official medallion. The driver took off before she’d even closed the door.

  “We’re going to be late,” said Lucy.

  “Maybe not,” said Lance. “This guy is flying.”

  It was true. The driver was speeding down Broadway, weaving his way between slower moving vehicles and running all the yellow and some red lights. Lucy held on to the door handle and prayed as an oncoming taxi swerved to avoid them at Seventy-second Street.

  “How far do we have to go?”

  “South Ferry.”

  “Lord have mercy.”

  Lucy wasn’t exactly sure how far that actually was, but she knew South Ferry was at the very bottom of the island of Manhattan. They had miles to go, through a maze of city streets crowded with vehicles of every description, all with the potential of causing dreadful bodily harm. The driver careened past taxis, darted in front of delivery trucks, tailgated limousines, braked once for a cement mixer, and cut off bicycle messengers who shook their fists and swore. When they reached West Street, in sight of Battery Park, the driver took the turn too wide and clipped another taxi that was waiting for the light. He would have sped away but was stopped by two other officially licensed cabbies who quickly moved their cars to block the gypsy cab’s way.

  Lucy put her head in her hands, fearing it was all over. As passengers they were witnesses, maybe even liable in some way. There would be questions to answer, forms to fill out; they’d never make it to the marina before dark.

  “Come on.” Lance was pulling her out of the cab.

  “We can’t leave!”

  “Oh yes we can.” Lance tilted his head toward the cabbies, who were shouting and raising their fists. A crowd was gathering, and it looked like a full-fledged brawl would soon erupt. The only sensible option was to get away as fast as they could.

  “How far to the marina?” asked Lucy, as they ran down the street.

  “Eight or nine blocks. Can you make it?”

  Lucy didn’t know, but she was sure going to try. She pounded along the sidewalk, attracting stares, as she followed Lance’s lead. It was a little too late to realize it, but she should never have given up jogging. Now she was out of breath and had a stitch in her side and she’d only gone two blocks. One thing Lucy did remember from her jogging days was that if you didn’t give up, eventually your body cooperated and it got easier. So instead of collapsing and throwing herself on the ground to catch her breath, she concentrated on making it to the marina without losing sight of Lance. She followed as he pounded past the ferry terminal and made his way along the waterfront, where chain-link fencing and corrugated metal walls barred access to the piers that extended like fingers into the East River. He finally stopped at a gate with a forbidding AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY sign. G
eoff was waiting on the other side.

  “I was just about to give up on you guys,” he said, opening the gate for them. Dressed in his yellow Grunden fishing pants, he looked just as he had at home in Tinker’s Cove where he operated a lobster boat every summer. He led them through a grubby parking area filled with official New York City vehicles to the dock, and Lucy was amazed to see an assortment of small boats bobbing in the water right in the shadow of the big skyscrapers.

  “What is this place?” she asked between raspy breaths. Her heart was pounding and she felt as if it was ninety degrees instead of thirty-five.

  “It’s one of those odd bits that belongs to the city,” explained Geoff, leading the way to a rather dilapidated dock. “I got permission to use it because my project is partly funded by the parks department.”

  The three hopped aboard Geoff’s boat, Downeast Girl. Lucy was dismayed to discover the cabin was really only a cramped cubby, equipped with a basic toilet and two small bunks filled with an amazing clutter of buckets, rope, books, and cases she assumed contained scientific instruments. They would be making the crossing to Governors Island in what was essentially an open boat.

  Geoff quickly got the engine going while Lance untied the lines, but it was already starting to get dark by the time they pulled away from the dock. Lucy sat on the molded fiberglass bench, wrapping her arms around herself and trying not to shiver too violently, lest she upset the boat. It would be bitterly cold out on the water; a sharp breeze was already cutting right through her layers of clothing, now topped by a life jacket. Not that it would be much help if she was unlucky enough to tumble into the water. She’d be dead of hypothermia long before anyone could rescue her.

  “Geoff,” she began. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is too risky.”

  “There’s risks, and then there’s risks,” he said with a shrug, neatly steering the boat around the end of the dock and heading for open water. “Nadine’s dead, Elizabeth had a close call, and now they’re threatening Norah.”