Skin of the Wolf

by Sam Cabot

  “I wasn’t,” said Livia. “There would be only two reasons to do that. One, to sell it twice. But though the Native art market has grown, it’s still a small world. You wouldn’t get away with a double sale of an item this unique and you certainly know that. The other reason would be to rake in your seven million dollars but still be able to enjoy the work yourself. I can’t help noticing, though, that your walls and shelves are pretty empty. For a man who’s supposed to be a major collector, there’s not much collection here.”

  Livia caught Thomas’s eye as she said that. He nodded; he’d noticed, too, then. She glanced at Bradford Lane. He didn’t catch her eye. Or Thomas’s. Or, she realized, anyone’s, anymore.

  “No,” Lane said, his voice dispirited. “Very little is left. As I’m sure you’ve discerned by now, I’m nearly blind. Another of the disasters of age.” He paused. “Whatever you say about the value of the Ohtahyohnee, I bought it for its beauty and I made time to admire it, and my other pieces, every day of my life. Until I was unable to see them any longer. After that, what was the point? I began selling things off. The Ohtahyohnee is among the last to go.”

  “I’m sorry. It must be hard.”

  “Oh, spare me the pity. I had a good run. I was whole until I was eighty-eight. How many people can say that? Frankly, the power of that Ohtahyohnee’s so tremendous I might still be holding on to it if we hadn’t had a fire in the house last year. Nothing was damaged, but it was a wake-up call. Fire’s every collector’s worst nightmare. You balance the risk of calamity against the joy of living with beauty. Then a lamp cord shorts and your house is burning and you realize all that beauty could have been destroyed, and you? You haven’t seen any of it for years anyway. I called Estelle the next morning.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Livia said again. “Not pity, just a statement of fact.”

  “Yes, well, in that case, thank you. Now you’d better leave. Hilda will be here any minute to tell you I’m tired. I’m not. But I told her half an hour with you would be enough. I think it has been. Based on what you said, I’m likely to be dealing with Estelle and probably the police starting any minute now and after that I will be tired.”

  “Mr. Lane, there’s one more thing.”

  “Does there have to be?”

  “I’m afraid so. As I said, I think whoever killed Estelle’s assistant was interested in your Ohtahyohnee. It’s possible he decided it’s not the authentic one, which would be why he left it behind. If so, he might come looking for the real one.”

  “He might come here, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “And kill me, too, when he doesn’t find it?”

  “That’s what I’m worried about, yes.”

  Bradford Lane laughed. “He’s welcome to it! First, I find your reasoning faulty, but let’s say I accept it so we don’t prolong this conversation. In that case: second, I’m a rich old blind man living alone with a housekeeper. It’s possible someone might get onto the grounds but this house is protected like Fort Knox.”

  “We got in.”

  “If Hilda hadn’t liked your looks through the security camera you wouldn’t have. She’s an excellent judge of character. With, by the way, a pistol permit. And a pistol. And third, I’m an old blind man who finds being rich less and less of a comfort. I’m arthritic, I have gout, I take nine pills a day. If I had the stones I’d kill myself but I’m a coward and Hilda won’t tell me where she keeps the gun. She’s very devout, you see. Makes a novena every day, or whatever the hell it is she does, and she thinks suicide is a sin. Ask me, mine would be a gift not just to myself, but to the world.”

  “Sir—”

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Father. I’ve heard the arguments and they’re all bunk. If this killer does get in, if he won’t believe there’s no other mask and if he gets angry enough about it to kill me, then bravo. And Hilda will shoot him, and bravo to her, too. Now, please leave. I’d like to sit here for a while and remember what it was like when the Ohtahyohnee hung on that wall. The moisture in here was good for the wood. Right there, it was. Now I can’t even see the wall anymore. Dammit. It’s a beautiful piece.”

  “Yes,” Livia said. “It is. Thank you for speaking with us.”

  Unexpectedly, Lane smiled. “I can’t say it was a pleasure, but it was interesting. I was never much for small talk, but this house can get to feeling like a desert island. I hope they find whoever killed that girl.”

  Livia looked at Thomas, then said, “Mr. Lane, will you do something for me?”

  “Why would I?”

  “I’m not sure. But if someone whose looks Hilda doesn’t like tries to come see you, will you let me know?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. If you think it will help catch this fellow.”

  “That’s exactly what I think. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Leave your number with Hilda. Goodbye. Oh, and Father Kelly?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If you’re really interested in Ravenelle, there was a priest who came to talk to me about him and the Ohtahyohnee maybe four years ago. That’s why I called you an audacious crowd. Because I didn’t invite him, and he didn’t call, he just showed up one day. I let him in because he was a man of the cloth and Hilda said she’d shoot me if I was rude to him. I regret now that I didn’t take her up on it but four years ago I wasn’t prepared to die. Since he seemed to know so much about the whole business already I swore him to secrecy—which I assumed would be all I’d need, based on his collar—and we sat in this room and admired the Ohtahyohnee.”

  “If I may, sir, why the secrecy?” Thomas asked.

  “Because by the time he came the Indian market had heated up. I knew two things: one, the Ohtahyohnee would create a sensation at auction; and two, given the progress of my eye disease—progress, how’s that for an oxymoron?—I didn’t have much more time with it. I wanted to be left alone as long as possible. It turned out I had almost four more years, which surprised even me. This priest and I discussed the Ohtahyohnee’s history, which he knew as well as I, and I allowed him to photograph it. All of which I’d bet Dr. Pietro already knows, since now that I think of it, if Estelle didn’t give her my name, he must have. Proving you can’t trust anyone, not even a priest who’s been sworn to secrecy.”

  “You’d lose that bet,” said Livia. “It wasn’t Estelle and it wasn’t a priest.”

  “Yes, that’s right, it was a guessing game. Which I don’t have the patience to play with you. So: he saw the Ohtahyohnee and took his photos, but he really came here to talk about Ravenelle. I couldn’t help him—he already knew more about Ravenelle than I did. You might ask him.”

  “I’ll do that,” Thomas said. “Do you know where I can find him? Do you remember his name?”

  “My memory’s the one thing that hasn’t faded. I’m pretty certain I’d be happier if it did, but you don’t get to pick and choose. He’s at Fordham, at least he was then. A Father Maxwell. Gerald Maxwell.”

  32

  Shit, you look perky,” Framingham said as Charlotte dumped her backpack on her squad room desk.

  “Only you would use those words together and mean something good,” Charlotte said. “Didn’t you go home?”

  “Do I look that bad? I slept here, a couple of hours.”

  “Then you need more peaceful dreams.”

  “Like you had?” He snuck a grin across the room to Ostrander and Sun. “One of those nights, huh?”

  Charlotte felt her cheeks flare. “Oh, screw you, Matt. You guys, too. Do we have forensics?”

  “We have doughnuts,” Ostrander said.

  “And coffee,” Framingham said. “Bet you could use some.”

  “Keep on like that and I’ll make you try to say my real name.”

  “Why, would that turn me into a bat?”

  “Why not?” said Ostrander. “She’s already a
fox.”

  “And you, Matt, are already an ass. Enough, you guys.”

  Charlotte’s tone must have gotten through to them. It usually did. Ostrander shut up and Framingham went hastily on, “Actually, we do have the ME’s preliminary report. They’re still saying a serrated bone weapon. They’re hoping we find some jaw thing, that the killer could’ve snapped shut on her throat.”

  “The jawbone of an ass. I’m looking at one right now.” Charlotte blew the dust out of a coffee mug. “Matt, the only Indian jaw things I’ve ever seen are masks from the Northwest tribes and they’re made of wood.”

  “Meaning no disrespect, oh wise one”—Framingham put his hands together and bowed—“but is it possible you don’t know everything about every Indian thing? Maybe there’s some secret ritual object you haven’t heard of.”

  “‘Secret ritual object,’ right. I know, it’s a land shark. And it flew across Seventy-first Street. Can land sharks fly?”

  “Give me a hard time, I won’t tell you what we do have.”

  “You’d better tell me, I outrank you. We have something?”

  Framingham lifted a sheet of paper. “Sotheby’s visitors’ log from yesterday. Late in the day, after Pietro and Cochran left—we met them last night—”

  “I remember.”

  “Of course you do. After them, someone else came to see Dr. Warner.”

  Charlotte inspected the paper. “Michael Bonnard? What about him? He left twenty minutes later. Did he know the vic?”

  “Nothing says he did, no.”

  “So?”

  “Dr. Warner had meetings all day, you can see that, but with collectors and art people.”

  “How do you know who they were?”

  “I got bored sitting around waiting for you, so I called her and we ran down the list. Had to be done sooner or later.”

  “She was there this early?”

  “Are you kidding? She was there all night. Show must go on and all that. So this is the part you won’t like, but it’s where the captain pats himself on the back for putting you on the case.”

  “Oh, Christ, Matt, seriously? Bonnard’s an Indian?”

  “Correcto.”

  “Did he bring a secret ritual bone thing with him?”

  “If he did Warner didn’t tell me about it.”

  “Maybe she’s in on it. With the FBI and the CIA.”

  “And the land shark. The only thing Bonnard wanted to see was that big wolf mask. He saw it, said it was beautiful, and went away.”

  A tingle Charlotte recognized came and went at the mention of the mask. “So?”

  “So you know we have to talk to him.”

  “We have to talk to all of them.” Charlotte tapped the visitors’ log.

  “No, Ostrander and Sun have to talk to most of them. You, and therefore I, have to talk to the Indian.”

  Charlotte sighed and picked up a doughnut.

  “But luckily for us, there was something interesting about him.”

  “Says who?”

  “Dr. Warner. Bonnard’s not an art guy, which would be one reason to go see the mask, but as far as she knows he’s not a muckety-muck in the tribe, either.”

  “You know that’s an Indian word?”

  “Tribe?”

  “Muckety-muck. Comes from Chinook, hayo makamak. Means ‘plenty to eat.’”

  “Loosely translated as ‘Ostrander brought doughnuts.’ Bonnard’s a microbiologist. She doesn’t know what his interest is. He didn’t seem to have a chip on his shoulder like you, he didn’t say anything about wanting the thing back—in fact she said he seemed disappointed.”

  “In a seven-million-dollar mask?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “And so what, he came back later, flew across the street, and killed Brittany Williams because he didn’t like the art?”

  “Who knows? But he’s not answering his home phone.”

  “Oh. Slightly more interesting. Where does he work?”

  “He’s a researcher at Rockefeller U.” Ostrander, a gray-haired man with a gray mustache, got up with his empty mug and crossed to the coffee machine. “Kind of a rising star, from what I hear. Labs are open twenty-four hours, but the office opens at eight. I just got off the phone with them. Receptionist says he called in sick.”

  “That a fact? He have a cell phone?”

  “Sure does,” Framingham said. “You don’t want to call him, you want to ping the phone and find him, right?”

  “Right. Indian or whatever, guy doesn’t answer his phone, doesn’t go to work, that’s enough for me. Wonder how fast we can get a subpoena for the cell.”

  Framingham slapped his desk. “Oh, I am good like that!” He waved a sheet of paper in the air. “I got the wheels in motion after I couldn’t get him at home. Came through just before you walked in the door.”

  “That was fast.”

  “Upstairs wants this cleared up fast,” said Ostrander, perching on the edge of Charlotte’s desk. “In case you were wondering, they also want it to be a personal crime and not a political one.”

  “And yet they’re sending an Indian after an Indian. Dangerous, opening that can of worms,” said Charlotte. “Might end up having to give the whole island back. But this time I think they’re in luck. Ask me, we’ll do a lot better chasing the cowboys than the Indians. Unless this Bonnard happens to be both. Steve, you got anything yet?”

  From across the room Steve Sun said, “Not a thing. I dumped her phone and went through her work computer and her iPad. Lots of texts, mostly bitching with her girlfriends about guys or sexting with those same guys. This Bonnard doesn’t turn up, not his number, not his e-mail.”

  “The name Michael? Mike?” Charlotte thought for a moment. “Chief?”

  Framingham laughed. Charlotte threw him a scowl.

  “I tried those. Including ‘Chief.’” Sun smirked at Framingham. “And other things, like ‘Crazy Horse.’ Nada. If she knew him, she wasn’t talking about him. Or to him.”

  “Anyone you think we should look at?”

  “Not really. She dumped a guy a month ago but he went to Gstaad to cure his broken heart. I called. He’s still there. Pissed that the local cops kept him off the slopes for an hour checking him out.”

  “How too bad. Okay, those other guys, get on them. And the girlfriends she was bitching to.” Charlotte turned to Ostrander. “Parents here yet?”

  “In a couple of hours. Steve and I’ll get them at JFK.”

  “Good. Ask them about Bonnard. See if they can narrow down the boyfriend list to guys she might have had a problem with.”

  “What else? Don’t give me the stink-eye, I can see something’s bothering you.”

  “The mask,” Charlotte admitted. “I don’t know what it has to do with anything, but . . . Vinnie, you and Steve go talk to the owner. See who his enemies are. See if he has anything to say about the rumors the thing’s a fake. And put a surveillance team on him. From a distance. He lives in one of those mansions in Riverdale. Don’t let them park a unit in front of the place, for God’s sake.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want anyone to see them!”

  “Not why that. Why are they there?”

  “If the mask’s a fake, and the killer knows it, he may go looking for the real one.”

  “So you do think this is about the mask.”

  “No. I think it’s about sex. And maybe drugs and rock ’n’ roll. But that mask . . . just do it, Vinnie, okay?”

  Framingham, behind his desk, waved two papers in the air: the subpoena and the visitors’ log.

  “Well, Matt, goddammit,” Charlotte said. “What are you waiting for? Get the ping going.”

  “I needed orders. You outrank me.”

  While they waited, Charlotte Googled Mich
ael Bonnard. She didn’t learn much. The only hits were on the Rockefeller website, where he had an impressive but impersonal résumé. He was good-looking, in a serious-scientist way. His research had to do with smallpox. Jesus, an Indian working on smallpox. What was he thinking, he’d cure it retroactively and bring everybody back? Apparently he was from “upstate New York.” Where? she wondered. Lots of reservations upstate. Assuming he was from a rez at all, which maybe he wasn’t.

  Now, Tahkwehso last night—even before he told her he was from Akwesasne, she knew he was a reservation Indian. Tahkwehso, that was a Mohawk name, and if he had white ones, first or last, she didn’t know them. That was Charlotte’s way when she picked a guy up, Indian or not. The less you knew that first time, the better. The mystery made everything more exciting, and if the night turned out to be a mistake you could wipe it away more easily. If it was good and you wanted more, there’d be plenty of time to learn lots of things.

  Her own Indian name was the same. Charlotte’s Lenape name was Keewayhakeequayoo, Returns to Her Homeland. Uncle James chose it for her. Every time you say your name, you’ll be reminded, he told her when she was small. Maybe; but she didn’t say it very much. She didn’t give it to many people, not even many Indians—God knows she’d never told Framingham—but something about Tahkwehso, some electrical charge, made her want him to have it and she’d told him before he asked. He’d whispered it, over and over, and his hands traveled her body, seeming to know at every moment what she wanted, and then moving beyond that, offering what she’d never known before. And that electricity, that feeling of a circuit completed: even after, when he was asleep and she was lying beside him, it didn’t end. Here in the squad room, she still felt it.

  She wondered if he was going to call her. Sometimes, when it was magical, those were the guys who didn’t call, like they were worried it would never be that good again. And the kind of magical it was last night—

  “Got it!” Framingham clicked his keyboard. “He’s in the Bronx. Near West Farms Square. Let’s go before we lose him.”