Chapter Forty-eight
My Pittsburgh life began winding down. My Streetdreamer blogs got more confident. At the same time, now that it really did look like Wall-Street-here-I-come, I started having mixed feelings about it. I didn’t understand them. Mendoza did.
“You helped a client, chica! You solved a problem! Gonna be a long time before you do that in New York. Associates in New York don’t help clients, they help partners. That warm glow you got all over your body when you realized you’d saved your dad’s business—you’re gonna miss that, and the Metropolitan Opera won’t make up for it.”
“Are you saying I should think about staying in Pittsburgh?”
“No way, girl. You gotta get New York outta your system. You’ll probably want to bail after three months, but don’t do it. There is no one, no matter how smart she is, who can’t learn something from an outfit like Calder & Bull. Give yourself a timeframe. Minimum two years, maximum four. Somewhere in that window, sit down and make a stay/go decision. Just don’t stay there by default. New York is full of people who were going to be there five years and then move on to someplace sane but now they’re fifty and it’s too late. Don’t be those people.”
Made sense to me.
In mid-April, just after he’d filed his tax return, Vince proposed to Lainie. They set the date for mid-August.
In early May UPS delivered a small, brown package addressed to me at Vince’s house. No return address, but I recognized Paul’s handwriting on the label. I hadn’t heard from him since the EMTs pulled him onto the gurney at the museum. I wondered whether I should soak the thing in cold water before opening it, but then I shrugged that off and just attacked the packing tape and cardboard with a butcher knife.
Inside I found a Lucite cube encasing the engagement ring that some ER surgeon had dug out of Paul’s butt. Also a note saying it was all his fault, I was right, he was wrong, he’d been weak, he was sorry, and he’d always remember me.
The note was typewritten. Including the signature.
In late May I signed a lease on a generic apartment in an ice-cube tray building on the upper west side of Manhattan. Twenty-minute rush hour subway ride from Calder & Bull, and from spring through fall I could walk it in less than forty minutes if I wanted to. Occupancy September 1st, which would be tight, but I’d just have to find a way to make that work. I put this latest development on Streetdreamer.
That entry caught a comment that grabbed my attention: “Just remember, Streetdreamer, the only dangerous dreams are the ones that come true.” The comment included a link. When I clicked on it, my screen filled with a brief story from the New York Times:
Joseph Reynolds, until recently a partner in the litigation department at Calder & Bull, a prominent New York law firm, was found dead in his upper east-side apartment yesterday, the result of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound. Mr. Reynolds had left the firm a few weeks ago as part of a general thinning of partnership ranks that The American Lawyer has referred to as “a bloodbath.” According to his wife, Jillian Welch, he had pursued various employment opportunities but had been unable to secure another position. He is survived by Ms. Welch and three children.
I made myself read it three times. Then I swallowed hard and went back to the list of things to do to prepare for my move to New York.
The note I got in early June was not typewritten. It was handwritten, with penmanship as perfect as any nun’s. I opened the envelope to find engraved stationery, with “Ariane Bradshaw” embossed in black on cream paper, and the message in navy blue ink from a fountain pen:
Dear Ms. Jakubek,
I write first of all to thank you for the help and support which you provided to Caitlin on both a personal and a professional level in the aftermath of her father’s tragic death last fall. Your empathy and commitment meant a great deal to her, and to me.
In addition, there is a matter that I hope to speak with you about in the near future. I wonder if you would find it convenient to visit me at our home this Saturday afternoon at two? In hope of a favorable reply I remain,
Very truly yours,
Ariane Bradshaw
Well isn’t that interesting? A murderer with impeccable manners. Or not, to be fair. Learned gave Ariane an alibi for the night of Thomas Bradshaw’s murder if he’d been telling the truth, and even if he was lying odds were that Sommers had killed Bradshaw and there was a gun-angle that I just hadn’t figured out yet.
Anyhow, it didn’t really matter whether the real killer was Ariane or Sommers or even Learned. It wouldn’t make any sense for Ariane to kill me in her own home, so this meeting figured to be some kind of closure deal. Maybe even with a little monetary thank-you that I’d scrupulously turn over to Mendoza. Whatever. No way I was passing this up.
I called to accept the invitation, and sent her a confirming note. I didn’t even have to check Emily Post to make sure that was the way to do it. I also made sure Mendoza knew where I’d be. I didn’t have to check Emily Post for that, either.
After giving the matter a little thought, I went online to retrieve the official return the State Police had filed after their search of Bradshaw’s house. Just pray that you never have to read one. Twenty-three hand-scrawled pages of mind-numbing cop-speak. The fourth line-item on the eleventh page rewarded my diligence: “Federal Tax Return, 2009 w/‘FAFSA Worksheet.’” I happened to know what a FAFSA Worksheet was. FAFSA Worksheets had played a very important role in my life for seven years. They help you compute how much financial aid you can expect for college and post-graduate education, given your assets and annual income.
I didn’t have access online to the actual worksheet found in the Bradshaw mansion, but I didn’t need to look at it. The return told me that someone in the Bradshaw home had prepared one—and personal experience told me that with assets and income based on Ariane Bradshaw’s prenup, the financial aid number was 0.
Chapter Forty-nine
I rang the bell on the Bradshaw front door promptly at two that Saturday. Ariane Bradshaw answered the door herself, wearing roughly what she would have for a state dinner at the White House. I doubted that was for my benefit, so I figured she had plans for later on.
“It’s very good of you to come. Thank you so much.”
“I’m delighted to be here. Thank you for inviting me.”
Since her husband’s death she’d put the first-floor great room through a world class makeover. An abstract piece had replaced the English fox hunting scene over the fireplace. A black, enameled escritoire with lots of pigeonholes and French curlicues stood where the maple writing table had been. She’d had the white walls repainted to feature alternating red and blue vertical stripes about two feet wide, set off with gold trim. She led me over to a conversation corner featuring a chintz armchair and sofa with rose petal upholstery—another new touch. A sterling silver tea service dominated the coffee table. I’m not huge on hot tea, but when she offered me some I said it would be wonderful. It seemed like the polite thing to do.
“I understand you’re moving to New York soon.” She served me and sat down with her own delicate cup.
“Yes. I have a job with a firm there named Calder & Bull.” I realized later that I should have said “I’ve accepted a position” instead of “I have a job,” but, hey, I’m new at this.
“Well we’ll hate to see you leave Pittsburgh but it sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”
‘Thank you.”
“The news about Walt Learned came as a terrible shock.” She sipped some tea. “I know it must have been an awful trial for you. I hope you’ve been able to put it all behind you.”
“I’ve moved on.” I lapsed into cliché because the topic took me by surprise. “Mr. Learned was fascinating, but I never felt like I really got to know him.”
“I thought that I did know him, but perhaps I was just fooli
ng myself. No matter what the police think, though, I just can’t bring myself to believe that Walt killed Tom.”
“I can certainly understand your reservations.”
As soon as these words were out of my mouth I realized that they might sound a little snarky if Ariane were the murderer. She didn’t twitch a muscle. She put her cup down in its saucer, bent over, and pulled a dark brown wooden case from underneath the table. The thing had to be two-and-a-half feet long, and she needed some muscle to lift it up to the coffee table. We were now officially off-script.
“A lawyer in Delaware sent me this. It arrived about a week ago. Her cover letter said she was Walt’s lawyer and his instructions were to get it to you through me, if possible, should anything happen to him. He wanted you to have it.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.” I hoped she could hear these serene words over the alarm bells going off in my head. “Did her note explain why she didn’t send it directly to me?”
“Not really. She said that Mr. Learned thought it best not to suggest any association between himself and you.”
I came within an electron of slopping hot tea all over my lap. Learned was trying to avoid attracting attention to me. The people whose attention he didn’t want to attract already knew he’d been joined at the hip with the Bradshaws, though, so one more contact with Ariane wouldn’t make any difference.
I opened the case. Lying inside on a custom-cut cushion covered with red satin were two flintlock pistols and the array of loading and cleaning apparatus that each required. They weren’t antiques. They were replicas, like the one I’d fired at Cumonow’s. Locks, stocks, and barrels had the gloss and shine of a professional buffer, not the patina of a couple of centuries. Plus, there were grains of black powder near the powder horn for the upper gun, and they looked like the kind of thing someone would have noticed if they’d been around for two hundred years or so.
The pistol on top had its barrel pointing to my left, with the one on the bottom pointing to my right. The barrels looked like they were eight or nine inches long. The lock and the grip on each added another four inches or so of horizontal length. I was looking at a replica set of matched dueling pistols.
I closed the lid and made eye contact with Ariane.
“I have no idea what I did to make Mr. Learned feel he should favor me with such a striking gift, but I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your inviting me over to provide it to me.”
“My pleasure. I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you regale dinner guests with the story behind these guns.”
“Thank you.” Associates at Calder & Bull don’t have time to arrange many dinner parties, but why kill the buzz?
“I have to run to a planning meeting for a charity I’m involved with called SHIP,” Ariane said. “Stop Hunger in Pittsburgh. If you have a few more minutes, though, I know Caitlin would like to say hello. She’s down in the basement. The stairs are just off the kitchen.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. Thank you again for your hospitality.”
We rose and exchanged damp handshakes. I picked up the gun case and followed Ariane to the kitchen area. She went out the back door and let me make my own way down the stairs.
I found Caitlin sitting in a brightly lit corner in the finished, uncluttered basement. She sat at a makeshift desk formed by putting burlap-covered plywood across a couple of two-drawer filing cabinets. She rocked minimally back and forth, presumably in time to the beat of whatever was pounding through the iPod buds in her ears. And she was managing to tweet with both thumbs while gripping a cigarette between the first two fingers of her left hand.
“Hi, Caitlin.” I sketched a little wave with my free hand.
“Oh, hi.” She glanced over at me wide-eyed, as if my appearance were a complete surprise. “Give me just a sec.”
She finished whatever she’d been tweeting and put her phone down. She pulled the buds from her ears. One last puff on the cigarette and a languorous exhalation before she put the thing out in an ashtray.
“Mom has quit smoking again.” Caitlin made this comment in the kind of exasperated tone that teenagers use to describe idiotically inconvenient parental behavior. “I come down here because I feel a little funny now smoking in front of her.”
“Whatever works. Your mom said you wanted to talk.”
“Sure. Thanks for sending those papers back, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you happen to keep any copies?”
“Nope. The case is closed. Paper takes up space—and space costs money.”
She nodded at the case under my arm. “Is that the thing Mom wanted to give you?”
“Mm hmm.” I set it on the desk and opened it so that she could examine the pistols.
“Are these like the one you shot at the museum?”
“They’re the same basic type of weapon. Flintlock pistol. But these are dueling pistols. The one at the museum was a cavalry gun.”
“Do you mind if I pick one up?”
“Go ahead.”
What, you’re thinking that was the bonehead move of all time? Classic dumb brunette contriving to get herself in mortal peril through sheer stupidity? Come on. What was Caitlin going to do? Shoot her own lawyer in her own basement to protect her mother and then claim self-defense? That wouldn’t be the most obvious move for someone who was planning anything. And if she weren’t planning something, I didn’t have much to worry about, did I? Besides, I had an agenda of my own.
Caitlin picked up the top gun, lifted it, and raised and lowered her hand a couple of times to get a feel for its weight.
“It’s pretty heavy. Do you know how to load it?”
“The first thing you need is powder, which would be in that bulb thing there.”
Exhibit B in the Caitlin-isn’t-planning-anything file. If she were, at least one of the pistols would already be loaded.
Caitlin picked up the powder horn and in no time at all measured out two pinches and poured the powder down the barrel. She seemed quite pleased with herself.
“Nothing to it. I’ll bet I can figure the next part out all by myself.”
The case held six balls for each pistol. Big things—fifty caliber. Caitlin picked one of them up and dropped it down the muzzle. It made a little metallic rattle on the way down, with a barely perceptible pock as it hit the powder base. She pulled the ramrod from its holder under the barrel and thrust it down the muzzle. She didn’t overdo it. Two measured pushes. She cocked the hammer first—full cock, in one motion, using the heel of her left hand. Then she deftly sprinkled a tiny mound of powder on the flash-plate.
Up to this point I’d felt completely confident that I could take her, if it came to that. Suddenly I felt dumb and a little scared.
“I wouldn’t fire that in here,” I said.
“No one is asking you to.”
I decided I’d punch her in the throat if she turned on me. At close quarters, the gun would actually get in her way. I could block the thing with my left arm and jab short and hard with my right fist, just the way I’d learned to do it on the playground. I clenched my fist until my fingernails dug into my palm.
She didn’t turn on me. With a nod she directed my attention across the room. One of her V-neck letter sweaters was draped over the back of a chair a good twenty feet away, hanging in a way that emphasized the blue and gold chenille D on the front.
Caitlin brought the pistol straight up in the air, then slowly leveled her right arm. She seemed not to be breathing at all, standing there with perfect poise, as close to motionless as a living human being can get. I was looking at the kind of natural athlete that I’d never be, someone with a fluid and effortless sense of her own physicality.
As if in slow motion I felt that I could see her finger squeezing the trigger, see the hammer
falling toward the plate, see the spark as it struck the powder. The Boom! from the gun didn’t make me jump. I was used to that sound by now. Thick blue smoke fogged the air, but not thick enough to keep me from seeing an ugly, jagged hole marring the middle of the D.
“Nice shot.”
“Thanks.” She handed the pistol back to me, butt first.
“I don’t think this is the first time you’ve ever fired a weapon like this.”
“Maybe I’m just a natural.”
“Anything is possible.” I put the gun carefully back into the case. “Feel like a snack before I leave? I’ll spring for lobster salad if you’re up for it.”
“Huh? Where did that come from?”
Pretty good, Princess, but not quite good enough. The “Huh” came a beat too slow, your eyes got wide, and the tops of your ears are crimson all of a sudden.
“Someone brought lobster salad to your father just before he was shot. Not the kind of thing you could pick up at McDonald’s. I’ve had it on my mind.”
“Oh.” Caitlin had recovered completely. The crimson was all gone and her voice was normal. “I don’t really care for it myself. Any other questions?”
“Questions wouldn’t be a very good idea right now. There’s a powerful subconscious urge to confess. Learned was counting on that when he sent me functional dueling pistols with everything necessary to fire them. You tried to confess to me once and I blew you off. If I ask questions now you might answer them—and that could get awkward.”
“But then, you’re my lawyer, aren’t you?”
“Interesting issue. I frankly don’t know offhand how much of this is privileged, Caitlin. I’d have to research that, and I don’t do legal research for free.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“In Scotland, a jury has a choice of three verdicts instead of just two: guilty, not guilty, and not proven. Scots lawyers say that ‘not proven’ means ‘not guilty—but don’t do it again.’”
“That’s neat,” Caitlin said. “Law is, like, really interesting, isn’t it?”
But Remember Their Names Page 28
