“What did you do with those?”
“I’ve got them packed to take with me to the Vineyard tonight. I was planning to write to each of her friends and tell them about her death. See who that brings out of the woodwork.”
“Val’s waiting at my apartment. I told her we’d pick her up after we get Nina.”
“Nina’s at my place. I have to run up and throw some things in a suitcase. The traffic leaving the city on a holiday weekend is going to be a nightmare. You sure you don’t want us to grab a taxi to the airport?”
“And miss the chance to be with the three of you?”
It was after five o’clock as we pulled up to the front of my building. Unlike most Manhattan apartments, mine had a driveway off the side street, where cars could actually park and wait. Mike stayed there while I went upstairs, changed into jeans and a sweater, and filled a canvas-sail bag with some casual clothes and my folder of case reports. Nina was on the phone with her office in Los Angeles and motioned with her hand that she was winding up the conversation.
“Great,” she finally said, turning to me. “Just getting confirmation on the plane. Quentin’s spending the weekend in Sag Harbor. He wants to fly back to the coast early Monday morning. It’s all ours till then.”
The UniQuest jet was sitting on the tarmac at Teterboro, a small field for private aviation in northern New Jersey. “Wheels up?”
“The pilot’s ready for us.” Her suitcase was next to the front door. “It’s so bizarre to be running off for a weekend without a husband and kid. Like old times, huh?”
We were inseparable during our years at Wellesley. And like the great friend that she had been, Nina continued to include me in her travels even after her marriage to Jerry and the birth of their son, Gabe, four years ago.
Mike opened the trunk for our bags, and we drove a few blocks downtown to pick up Valerie Jacobsen, the thirty-two-year-old architect whom he had been dating since the previous summer.
He double-parked and went upstairs to his studio apartment on the fifth floor so Val wouldn’t have to carry the suitcase down. When Mike met her, Val had been recovering from a mastectomy and an aggressive course of chemotherapy to combat breast cancer. She had rebuilt her strength over the winter months and was much stronger than when she and I had originally met, during the Christmas holidays.
I climbed into the backseat with Nina and did the introductions when Val reached the car. “You can’t imagine what a godsend this weekend is, Alex. I’ve been working around the clock on a proposal the firm is doing for a new baseball stadium. Mike’s idea of a long weekend is having me spend even more time at the office, while he covers homicide for all the guys who’ve got family graduations or weddings.”
“Have you ever been to Martha’s Vineyard before?” Nina asked.
“No. But I understand we’re in good hands. Best food, best view-”
“And thanks to Nina, best way to get there. What a luxury.”
One of the key virtues of the island was its remoteness from the rest of the world. Ferry reservations were essential at this time of year, and it was more than a four-hour drive from Manhattan to reach the terminus. Direct air service varied in its regularity from year to year, but rarely started before early June. It would have been almost impossible to plan a short stay like this one without the welltimed availability of the UniQuest plane.
We got to the airport shortly after seven o’clock. The four of us went inside to find the crew and have some coffee before we took off. By the time we were ready to board, Mike had found the television and had it primed toJeopardy! for the final question. “C’mon. I got one world-class architect and two shopping mavens. The category is ‘Furniture.’ I’ll be a good sport. Everyone in for twenty bucks?”
“Double or nothing. How often do I get to do this?” Nina asked.
“I must be crazy. I don’t have a shot.” Mike put his money on the counter while the receptionist tried to figure out what was going on.
Trebek read the answer as it dropped into place on the game board. “‘Pedestal-style circular table named for Moorish slave whose heroism gave Venetians the victory at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571.’ ”
I looked at Nina and laughed. “I’m clueless. You, too? How’d we get the one decorating question you couldn’t answer?”
Mike swept the jackpot off the table. “I’m heading right to Patroon for a great steak dinner. Anybody have second thoughts about the weekend? ‘What’s a gueridon?’-that’s your question, Mr. Trebek.”
“Of course. Like those little round bistro tables. How’d you know?” Nina asked.
“Never heard of the tables, but Gueridon was the name of the slave who helped the Christians defeat the Turks during Lepanto. One of the most famous warrior legends of the Middle Ages. Okay, ladies, now scat. I’ve got places to go, people to see.”
He helped us get our bags to the plane, gave us each a hug, and watched as the copilot pulled the staircase up into the plane and locked the door.
The sky was clear and, looking down, you could trace the path of the flight by the lighted towns and villages that stretched out east of New York City. The three of us gabbed the entire way, cruising into the landing strip and coming to a stop directly in front of the new terminal before the hour was out.
My caretaker had opened the house for the weekend and had left my twenty-year-old Jeep Cherokee in the parking lot. It was too dark to show Val any of the lush spring scenery on the twenty-minute ride up-island to my farmhouse in Chilmark. There was a wonderful crisp chill in the air as we stepped out of the car on my hilltop and looked up at the blanket of stars covering the sky. I was immediately calmed-as always-by coming home to this peaceful haven.
“Anybody else hungry?” Nina asked. “C’mon, Val. Let’s pick our rooms. We’re upstairs.”
I dropped my bag in the master bedroom, with its wide vista out over the water, which was shimmering in the moonlight. The answering machine light was blinking, and I played back the message, which was Jake calling from somewhere high above the Pacific Ocean. I’d have to wait until tomorrow to speak with him.
In the kitchen, I unpacked the sandwiches and put out dinner plates. I breathed in the rich smell of the lilacs that my caretaker’s wife had clipped and placed in the living room. The pale lavender and white trees surrounded the front door of the house, filling the air with that unique scent for just these last weeks of May.
Nina was the first to come back downstairs. “Not a trace of Gabe. What did you do with all his toys?”
Nina and her son, my godchild, had spent ten days with me the previous July. I adored the opportunity to spoil him, loading up on toy trucks and trains, building blocks and books of all sorts, and dozens of beach toys. “Stashed away till this summer. Coming back, aren’t you?”
“I’m begging Quentin to give me some time off. Gabe says he’ll be here with you, whether or not I come.”
“Only thing you risk is that I keep him forever.”
Nina had her elbows on the counter, watching me pour the drinks. “Jerry’s ready for another one. Kid, I mean.”
“You told me that a year ago. I think it’s great.”
“Yeah, well, it just hasn’t happened. And if you like the idea so much, why don’t you start giving some thought to-”
I could hear Val’s footsteps on the staircase. “I’ll make you a deal. This weekend? No advice. I won’t spend any time telling you that you’re insane to put the kind of effort and intelligence into a job that pays you a bloody fortune but has absolutely no emotional rewards, no personal satisfaction. And you keep your mind out of my uterus, okay?”
I lifted my glass and clinked it against hers as Val joined us. “What a little piece of paradise this is. I may lose myself in that down comforter, with a stack of old books next to the bed. What time is reveille?”
“Any time you want. Tired now?”
“Yes. I’d prefer to make tonight an early one.”
Val soon heade
d upstairs to her room to read, Nina got on the phone to call home before Jerry put Gabe to sleep, and I sat down at my computer.
I opened the file that had the e-mails Bellinger had collected when Katrina Grooten’s computer had been dismantled at the beginning of January. There were nine from acquaintances in Europe, all wishing her a merry Christmas and a healthy New Year. None seemed to know her well enough to have been aware that her physical condition had been deteriorating for months. Several asked what she was doing at work, and wondered whether she would be traveling abroad in the months to come. Someone named Charles, writing from the cyber address of the museum in Toulouse, gave her the local staff gossip and ended by asking about her love life.
A few of the messages were administrative e-mails from the Metropolitan, in response to circulation of the memo that Katrina had resigned: “May I remind you to turn in your keys to the ladies’ room at the Cloisters?” “If you have any books outstanding from the Metropolitan Museum library system, will you please return them to the employees’ desk in the main building?” “Unless you complete all the necessary steps for clearance before separating from the organization, we will be unable to process any references for future employment.”
There was nothing to suggest that anyone suspected foul play at the time the young woman disappeared from the institution.
In the middle of the pile I came to the note I had been seeking. It was dated December 27 and signed with the single word I assumed to be the writer’s name: Clem.
I was beginning to worry about you until this morning, when I got back to London after a trip home and found your message. I’m glad you have decided to go back to South Africa. You can focus on regaining your strength. I’m still curious. Have you gotten into the vault since we last spoke? I visited the grave when I was at home. It made me happy to see that he could be at rest after all this time. We are doing a very fine thing.
Let me know as soon as you have a new e-mail address and contact information.
Clem.
Who washe? I wondered. What grave? Where? I went back up to the header and typed the screen name, hoping it would still be valid these five months later. [email protected].
I took the cursor down to the subject line and wrote Katrina’s name. Then I moved it to the body of the letter. Without any knowledge of the nature of their relationship, I could not imagine breaking the news to Clem that Katrina had been murdered in this first cold contact.
Instead, I introduced myself as an acquaintance of Katrina’s, said that I did not know when their last contact had been, and asked whether I might get a telephone number so we could speak about her. I signed my name, without identifying my professional position, and pressed the mouse to send the message across the ocean. I composed similar e-mails to the other correspondents before shutting off the computer and going to bed.
When I awakened at seven o’clock, Val was already outside on the lawn. She was sitting on the grass at the edge of the wildflower field, sketching the poppies and loosestrife that stood defiantly upright in the strong morning breeze, against the backdrop of Menemsha Pond.
“I’m going down the road to Primo’s, for coffee, blueberry muffins, andThe New York Times. Special requests?”
“Want company or shall I wait for Nina?”
“No mother of a four-year-old is going to miss the opportunity to sleep in on an unencumbered Saturday morning. We won’t see her for hours. Stay put. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
I made the short run to Beetlebung Corner, where the Chilmark Store was my lifeline for the season’s provisions. When I pulled up and saw Justin Feldman sitting on a rocker on the porch of the general store, relishing his daily coffee and bagel while he tried to pick out the regulars from the renters, I knew I was home.
“Who’s keeping the big city safe if you’re up here, Alex?”
“Haven’t you heard? Crime is down.” He was the smartest lawyer in town, frequently sought by corporate executives for complicated securities litigation. “I’ve got some friends up for the weekend. Want to stop by for cocktails before dinner tonight?”
He tapped his hand against the newspaper, which was folded in half to reveal the Metro page headline. “I’m going back this morning. Got a call in the middle of the night.” He pointed to the bold print, which I leaned over his shoulder to read. “Freak accident, but the Metropolitan’s a client, so I’ve got to go deal with it.”
I straightened up, bringing the paper with me:WORKER DIES IN PLUNGE FROM MUSEUM ROOF.
22
I sat in the Jeep and read the story again.
A twenty-eight-year-old maintenance worker, Pablo Bermudez, fell to his death from the museum roof while performing a routine inspection of the water tanks used in the large complex’s cooling system. Mr. Bermudez had done the same checks every Friday for the past two years, without incident. The reporter described the man’s death as “mysterious,” citing coworkers who had seen him half an hour before the accident but had lost sight of him when he climbed outside to complete his testing. What was it, a museum spokesman wondered, that could have caused him to lose his balance on this occasion?
At the bottom of the story was an architect’s rendering of the area involved. That part of the roof was flat, and enclosed by a parapet that was knee high and a foot wide. A museum guard who joined the search for Bermudez noticed his body lying on the ground a hundred feet below, at the bottom of an air shaft, in the narrow courtyard between the Chinese galleries and the wing housing the Temple of Dendur.
I raced home with containers of coffee for Val and me. “I’ve got to call Mike. Want me to bring the phone out when I’m done so you can say hello?”
She was shading the two-hundred-year-old stone wall that ringed the perimeter of my property in classic Vineyard fashion, and didn’t look up from her sketchpad when she spoke: “I called him earlier. He was already out working on something. I won’t bother him again till he’s finished for the day.”
I walked up to the house and dialed his cell phone number.
“Yeah?”
“You sound like you’re in the middle of something. Just saw the paper and wanted-”
“The jumper? The happily married maintenance worker with three kids, who the museum wants me to believe threw himself to his death ‘cause the water wasn’t quite as tepid as it should have been? Or that he suddenly developed a brain disorder that made him keel over and drop off the roof, only now his brain wentsplat all over the cement so we’ll never know quite what the disorder was? Yeah, I’m at the Met, why?”
“They’re reporting it as an accident, so I just wasn’t sure you’d have any reason to know.”
“I had just sliced into a sixteen-ounce New York strip with garlic mashed potatoes when the shit hit the fan. The Hells Angels and the Pagans were having a motorcycle prom at Roseland, which was interrupted by gunfire and resulted in one heavenly Angel making an early visit to Saint Peter. Then some yupster in Yorkville got pissed at his live-in for doing belly shots with another guy at their local watering hole, so he clubbed her over the head with a ten-pound weight from her Richard Simmons workout program when she came through the door, which only goes to prove my point that exercise can be a very dangerous thing. And then this.”
“Someone from the museum call you about Bermudez?”
“You’ve used up your quota of stupid questions for the day. Of course not. I’m sitting in the emergency room at Mount Sinai Hospital, waiting to talk to the distraught lover of the girl who died from the fractured skull he gave her when another bus pulls in with Bermudez. DOA.”
“The ambulance didn’t get him to the hospital till the middle of the night?”
“He was missing all afternoon, so they were scouring the museum for him. Mostly the basement, where he usually works. Finally, after dark-about nine o’clock-they’re back out on the roof when a guard has the good sense to shine his light over the edge, into the courtyard down below. Gets to this spot. Poor Bermud
ez had those orange neon strips on the trim of his work boots. The guy lit up like a pair of fireflies, only one leg was practically planted in the Chinese collection while the other one was in Egypt.”
“Any police involvement?”
“Yeah, it was Emergency Services that had to get into the tight space and pick up the pieces. It was their bus that brought him to the hospital, which is the only reason I had a clue something deadly had happened at the museum. Then your girlfriend showed up.”
“Who might that be?”
“Eve Drexler.”
“Of course. She’d be taking Thibodaux’s calls while he’s away.”
“Yeah, still in Washington. Eve came over to do damage control with Bermudez’s family, and with the media.”
“So what other kind of maintenance work did he do at the Met?”
“Jack-of-all-trades, like most of the guys in that department. And yes, if you’re curious about whether he moves pieces that are being shipped in and out of the museum, he certainly helps. I’m on the job, blondie. I told Eve we want all his employment records for the last year. Activity logs, time sheets, work orders. I’m waiting in her office to see what they can put in my hands today. We’ll talk to his coworkers and his buddies, see why he was doing a high-wire act without a safety net. Now get back to your company. There’s nothing for you to do here.”
I checked my e-mail to see whether Clem had responded to my message. There was no reply from him yet. I wondered what vault he was talking about, and whose grave site he had visited on his trip home. Three of the others had sent innocuous answers, wondering what my connection to Katrina was and why they hadn’t heard from her in so many months. I decided not to give out any details for another twenty-four hours. I didn’t want to take the chance that one of them might also be corresponding with Clem, and would alert him to my news of her death before I had a chance to explore what he meant about Katrina and the museum vault.
Now I was restless, almost sorry I had left the city. I walked off the deck and down the hillside to Val. “Can I tear you away from this vista? I can give you the Vineyard tour while Nina catches up on her sleep.”
The Bone Vault Page 20
