Max was silent for a moment. “Getting her tubes tied?”
“She’s sixty-three, Max. I don’t think that’s necessary anymore.”
“Boob job?”
“Don’t know.”
“Bikini wax? Brow lift? Chin implant?” she continued.
My response was loud enough to get the attention of a Time Warner Cable technician parked in his truck on the street. “I don’t know!” I yelled. “What difference does it make?” I looked at my watch. It was now almost forty-five minutes since I had dropped Bea off and I didn’t want to tie up my phone. I never had learned how to access call waiting on my cell. “Listen, I’ve got to go. She said that she would only be a half hour or so.”
“OK. I’ll let you know when I can go bed shopping.”
I wanted to remind her that she really needed to take her husband on that expedition but figured I wouldn’t get into it on the street. I changed the subject. “Hey, Max, if I needed to borrow, say, half a million dollars or so, could you lend it to me?” I asked, still convinced that I was going to end up with an apartment in Riviera Pointe, if only to save face.
She didn’t hesitate. “Sure. It would take me a day or so to get that kind of scratch together, but I could do it.”
She’s a bubblehead, but she’s always there in the clutch. I moved away from the bookstore, preparing to terminate the call.
“Hold on,” Max said. I heard the sound of a television in the background. Because she runs a cable television network, she’s the only person I know who’s allowed to watch TV all day long. She’s got three TVs in her office and often downloads programs to her phone, too. “Oh, that’s interesting,” she said, starting to chew again.
“What’s interesting?” I said. Focus, Max! I wanted to yell.
“Hmmm,” she said.
“I’ve gotta go, Max. If you’ve got something to tell me . . .”
She interrupted me. “They found a body at Riviera Pointe.”
Twenty
I ran down Seventy-seventh Street to the building where I had dropped off Bea. I scanned the names of the doctors on the outside of the building, trying to figure out where she was. There was one Dr. Patel, the proctologist; Dr. Singh, the gynecologist; Dr. Patel, again, the plastic surgeon; and, leaving our brothers to the east, Dr. Pelligrini, the acupuncturist. I had no blessed idea which one of those she would be seeing and paced nervously back and forth until she emerged a few minutes later, pulling her down coat tight around her despite the fact that it was in the fifties and unseasonably warm.
She was surprised to see me. “Alison! I thought I’d have to call you.” She hugged her purse close to her chest. “All finished.”
“Bea, do you mind if I drop you off?” She and I had discussed the possibility of having lunch after her appointment. “I just spoke with Max and she told me that a body has been found at Riviera Pointe. I want to get up there as soon as possible,” I said, as we started down the street together.
She hurried to keep up with me, her short legs working overtime. I cut my speed in half. “Do you think it’s your friend?” she asked solemnly.
I nodded. “I’m hoping not, but I can’t imagine who else it could be.” We crossed Park Avenue again, a street divided by a median. Bea’s short gait got us to the middle of the street but we had to wait for the light to change again. She was huffing and puffing after the brief jog we took and I asked her if she was feeling all right.
“I’m fine. Tell my nephew that.” She peered out from around me, pulling back just as a yellow cab went whizzing by. “There’s nothing wrong with me, Alison. I see an acupuncturist every couple of weeks for my arthritis. I’ve been a little stiff lately so I didn’t feel like taking the subway. I was going to take a cab but when I told Kathleen about it, she insisted Bobby take me.” She looked up at me, her eyes invisible behind her tinted glasses. “Have you met Bobby’s mother?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, she’s a giant blabbermouth. Usually, I’m happy to listen to all the family gossip, but when it’s about me . . .” She drifted off. “Well, let’s just say I like to keep it to myself.”
“You don’t think she’d be so understanding about acupuncture?” I asked as I took Bea by the elbow and steered her across Park Avenue.
Bea laughed and shook her head. “This is a woman who prides herself on never having taken an aspirin for a headache.” She laughed again. “Why would she need to take an aspirin? She’s what I call a ‘carrier.’ She gives other people headaches.”
And as a future mother-in-law prospect, that made Kathleen Crawford less than desirable. I was definitely getting ahead of myself but it was food for thought.
We made it safely across the street and walked to the parking garage, tucked in between two townhouses. We walked down the sloped driveway and to the office area where I handed the parking attendant my ticket. I held up a hand as Bea rustled around in her purse. “I’ve got it,” I said, pushing Bea’s hand away absentmindedly. I was still chewing on the fact that Crawford’s mother sounded like a piece of work and that I still had to face my first meeting with her. “I’m glad to hear that you’re going to an acupuncturist. When you didn’t tell Bobby what you were going to do today, I was worried,” I admitted.
“No need to worry, dear. All’s well,” she said as the attendant drove up in the car. Bea settled into the passenger’s seat and turned to me. “When you find out what’s going on up at Riviera Pointe, will you let me know? I’m worried about your friend.”
“Deal,” I said.
Traffic was light and I dropped her off fifteen minutes later, merging onto the West Side Highway within minutes. I sped up the highway and exited on Broadway, making my way down to the Riviera Pointe site, which was more than its usual hubbub of activity. There were emergency vehicles everywhere, their lights revolving, and I counted six police cars. I spotted Crawford’s unmarked car and knew that many of the other cars parked at odd angles around the area were probably other police-issue vehicles. I spotted a news van from one of the local television stations with a handsome Ken doll come to life fixing his hair in the side-view mirror, a handheld mic hanging by his side.
A group of people had gathered at the edge of the scene, a couple of them straining at the yellow police tape that ringed the area. Work had been shut down and the workers—whose number approached sixty or so—were milling around, their tones hushed as they tried to discern what had happened.
I looked at the throng of people who were assembled near the police tape and recognized Class of ’59, the guy who had accosted me the first time I had visited the site. He strained against the police tape trying to get the best look he could. He was staring impassively yet intently at what was going on and exchanged a few words with the young uniformed cop trying to keep the crowd behind the tape.
I got as close to the tape as I could, making my way through the people, who stood three-deep. I looked for Crawford or Fred but I didn’t see either one of them. I found myself next to Class of ’59; I prayed that he had forgotten me and asked him if he knew what had happened. He was his usual antsy self, shifting from one foot to the other as he watched the scene unfold at the job site.
He attempted a nonchalant shrug that wasn’t so nonchalant in reality. “No clue. I just want to see how long this will close down the site for.”
Well, that’s self-absorption brought to a new height, I thought.
“I heard that they found a body,” I said.
“If that’s what it takes to get this job shut down, then it’s OK by me.”
I stared at him, amazed. “Really?”
“Yes. I’m going to lose my view, you know.”
Yes, I’d heard that somewhere before. I stared at him for a few more minutes but he was so involved in watching the events unfolding before him that he didn’t even realize it.
Behind me, I heard a commotion and turned just in time to see Richie Kraecker and Morag Moragna emerging from a black town car. Richie
was in a suit but still looked like a troll; despite the weather, Morag was in an ankle-length fur coat that must have cost close to two thousand chinchillas their lives. The Ken doll reporter spotted him and ran toward him with his camera man in tow.
“Mr. Kraecker!” he called.
Richie turned toward him and, seeing the news logo on the guy’s mic, straightened up and adjusted his tie. The group in which I was standing turned in unison to watch the interview take place, but as I was now at the back of the pack, I didn’t have a view of what was happening. I turned around and watched the activity taking place in the section of the building closest to the river.
I spied Crawford making his way up the dust-covered road that led down to the river, his jacket off, rubber gloves on his hands. Even though the weather was still mild, there were two dark stains under his arms and down the front of his shirt, indicating the amount of effort that he had put into whatever he had been doing. He was lost in his thoughts as he trudged up the hill, only looking up at me when I called his name. I broke from the pack and ran along the length of the tape, away from where Richie was being interviewed to a place where there were no gawkers.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, by way of greeting.
“Max told me that a body had been found here.” I cupped a hand over my eyes to block out the bright sun.
Before I had a chance to ask him who it was, the medical examiner, a short redhead in scrubs, a mask hanging on her chest, called out to him. “Crawford, OK to move her?” she asked.
“Her?” I said. Now that was an unexpected development. I didn’t know whether to be relieved that it wasn’t a male or to be concerned about the victim’s identity.
Crawford looked at me and nodded. “Go ahead, Mel,” he said. “Fred’s done, too.” He looked back at me, his face sad.
I got a sinking feeling that even though the body didn’t belong to Hernan, finding out who it was was going to be a shock. I turned and got a look at Richie, who was gesticulating wildly at the reporter, the cameraman getting every flail of his short arms on tape.
He looked at a spot over my shoulder, his preferred view when he was delivering bad news. “It’s Madeleine Cranston.”
Twenty-One
Even the sight of a giant cheeseburger sitting next to a stack of French fries couldn’t get me out of the doldrums.
Jane Farnsworth and I were sitting in a pub not far from where we lived, a place that she frequented with the boys and that she suggested we try for our dinner date. It was kind of a hole in the wall but boasted exceptional hot wings and hamburgers. Jane swore that once I had one of the burgers I would never eat one anywhere else. And surprisingly, it had great wine by the glass; the owner was a woman around our age who couldn’t abide by bad house wine and offered pretty good selections. I took a sip of the house merlot and told Jane that the owner had done a good job.
“She’ll be happy to hear that,” Jane said, pouring a mound of ketchup onto her burger and digging in. For a small woman, she could really pack it away. “You don’t seem like yourself. Are you still upset about what happened today?”
I looked up at the television over the bar and saw that the news was on; in a few minutes, I was sure they’d be going to Richie’s unscheduled press conference at Riviera Pointe and the sight they’d shown repeatedly throughout the day: a body bag on a stretcher, Madeleine Cranston’s bludgeoned and lifeless body inside. I returned my attention to Jane and answered her question. “I’m very upset. I didn’t even know Madeleine,” I said, keeping to myself my condo-buying ruse, “but from the few times I met her, she seemed very nice.”
Jane shook her head sadly. “What a terrible way to be killed, too,” she said. She closed her eyes at the thought.
I hadn’t learned anything from Crawford, but the reporters who had swarmed the scene reported more than I would ever want to know about how Madeleine Cranston had died. “Blunt force trauma” had been thrown about quite a bit, which was a nice way of saying that her head had been bashed in. I gave a little shudder just thinking about it.
“That job site has really been afflicted by bad luck,” Jane said.
“That’s an understatement.” I mulled this over for a minute, my mind going to Hernan and his disappearance. Madeleine’s death didn’t guarantee that Hernan was still alive, but it left the door open to that possibility. That was that. After dinner with Jane, I was going to come up with a plan to find out where he was. “Do you know who the inspector is on that site?” I asked.
She shook her head. “But I can find out,” she said. “Will that help?”
“I don’t know,” I said, dejected. “I guess. Maybe.”
Jane put her burger down and looked at me. “What’s bugging you, Alison?”
I decided to lay my cards on the table. “There’s something going on down there and I don’t know what it is.” I told her about Hernan and how Kevin and I had been to the site and what we’d learned. Her eyes grew wide. “At this point, though, I’m not sure where to begin. We’ve got allegations of shoddy construction, undocumented workers, two murders, and the distribution of illegal green cards. Allegedly,” I stressed.
“And Bobby knows all about this?” she asked, shocked by what I’d told her.
“I told him everything but I’m not sure how much he knew already.” I pushed my plate away and brought my wineglass closer, running my fingers up and down the stem. “I should probably just stay out of it,” I said. “I should just leave it to Crawford and everybody else on the case.”
Jane let out a little laugh. “Alison, you know as well as I do that that’s never going to happen.” She put the remainder of her burger in her mouth and started on her fries.
I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out the copy of the list that Amalia had given me when she had come to my house for dinner. “Take a look at this, would you?”
Jane scanned the list. “What’s this?”
“I’m not sure.” I moved a fry around on my plate. “I’m thinking it’s a list of inspectors who are on the take from Richie, but I’m not sure.” I studied her face to see if she was coming up with anything. “Do you think that Jose was keeping a list of inspectors on the take?”
“None of the names looks familiar, but that’s not to say that they’re not inspectors,” she said. “I don’t know that many people since I started working in Westchester.” She handed the list back to me. “But let’s make me a copy of this and I’ll see what I can find out.”
I got home an hour or so later, having made a quick stop at a Kinko’s. I was grateful to be back on familiar turf. I had been too preoccupied during dinner to really enjoy it, and, although I wanted Jane’s help, I was loathe to drag her into this. I touched the piece of paper in my pocket as I approached the front door and thought back to my slashed tires and the note to “mined my own bizness.” Obviously, I was getting close to something, but what?
And most importantly, where was Hernan?
I mulled that over as I trudged up the steps to my front door, still in a black mood from the previous few days. I was greeted by Trixie’s smiling face and the sexiest kiss this side of a Danielle Steele novel. And for once, it wasn’t from my dog.
“Twice in one week, Crawford?” I asked after breaking our embrace. “To what do I owe this honor?” I hadn’t noticed his police-issue Crown Vic out front and surmised that he must have pulled up the driveway.
He held my face in his hands. “I missed you,” he said and kissed me again. “Where were you?” he whispered. What was it about the dark that made people lower their voices? “I’ve been waiting for you for two hours and you weren’t answering your cell.”
That’s because my cell is on the bathroom sink, I thought. I decided to go with the least descriptive answer I could so as not to break the mood. “I was out.”
“Out where?”
“Out with Jane,” I said. I stripped off my coat and let it fall to the ground. “And before your mind wanders to some girl-on-g
irl action, there wasn’t any.” I took his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“I’d do something romantic like pick you up and carry you up there, but my sciatica is acting up,” he said. Even in the dimly lit hallway, I could tell that he was smiling.
“I wouldn’t want you to strain anything,” I said, kissing him again. My butt was still killing me, so between that and his aches and pains, we made quite a duo.
“Actually, it kind of hurts,” he said, pulling my shirt out of my pants.
I rolled my eyes. “I can only guess where.” We started up the stairs.
“I could show you,” he said.
“I bet you could,” I said and flicked the light on in my bedroom. It was exactly as I’d left it: messy, with the bed unmade and strewn with clothes. I had had a hard time getting dressed that morning.
Crawford stood in the doorway and put his hands on his hips. He kicked a pair of shoes out of the way. “Has this place been ransacked or is this how you left it?”
I grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the bed. “Just like I left it. Now shut up and kiss me.”
Crawford’s sciatica mysteriously disappeared. I fancied myself something of a faith healer: all it took was a laying on of hands and he was all better.
A half hour later, I untangled myself from the sheets and lay spread-eagle on the bed, sweaty and exhausted. “You have any thoughts on who killed Madeleine?” I asked, my mind still on Riviera Pointe.
I heard Crawford sigh in the dark and it wasn’t the sigh of a sexually sated man—although I took it for granted that he was one. “Do we have to talk about that now?”
“No. We could talk about it in two hours after you’ve fallen into a deep sleep. Then you really won’t want to talk about it.”
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