by Carrie Smith
“What else did you do?”
“Nothing—except dream.”
“About what?”
“Getting even, what else? All that asshole did was grade us—day in and day out. The slaves always dream about revolt, don’t they?”
“Tell me about those dreams.”
Bosco put his worn-out sneaker on a chair. “Once in the teacher’s lounge, we all fantasized about breaking into his computer and grading him with his own rubric, and e-mailing his report card over to Chancellor Lipsie. What a report card that would be! Symbolic murder—that’s all we’re capable of.”
Was that true? she wondered. Were they incapable of more than puerile pranks, like the students they taught? “What else?” she demanded.
“We thought about lodging a formal complaint against him with our union. I was supposed to look into the procedure, but I never got around to it.”
For the same reason he wasn’t the murderer, she thought. He was too lazy. “Go on.”
“What we really wanted to do was catch him with Drew. Show the world that the ‘Savior of PS 777’ was just a horny guy lusting after a lesbian.”
“What was your plan?”
“Hire someone to follow him around and catch him in the act.”
“Did you do it? Did you hire someone?”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t waste a dime on that guy. As I said, it was talk. All talk.”
She stood and pushed in her chair. “I’ll let you get back to those papers.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She returned to her car, picked up her cell phone, and continued to follow her instincts. “I need to talk to you,” she said to the raspy voice that answered.
“Well, I’m not at school right now.”
“Where are you?”
“Fairway. It’s my shopping day.”
Twenty minutes later, Codella was staring at Christine Donohue across a small table against the brick wall at the back of the Fairway Café. On weekends, this café, located on the second floor of the sprawling Upper West Side shopping institution, was packed with talkative brunching couples, but this afternoon, it was nearly empty. Just beyond the café, late-afternoon Fairway shoppers climbed the stairs to the large organic foods department. To Codella’s left, tall windows overlooked Broadway. The November sky was already darkening, and through the leafless branches of trees in the mall, she could read the coming attractions scrolling across the digital marquis of the Beacon Theater on the east side of the boulevard.
She sipped her tea. Christine Donohue had ordered lemonade, which now sat in front of her in a mason jar filled with ice and sprigs of fresh, deep-green mint leaves that Codella could smell. Donohue pulled the wrapper off her plastic straw. “You haven’t solved the murders yet, I take it.” She smirked. “I saw those blurry surveillance blobs you’re showing the public. Good luck with that.”
Codella ignored her sarcasm. “You and I need to talk about Hector Sanchez.”
“I really have nothing more to offer on the subject of that man.”
Codella leaned across the narrow table. “I think you do, and we can either talk here or I can take you up to Manhattan North for a little tour. It’s your choice.”
Donohue pushed loose strands of her artificially red hair behind her ear. “What exactly do you want to talk about?”
“A photograph.” Codella stared into the teacher’s wary eyes looking for transitory trace evidence: a flash of panic, overdramatized confusion, suspicious.
But Donohue gave nothing away. “What photograph?”
“You know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” She met Codella’s stare convincingly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You and some other teachers talked about taking a photograph of Sanchez and Drew, to ruin his reputation.”
Then Donohue laughed. “Oh that. Come on, Detective. That was a joke. That was a bunch of teachers gossiping about their unpopular principal.”
“Jokes have a funny way of turning into reality. Is that what happened with your joke?”
“How would I know?”
“When did you have that conversation?”
Donohue looked at her watch. “At the Proud Families photo shoot. Look, I really have to leave. Didn’t we go over this already?”
“Pretend we didn’t. Tell me about that day.”
Donohue picked up her sweating lemonade jar and sipped through the plastic straw. “What do you want to know?”
“Where were you?”
“At a table, watching the spectacle.”
“Tell me what you saw.”
She squinted at the wall as if the memories were there. Finally, she said, “Imagine a used car dealership at clearance time. That’s what it looked like. The day before the shoot, he had the janitors hang streamers and banners and balloons. He’d rented a popcorn machine, and there was music playing. In one corner, Dana Drew’s photographer had mounted a green screen, and there were so many lights, you’d think they were shooting the cover of Vanity Fair. Parents and children stood in line to have their photos taken, and Sanchez and Drew were pumping their hands and patting their backs, and the sparks were snapping between them. Only a blind person could have missed the chemistry. And I made the comment that someone should snap their photo and post it on that parents’ blog everyone goes to, and we all had a good laugh and one comment led to another. You know how it is.”
“Which teachers were there?”
“Gene. Jenny Bernstein. Anna Masoutis. Some others. I don’t remember.” She looked Codella in the eye. “Doesn’t it shock you when people think they can pull the wool over your eyes so easily?”
Codella couldn’t help herself. “Nothing shocks me anymore, Ms. Donohue. Everyone’s got an agenda here, and when I figure them all out, then I’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t doubt it for a second.”
“Am I supposed to be intimidated by you?” Donohue squinted.
“Only if you’re hiding the truth.”
“What would I be hiding?”
“Your own agenda.”
“And what exactly would that be?”
“You know better than I. Maybe you wanted to win Barton her iAchieve adoption by damaging the reputation of her biggest rival.”
Donohue laughed. “What’s in it for me to take a chance like that?”
“You’re getting your principal’s certification. Did Barton promise you a choice assignment?”
The right side of Donohue’s mouth curled up, half mocking, half in disgust. She shook her head slowly. “Gene was right. You’re tilting at windmills. Look, I’ve got better things to do than stand on a street and snap photographs of people going into a building.”
Codella let the teacher’s words swing between them for several seconds like a waiting noose. Then she said, “I never mentioned where any photos were snapped or what they showed.”
Donohue sipped her lemonade again. “Well, where else would you go to catch them in the act?”
Codella pressed. “You saw that photograph. You know something you’re not saying.”
“I saw nothing,” Donohue retorted angrily. “And I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’ve told you exactly how I felt about him. I’ve been honest, but I’m done.”
“For now, maybe,” conceded Codella. “But not for good.” She watched Donohue rise, pick up her Fairway bags, and head for the stairs.
Codella drove back to PS 777. Marva Thomas’s door was shut when she got to the office, and she knocked as she opened the door. She didn’t bother with greetings.
“The day of the murder, Mr. Sanchez returned from his meeting at the district office. According to Janisa, he saw the iAchieve sign-up sheet on the bulletin board out there,” Codella pointed, “and he ripped it off the wall. Then he called you into his office. He was angry that you had posted that iAchieve sheet.”
Thomas shook her head. “Who told you that? His anger had nothing to do with iAchieve.”
&nb
sp; “Then what was it about?” Codella asked.
“He was furious with me about Miguel Espina. The minute he got here, he made it perfectly clear I was going to take the fall for that whole thing.”
“Why?”
“Because according to him, that’s my one and only job—‘keeping heads out of toilets,’ as he put it.”
“He said those words?”
“He told me I was the least effective AP he’d ever worked with. I’ve never been insulted quite so bluntly in my life. He pointed to my biblical quote,” she indicated the note on her computer, “and told me I was a simple-minded moron, a church lady—he used those words—and that I was in over my head and he wanted me out of his school at the end of the year.”
“So he basically fired you.”
“Yes, although it’s not as easy as that in the New York public school system. And as of two hours ago, I’m now the new principal—pending the official paperwork, of course.”
“Margery Barton appointed you?”
She nodded. “As strange as that sounds. I’m still trying to figure out if that conversation was real or if I just imagined it. She actually apologized to me. She told me she had made a mistake choosing Hector over me. She told me she had known for several months that he was a mistake.”
“Maybe she has a conscience after all. But you know what it looks like, don’t you?”
Marva Thomas sipped her coffee and nodded. “It looks like I benefitted directly from his death. I guess I should move to the top of your suspect list, Detective.”
“What did you do on Monday when Hector Sanchez said all those things to you?”
“Nothing. I just let him rant. When people get out of control like that, silence is the best strategy, I find.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“I have always tried to treat others with kindness,” Thomas said. “He would say I’m naïve, but I believe every person has value that transcends their title or status. He didn’t appreciate anyone’s value. He stripped everyone of their self-esteem. At what point do high standards turn into despotism? I supported him despite my discomfort, but when he lashed out at me on Monday, I knew he was an evil man.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this on Tuesday?”
Thomas sighed. “Look, Detective. We all want to preserve some dignity. I have precious little left here. I’m sure everyone got an earful that day. I know they were standing on the other side of the door. I didn’t feel like sharing my humiliation with you too.”
The AP’s sweater sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, and Codella stared at her small wrist bones and thin arms. She was not half as strong as Jane Martin. In a one-on-one battle, she could never subdue Codella, let alone the six-foot-two Sanchez. “Where were you during the Proud Families photo shoot in September?”
“In the cafeteria with everybody else. I was in charge of lining up the families for their big moment.”
“Did you know that Sanchez and Drew were having an affair?”
“I’d heard the rumors, but I didn’t see how they could be true. I mean, Dana Drew is—” She didn’t finish the thought.
“Desire is a complicated thing.”
“I suppose so.” Thomas lifted her Dunkin’ Donuts cup again.
Chapter 53
Marva Thomas looked at her wristwatch. It was five forty-five. The detective was gone, thank God, and no children were left to reprimand for running through the halls. No parents were sitting on the benches demanding progress reports. All the teachers had departed, and the school was in sleep mode. This was the time of day Marva liked best, the time after the daily frenzy of the school ended and before the evening of caregiving for her mother began. These were the few precious moments in which she could breathe, and she desperately needed them today. She jumped when Milosz’s figure filled her doorway. “Oh!” she said.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I just didn’t hear you,” she said. “Please, come in. I’m sorry we were interrupted earlier.”
He didn’t move. “Come out to dinner with me,” he said.
“Dinner?”
“We’ve already had coffee several times.” He gestured toward her Dunkin’ Donuts cup.
“Oh. Yes. I guess we have.” She smiled. She wondered if her face were reddening. “I’d love to,” she said, but in the next instant she thought of her mother, her mother’s medication schedule, her mother’s inevitable shutdown. “But it will have to be quick,” she added. “Just let me clear my desk.”
He stepped out of her doorway. Her heart pounded as she guided her wireless mouse to shut down the computer. She stared at her fingers. They were shaking. But at least her nails were polished, she thought. Her cuticles were immaculate. Her skin was moisturized. She was wearing the Chanel cologne Carla had given her last Christmas. Had she maintained her appearance, she wondered, out of some vestigial hope that a man would come along and be attracted to her? Was Milosz the man she had unconsciously hoped for? What would people think of her, a principal now, if she became involved with a custodian? Why should she care?
She pulled her purse out of her bottom desk drawer, turned off her desk lamp, and stood. Milosz was waiting near the door. “We’re the last ones to leave,” he said. “I’ll lock up, and we’ll go to the Metro Diner. It isn’t fancy, but it’s quick, and it’s nearby.”
They walked down Broadway in silence. She could see her breath fog the air in front of her. She felt a moment of panic when they reached 100th Street. What could they possibly talk about over a table? What could she possibly have in common with a Croatian custodian? She stopped. He stopped too. “Something is wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head. He came closer. He put his arms around her. He said, “Don’t worry. Now everything will be better. You’ll see.”
She looked up at him. “He was a terrible person. I feel guilty for saying that, but it’s true.”
“I hated the way he treated you,” said Jancek softly. “Don’t think about him anymore.”
When they got to the Metro Diner, Marva slipped out of her coat, and Milosz hung it on the hook while she slid into her side of the booth. Marva felt relieved when the waiter appeared with a pot of coffee to pour. They both watched him in silence, and when he was gone, Milosz handed her the cream.
“That’s not fair,” she said. “You know how I take mine, but I have no idea how you take yours.”
“Black.” He smiled. “Black and unsweetened. But I like making yours sweet and creamy.”
Her face felt hot. Could he see that she was blushing? “It’s so good to be out of that place,” she said.
“The detective came to see you again.”
“She asked me who I thought did it.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I had no idea.” She leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “I’ve thought about all the teachers who didn’t like him, but I don’t see how any of them could be the killer, do you?” She watched their waiter carry meals to the booth behind them.
“It’s hard to imagine it’s any of them,” he agreed. “But I suppose you never know.”
Marva opened her menu to the specials page. She was starting to feel more relaxed. She leaned forward conspiratorially. The murders were something they shared in common, something they could talk about. “Who do you think could have done it, Milosz?”
He sipped his coffee and considered. “Maybe an angry parent?” he suggested.
“I hadn’t thought about that. Like who?”
“Well, like the mother of that boy on Monday. John Chambers.”
“Hmmm. Mrs. Chambers is high strung and very protective, but I don’t really see her as a killer.”
“I know, but then you can’t always tell by looking at a person.” He leaned across the table. She liked him close to her like that. She liked the smell of his cologne. “Think of that man they caught in Soho last year,” he said, “the one who killed a boy twenty s
ome years ago and was working in a bodega all this time with nobody ever suspecting him.”
“I remember that, yes, but women don’t usually commit murder—unless they’ve been abused, of course.”
“Maybe the father did it. If I were that boy’s father, I would be angry over the treatment, very angry. But I’m sure the police are looking into all those possibilities.”
Marva stirred some sugar into her coffee and lifted the cup to her lips. “I never met John’s father. But why would he kill Sofia Reyes, too? Sofia had nothing to do with what happened to John.” She looked around the restaurant and lowered her voice as she said, “I’m thinking maybe it has something to do with Dana Drew. The detective asked me if I knew he was having an affair with her.”
“He was?”
“Apparently so. Apparently there are photographs.”
“Well, some people know how to fool everyone.” He reached his right hand across the table to pat her left one. “Are you ready to order?”
Marva wasn’t the least bit hungry. She stared at his big hand covering hers. She closed her eyes and imagined his touch suffusing her pores, entering her bloodstream like a stimulating drug. “You know what I think. I think they’re going to find the killer soon.”
“What makes you say so?”
“Just the way that detective sounded. They’re close. I’m sure of it. And I can’t wait for this to be over.”
“Me neither,” he agreed. “I’m tired of mopping the floors after all those reporters and parents and police trudging through. I can’t wait for things to get back to normal. I just want our old routine. Maybe I’m simple, but I like predictability.”
“Me, too,” said Marva.
Chapter 54
Haggerty was smoking a cigarette outside the 171st Precinct when she parked her car.
“You gotta quit those,” she told him.
He flicked it into the street. “I was hoping you’d show up.”
“You got some news?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
