Lisa Miscione - Twice

“I just turned off the news. I am sorry for your loss,” he said, leaning back on the edge of his desk in front of her, keeping his voice neutral but courteous, compassionate. “How can I help you?”

“I want you to find out who murdered my son-in-law,” she said, turning a cool stare on him.

He turned away from her and felt her eyes on his back as he walked around his desk and sat in his chair. He could smell just the lightest scent of her perfume. It was airy and floral and reminded him of a scent that Lydia wore.

“Which one?” he asked, placing the tips of his fingers together and finally returning her gaze. He had sensed that she was a woman accustomed to giving orders and he wanted it straight at the outset that he was a man not accustomed to obeying them.

She narrowed her eyes and seemed to be assessing him, taking in the details of his face, his clothes, like a boxer sizing up an opponent.

“Ten years ago, the police failed to do their job,” she said slowly, her voice flat. “I want to see that the same thing doesn’t happen again here.”

“Have you considered the possibility that it was the jury that didn’t do their job, Ms. Ross?”

Eleanor Ross’s face lost some of its hardness, seemed to crumble a bit as if she might cry. But Jeffrey had a hard time imagining that kind of emotion from the woman, would have been less surprised if tears fell from the eyes of the Statue of Liberty.

“I know how it looks, Jeff. Can I call you that?” she said, her voice suddenly becoming softer as she leaned toward him in her chair. When he nodded, she continued.

“But I know my daughter and I know that she is not capable of this. If you’re familiar with the case of Tad’s murder, you know there was sufficient evidence to suggest there was someone else at the apartment that night.”

“Do you have any idea who that person might be?”

He thought he saw a flicker there; something that passed in front of her ice blue eyes but was gone as quickly as it came. “No,” she said, raising a hand to her throat. “I can’t begin to imagine.”

“But you believe that the person responsible for Tad Jenson’s death is the same person responsible for Richard Stratton’s?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said, looking away from him. “I just know that it wasn’t Julian.”

It was in these moments when Jeffrey most needed Lydia. Jeffrey was a facts man. He lived for the empirical, the provable, the trail of evidence that led to an undeniable truth. Lydia believed that the truth sometimes left only a scent on the wind. She got a sense of people, their hidden selves, their secret motives, sometimes in just a few moments. Her instincts were usually dead on. He called it “the buzz.” The tingling of the senses she got when something was not as it seemed, when something was off or needed investigating. Looking at Eleanor, he saw a woman in distress, needing help for her daughter. He wondered, though, what Lydia would see.

He knew Eleanor couldn’t be aware of his involvement in the case ten years ago. No one knew about that except Ford. It seemed like a strange coincidence that she would wind up in his office. He didn’t like coincidences.

“Who’s working the case?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

She pulled a card from the pocket of her coat that she’d unbuttoned but not removed.

“Detective Halford McKirdy. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I do. He’s a good detective, Ms. Ross. You might be wasting your money.”

“Don’t you think I know how it works?” She shifted forward on the chair, her eyes widening in desperation. “The police will go for the easiest suspect. Right now, that’s Julian. I’m her mother, and even I know she looks as guilty as sin. But there’s someone else out there, Jeff, someone who murdered Tad and now Richard. He’ll go free again.”

She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes, even though Jeffrey had not actually seen any tears. He could see that she had been a beautiful woman once. Even now, with her silver hair, fair skin, and searing blue eyes, she was remarkable. Her face was a map of fine lines, but they communicated depth and character to Jeffrey rather than old age, beauty faded.

As Eleanor made a show of wiping her eyes, Jeffrey looked up and saw Lydia walk through the glass doors of the office, feeling the familiar lift in his heart that he did every time he saw her. She was shadowed by Dax, and looked tiny next to his large frame. He could see the flush of her skin, her black hair pulled back into a tight, high ponytail. He watched her stop at the reception desk and then stride toward his office, all attitude, dressed head to toe in black except for her white Nike running shoes and socks.

Lydia entered Jeff’s office without knocking, bringing with her the scent of cold air outside. Eleanor startled a bit and looked up from her tissue. Then she rose, extending her hand.

“I’m an admirer of your work, Ms. Strong,” she said. “That’s why I’ve come here.”

“I’m a great fan of your daughter’s. I was sorry to hear of the tragedy that your family suffered today,” answered Lydia, taking Eleanor’s hand in both of hers. Jeffrey wondered at how she had gathered so much information in the half hour since he’d spoken to her, as he watched Lydia focus all the energy of her attention on Eleanor. He’d watched people shrink under that gaze, as if sensing that she could see all the facets of themselves they strove to hide.

Eleanor only nodded at the compliment and sat down again, lowering her eyes. Lydia sat in the chair beside her, leaned back, and crossed her legs. Jeffrey could see the flash in Lydia’s eyes as she sized up the woman next to her before Eleanor raised her eyes again.

“How can we help you, Ms. Ross?” asked Lydia.

“Ms. Ross would like us to find out who killed her son-in-law,” said Jeffrey.

“Which one?” asked Lydia, and Jeffrey suppressed a smile. “I mean, the case ten years ago was never solved, was it?”

“No. That is why I am here today,” answered Eleanor, barely concealing her annoyance at having to repeat herself. “I don’t want the same thing to happen this time.”

Jeffrey noticed that she’d dropped the frightened, desperate-mother persona she had employed in her conversation with him and that her imperiousness had returned.

“Where’s your daughter now?” asked Lydia.

“She’s at the Payne Whitney Clinic, where she’s being treated for a psychotic break she suffered this morning. Quite a natural response to the trauma she’s suffered, I’m told. Especially for someone so emotionally… fragile.”

“Shouldn’t she have gone to Bellevue?” asked Jeffrey, knowing that the Midtown hospital was the standard place to bring what the police referred to as EDPs, emotionally disturbed persons.

“Our lawyer was able to see that she was taken to the hospital with which her psychiatrist is affiliated.”

“Is that to say that she’s had mental health issues in the past?” asked Lydia.

“Julian has suffered severe bouts of depression in her life. But since the birth of the twins, she’s been quite stable. Now… this. Well…” Her voice trailed off and she didn’t finish the thought.

“Can we talk to her?”

“She’s not lucid.”

“Still…”

“I’ll arrange it, if you think it will help.”

Lydia looked closely at Eleanor, wondering how she could be so cool and unemotional in light of the events of the day. Eleanor had appeared to be wiping her eyes when Lydia entered, but Lydia didn’t sense any genuine sadness from the woman. She seemed more like a CEO at an emergency board meeting than a mother whose daughter’s life was unraveling. Some people hid a tumult of emotions beneath a serene façade. But Lydia had the sense that Eleanor’s chill went straight to the bone.