Thomas Cook - Blood Innocents

“Are you mourning her?”

“Naturally.”

“Have you ever read much Buddhist philosophy?”

Reardon was growing impatient, regretting that he had mentioned Millie’s death. Such things, things like mourning, he had always considered to be very private, no one else’s business. “No,” he said.

“Oh, you should!” Melinda exclaimed excitedly. “There is a story in Buddhist philosophy about a woman who lost her husband to death, and she just could not stop mourning for him. She was simply incapacitated by her grief. She went to see the Buddha, and the Buddha said for her to make a potion out of a few very common herbs. But he said that the herbs must be gathered from households in which no one had ever died, in which there had never been a death.”

Reardon nodded.

“Well, the woman could not find a single household where there had not been a death.”

Reardon looked at Melinda blankly.

“Well, don’t you see?” she said. “The woman learned that everyone has grief, everyone experiences the death of loved ones, relatives and husbands; but everyone learns to bear it. And so could she.”

Reardon stood up and handed Melinda his card. “If you come upon any information that might help me in finding the person who killed the deer, call me.”

“But don’t you see?” Melinda asked, almost pleadingly.

“Keep that card,” Reardon said, and he turned and walked away.

When he reached the street above the zoo, the story of the Buddha was still on Reardon’s mind. But he could not understand how the knowledge that everyone suffers could possibly ease the suffering of anyone.

“We can’t find a goddamn thing,” Mathesson told Reardon as he walked through the doors of the precinct house. “We’ve searched that apartment like a swarm of bees looking for honey and there’s not an address to be found anywhere.”

“Did you check the phone book again?” Reardon asked.

“Yeah. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s like those two girls were found in a hotel room on another planet. It’s like they just got into New York the night they got wasted and didn’t know anybody, not a single person in the whole city.”

Reardon turned back toward the doors to the street.

“Where are you going?” Mathesson asked.

“I’m going to check out where they worked.”

“You want some company?”

Reardon could see that Mathesson was looking at him worriedly, appraising him, trying to determine if he was still fit enough to be a homicide detective. “No,” he replied, “you go ahead with your other cases. I’ll handle it.”

Tristan Designers looked to Reardon like a chic setup. The walls of the foyer were covered with mahogany paneling, and everything else looked as if it was either plated with gold or upholstered in silk.

“May I help you, sir?” the receptionist asked, and it was clear from the abrupt tone of her voice that Reardon did not resemble anyone she thought might have serious, legitimate business there.

He took out his detective’s shield. “My name is John Reardon. I’m investigating the murder of one of your employees. I’d like to talk to whoever supervised Miss Ortovsky.”

“That would be Helene Pynchon,” the receptionist said. “You’d like to talk with her now?”

Reardon gazed patiently at the receptionist. “Well, two women have been murdered,” he said.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” the receptionist said. “Just a moment, please. Please have a seat over there. I’ll call Miss Pynchon right away.” She sounded to Reardon a lot like his son’s secretary, a person who spent her life protecting somebody who wouldn’t use the same toilet she did.

When Helene Pynchon walked out into the foyer her appearance did not surprise Reardon. She was tall and dark-haired with thin, pale arms. She was dressed in a loose-fitting pastel blouse and a long skirt. Reardon guessed her age at approximately forty-five. She looked like hundreds of other women Reardon had seen and faintly desired as they walked along Park Avenue or Central Park West.

“Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly as Reardon rose from his chair. “I’m Helene Pynchon.”

“My name is Reardon. I’m investigating the murders of Karen Ortovsky and her roommate. Is there someplace we could talk?”

“Of course. Come into my office, won’t you.”

In her office Miss Pynchon offered Reardon a chair and seated herself behind the desk.

“Now,” she said, “how can I help? We were so upset when we found out about Karen this morning. Her death, I mean.”

“Did you know her very well?”

“Not very. Only professionally. She did excellent work at Tristan.”

“Did you ever see her socially?”

“No. Never. It was purely a professional association. I make it a point never to have personal relationships with anyone on my staff.”

Reardon nodded. He didn’t go out with the mayor much either. “How about anybody else on your staff?” he asked. “Did she have any close friends here?”

Miss Pynchon thought a moment. “I believe she and Laura Murray had a nonprofessional relationship.”

“Nonprofessional? You mean they saw each other away from work?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Do you know of anybody else who might have been a friend of Miss Ortovsky?”

Miss Pynchon shook her head. “No, I don’t know of anyone else. Laura might know, however.”

“I’d like to see her.”

“Surely,” Miss Pynchon said. “Take a right at the end of this hall. Laura’s office will be the fourth one on your left.”

When Reardon entered her office Laura Murray was busily sketching designs on a pad of unlined paper. Her desk was covered with dress patterns, pencils and pieces of cloth. They seemed to flow over the desk like wax down the sides of a melting candle.

“Laura Murray?” Reardon asked.

She looked up quizzically. “That’s me.” She was dressed in a red turtleneck sweater, which in its brightness seemed less modest than the woman who wore it. She had a plain, undistinguished face – one, Reardon knew, that would be difficult to recall without a photograph.

Reardon pulled out his identification. “My name is John Reardon,” he said. “I’m investigating the murders of Karen Ortovsky and her roommate.”

He saw her face suddenly tense, but he did not know whether the chance meant fear or embarrassment or sorrow. “I understand that you knew Miss Ortovsky. Socially, I mean. Away from work.”

“Yes, I did.” She nodded toward an empty chair. “Please sit down.”

When Reardon had sat down Laura Murray stood up, quietly closed the door of her office, then returned to the chair behind her desk. She folded her hands in front of her and rested them on the desk. Reardon could see that they were trembling very slightly.

“How well did you know her?” he asked.

“We were close friends. We met here. She’d been working here for a year when I came. I guess I’ve known her for about four years.”

Reardon noticed that when Laura Murray spoke to him she seemed to stare over his shoulder or down at some object on her desk, not wanting their eyes to meet. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Miss Murray,” he assured her. “This is just routine. Legwork, that’s all. We have to interview everybody we can find who knew Miss Ortovsky.”

She snapped a pencil from the top of her desk and rolled it between the fingertips of both her hands.

“So you knew her for about four years?” Reardon said.

“Yes. We were close friends.”

Suddenly the door to the office opened. Laura started in her chair, and Reardon turned to see a short, middle-aged man standing in the doorway, his hand still resting on the doorknob. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were busy, Laura. Miss Pynchon just wants to know when your sketches will be ready.”