Michael Baden - Remains Silent

Wally lived in a tiny apartment (Jake had visited once; his impression was of wall-to-wall books and mutual unease), liked Harrison Ford movies and medical thrillers, and dated a girl built like a minaret who occasionally picked Wally up at the office. Wally always seemed happy for what he had, not angry about what he didn’t have.

“Reporting for duty,” Wally said, as he had every morning in the three years he’d worked for Jake. He was wearing his signature blue button-down shirt under his white coat. Early on, Jake had wondered if he owned any other kind. The answer seemed to be no. “What’s on the agenda?”

“How would you like some fresh air?”

“A vacation? Dr. Rosen, you know I never-”

“I’m not suggesting one. I need someone to do a little snooping for me upstate.”

“Snooping. Sounds great.” His slow, careful gait brought him to Jake’s desk. “Details?”

“There’s a mall being built in a town called Turner in Baxter County.”

“Where Dr. Harrigan lived! I’ve visited him there.”

“Then you know it. Good. I think the mall’s a boondoggle, a scam to enrich town officials at citizens’ expense. The developer is R. Seward Reynolds, out of Albany, and if my guess is right, there’s a payoff coming to the sheriff- his name’s Fisk- and maybe to Mayor Stevenson and to a woman named Crespy who runs the historical society.” He paused. Wally’s homely face was staring at him with the intensity of an acolyte.

“Anyway,” Jake went on, “at least for the moment, my interest is in Fisk, not the others. I want you go up there, study the public records, see what you can find. Competitive bids if any, kickbacks, the sheriff’s handprints on a project he has no business being linked to. That sort of thing.”

Wally was taking notes. “This is outside an ME’s usual jurisdiction,” he said. “Does it have anything to do with Dr. Harrigan?”

“Only indirectly.” Jake had decided to tell Wally nothing about his suspicions. He didn’t want to upset his assistant before he was sure. “When I saw him last, Pete told me he was positive there was fraud going on, and it really rankled. I told him I’d look into it.” He smiled. “You are my eyes and ears.”

Wally blushed. “One more question: How does a man with a clubfoot go about snooping inconspicuously?”

The question troubled Jake; he had thought about it. “Make up an excuse for your being there. A research paper on the area. A study of mental hospitals. Whatever. If there’s a hint of trouble, beat it back here.”

Wally stood. “When do I leave?”

Jake looked at his watch. “How about half an hour ago?”

It was nearly six o’clock in the morning when Manny finally pulled her Murphy bed out of the wall. Fully clothed, she lay down on top of her rose silk quilt to take a nap before she washed and dried her hair. For the first time, she appreciated the cocoonlike nature of her tiny studio. It felt protective. The tops of her white beech modular units were stacked with shoe boxes, lots of shoe boxes. Her kitchen- a perfect size for take-out containers- was behind a shoji screen. Manny had decided to live in the best building on Central Park South. The outside world, her adversaries, would see success in her address. And she would feel successful every time she walked through the lobby.

The rest of the apartment was impeccably decorated. “No matter how small the project, do it right,” her mother had told her. Her fax, printer, notebook, and flat-screen TV, in a neat row on the marble table across from her bed, composed her working area. Framed historical legal documents dotted the walls above the contemporary Italian-design sofa.

Still, nothing made her comfortable now; visions of Mrs. Alessis filled her head. At last, with Mycroft cuddled tightly in her arms, she drifted off.

After two hours of haunted sleep, Manny leaped out of bed. Eight o’clock. No time for her hair; she had to walk Mycroft. She threw on her black Donna Karan microfiber dress and matching black boots with rubber soles so she could sprint the four blocks to her breakfast appointment. She was cold when she went outside with Mycroft, so back at her apartment she put on her black TSE cashmere swing coat and at the last moment, for color, added a hunter-green Etro fox-fur collar. To look at me you’d never know I spent last night with a corpse.

She reached Le Parker Meridien hotel only ten minutes late. A woman who had to be Patrice Lyons Perez was waiting in the lobby. Oops. Wrong clothes. I should have dressed appropriately.

She had wanted to cheer her new client by taking her to a fancy breakfast at the Meridien, but now that she saw her perched on the edge of a squarish modern chair, she realized she hadn’t done her a favor. Hollow-eyed and gaunt, clad in a long yellow polyester dress covered with pink roses, she seemed miserable and out of place. An old blue parka lay on the arm of the chair, and she looked around the lobby as though wanting to flee.

Manny put on a smile and extended her hand. “Patrice. I’m Philomena Manfreda. It’s nice to meet you in person.”

Patrice stood. The small hand she put in Manny’s was limp and soft. Like Play-Doh.

“Hi,” she said.

“Thanks for coming all this way. I’m so sorry I’m late. Did you have any trouble getting to midtown from Queens?”

“Actually, I’m not staying with my mom’s cousin. I’m staying here.”

Good grief. Does she know how much it costs? “At the Meridien?”

“Dr. Rosen fixed it up for me after I told him where we were meeting for breakfast. He paid for the room in advance.”

Patrice’s teeth were bad, but her smile was so genuine and childlike it made Manny catch her breath.

“He took care of everything,” Patrice continued.

“Nice of him,” Manny said. And not surprising. The man has his good qualities as well as his faults.

“He’s a wonderful man.”

I wouldn’t go that far. “Are you hungry?”

“Very. All I had for dinner was a slice of pizza. It was the only thing I could find in this neighborhood that seemed… affordable. And it was still expensive, at least compared to home.”

“You should’ve ordered room service.”

“Oh, no,” Patrice said gravely. “That wouldn’t be right. I’m not a freeloader, Ms. Manfreda.”

She followed Manny around the corner to a place that was classically Manhattan: counter stools, a pressed-tin ceiling, immigrant Greek owners. But the ambiance seemed lost on Patrice, who ordered a poached egg, plain white toast, and tea.

Manny had coffee. It was all she had ingested since dinner, and all she wanted. The smell of formaldehyde still lingered in her head.

Patrice retrieved a worn manila envelope from her bag and laid it down carefully, making sure the table was clear of spills. “I didn’t want to put these in the mail. They’re letters from my dad. I told Dr. Rosen about them, and he thought they might help.”

There’s an appealing eagerness here. Manny was beginning to like her. “When your father was at Turner, did he ever call you? Was he allowed to do that?”

“A few times,” she said, “but not very often. Not at all in the couple of months before he stopped writing.”

“When he did call, did he ever mention anything about friends he might’ve had there? People he spent time with?”

“He told me stories sometimes, fun stuff about people going on vacations. But I think he made most of it up.”

“Do you remember anything about a girl in her late teens or early twenties?”

Patrice bowed her head. “That’s why Mom died heartbroken. She believed he’d run off with another woman.” She sat up straighter. “But I don’t.”