Linda Fairstein - Entombed

There was the sound of laughter coming from the next corridor, and I looked up to see its source. Two teenagers, each dressed in baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirts, were being chased by a third who wielded a watering can in his hand.

"I assumed we could do this in your office," Ellen said.

"There's no one here to bother you, young lady."

"Those kids-is it a school tour or something?"

"Heavens, no. Just a few of the local boys who do chores around here. I was showing them the carnivorous plants in the next room-they were fascinated," Zeldin said, smiling.

"Who's carnivorous?" Scotty asked, catching up with us and shaking Zeldin's hands.

"The Venus flytrap, the pitcher plant," Zeldin said, starting to wheel in the direction of the rowdy teens. "They're not dangerous to humans, Detective. They don't really eat flesh. The leaves respond to the pressure of insects that land on them and they spring closed. It's the secretions that kill the bugs, who rot inside or starve in a pool of fluid until they dissolve. Not a pretty death."

"I haven't seen many that are."

"If you don't mind, sir," Ellen said, "I'm not here for the plant tour. We have some questions that will probably require you to consult your records."

I couldn't read Ellen as well as I could my usual partners-Mike and Mercer-but what had seemed from the outside like such a benign setting now enveloped us in an oppressive atmosphere that was stifling and unpleasant.

"Records? From the Raven Society? I've already shown them to Ms. Cooper."

"Not those," she went on. "We'd like to talk about Gino Guidi and his involvement here, at the Botanical Gardens. Perhaps his financial contributions."

"Ah, he told you, then, about the Bronx River cleanup?"

I listened to Ellen while she led the questioning. I was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and distracted while I waited for a call about results on Maswana's DNA from the chief serologist.

Ellen had been drawn into today's outing because of Guidi's self-proclaimed marksmanship and its possible connection to the Tormey shooting. Now Guidi's name was dragging her in the direction of Dr. Ichiko's death site.

I let her run this, in part because of my fatigue, and in part because I thought it would lead nowhere. Guidi's admission about his shooting ability probably had little significance.

"No, sir, he didn't," Ellen answered.

"I'm sure you've seen signs alongside the highways from time to time, where individuals or businesses have paid for the maintenance of a particular area."

We all nodded.

"Mr. Guidi likes his name on things. I hadn't paid any attention to it the day I heard how Dr. Ichiko died, but I was reminded of it more recently, after your visit to Poe Cottage. Con Edison does the environmental upkeep farther downstream of the gardens, and several local corporations have adopted parts of the river that flow through their neighborhoods. But Gino Guidi chose that strip of rapids himself-the part with the waterfall-because he used to play there when he was a child. Knows the area quite well, Ms. Gunsher. I'd forgotten about that, because the sign bears the name of his company rather than himself."

"Providence Partners," I said.

"Yes, yes. I'd forgotten that connection when I first heard of Ichiko's death," Zeldin said, wheeling his chair around.

"That's why I'd like to conduct this meeting in your office." Ellen was attempting to be more aggressive now.

Scotty Taren's face was drained of all color. Again he was sweating profusely and I thought he was beginning to look ill.

He coughed a few times and then spoke to Zeldin. "Why don't you get up out of that buggy and walk over with us?"

Zeldin's answer was sharp and loud. "Don't be absurd, Detective. I can't do that."

The three boys stopped horsing around when they heard the tone of Zeldin's voice. The tallest one started to walk toward us.

I was sweating, too. Maybe it was the intense heat inside the conservatory, or maybe it was the proximity of rough-looking teens coming toward me.

"Get me Sinclair," he yelled out to the hooded boys. "Get Mr. Phelps for me now. "

The three looked at one another and spoke in Spanish, but they were too far away for me to understand.

Ellen reached for the handles of Zeldin's wheelchair. "I'm sorry, sir. Let's all just calm down and go back to-"

"Get your hands off there, young lady," he said, raising the volume another few notches.

Scotty started wheezing and clutching his chest.

"Scotty? Scotty?" I put my arm around him and tried to find a bench to seat him on, but as I leaned in close to talk to him, the teens came running toward us. One broke for a side door that led out to a large sculpture garden, turning to lock it behind him and remove the key before rejoining the others.

The three raced in our direction. They shouted something to Zeldin as they came by him, while one of them grabbed Ellen and lifted her off her feet, tossing her onto a large shrub with branches that stretched out five feet in each direction. They kept on running past us, back to the long tunnel and toward the front entrance.

Ellen's screams should have shattered the hundreds of glass panes that surrounded us.

I let go of Scotty and ran to where she lay, facedown, as though something was holding her in place.

"Ellen!"

She stretched out an arm to me and turned her face. There was blood everywhere.

I stepped off the paved walk and onto the rocks that ringed the giant plant. Encephalartos horridus-a ferocious blue cycad was the way a nearby sign described this unlikely weapon.

Every long arm of the green monster was lined with spikes, from its root down to its very tips. Ellen's face and torso had been impaled on them with the force of the kid's thrust, and I had to literally lift her off its center, thorns hanging from her skin like rusty nails from an old railroad tie.

I sat her on the ground and waited for her heaving cries to stop. Behind me, Scotty-also in some kind of physical distress-kept murmuring apologies about not being able to help.

"Call nine-one-one, Scotty. Can you do that?"

Ellen started to pull the prickly pieces out of her forehead. "Don't touch them," I said to her. "Let me try it."

I could see she was ripping the skin on her face in an effort to get out the thorns. The pain must have been excruciating, and I tried to spread the wounds apart with my fingers to release the embedded needles without further lacerating the surface.

Again I looked over my shoulder. Scotty had rested his bulky body against some kind of small tree trunk. The overweight, outof-shape detective was fumbling with his cell phone as though it was a struggle even to open it. He looked like he was in the middle of suffering a heart attack.

I grabbed the phone from his hand and dialed 911.

"It's just my angina, Alex. It'll pass."

"Operator? Yes, it's an emergency. At the Botanical Gardens. Inside the Haupt Conservatory."

Now the battery of questions.

"No, operator. I have no idea what cross street. It's a police officer down. Two officers, badly injured. We need an ambulance and we need cops."

"I don't understand, miss. Is this a crime or a medical emergency?" the 911 operator asked.

"It's both, damn it. We're wasting precious time."

I gave her the information and hung up. I dialed Mercer's number. "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm over in front of the administration building. I just arrived but nobody's around."

"The conservatory-the crystal palace, remember? Get security and get over here as fast as you can. There's an ambulance on the way. I'll explain."

I dropped the phone on the ground and tried to stop Ellen from pulling more thorns out and scarring her face.