Linda Fairstein - Final Jeopardy

Know what you want?“ Joan nodded. I ordered the tricolor salad and pen ne arrabiata, while she chose minestrone soup and a dish of linguine with white clam sauce.

“Basically, Joan, you have to be my Chinese wall. I don’t want any information filtered through you from Jed. I’m not interested in his excuses or explanations. I know he’ll try to use you, because he’s manipulative and he knows where to find you. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it, understood?”

“Yes, Madam Prosecutor.”

“I’m hoping that if I don’t give him an ear, he will be forced to talk to the police. I’m in no position to listen to his story, and right now he won’t cooperate with Chapman.

So I don’t know if he was on the island when Isabella was shot, and I don’t know if he had anything at all to do with her death. But if he’s got such an urge to unburden his soul, let him do it at the squad, not to you or me.“

By the time our appetizers came, I had convinced Joan that I needed to talk about something else. We coasted through dinner as she caught me up on world news, a review of the latest Stoppard play that had just opened last week, and a description of what she planned to wear to the Literary Lions dinner, where she’d be feted for her recent Edgar nomination. Two double decaf espressos, a check, and we hailed a cab so she could drop me at my building while she went on to her apartment further uptown.

“Envelope for you, Miss Cooper.” Victor handed me the large manila packet that Chapman had dropped off as I passed through the revolving door. On the outside he had scribbled, below my name, “Tonight’s Final Jeopardy answer is Giuseppe di Lampedusa.”

I got on the elevator mumbling to myself, as I fumbled with the envelope’s metal clasp, “And the question is, who wrote The Leopard?” I ought to give that book to Mike sometime, I thought to myself, knowing he would love the fictional version of Italian history, portrayed through the story of the demise of an old aristocratic family. Inside, attached to the police reports, was a big yellow Post-it on which Mike had written: “I didn’t bet you on this one. Figured you’d know it. I thought it was a sexually transmitted disease. Leaf through these and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

No light was flashing on the answering machine. Either my friends assumed that life was back to normal and had stopped worrying about me, or they had all reverted to the usual ‘she’s tough, she can handle it’ mode. Either way it was sort of a relief, so I kicked off my shoes and put on a warm-up suit, then climbed on the bed to sort through the day’s mail and read the correspondence that had been found in Isabella’s home after her death.

LAPD Homicide Squad Report. Det. Reynoldo Loperra.

Attached are pieces of stationery found on desk of deceased after search at request of Chilmark, Mass. Sheriff’s Office.

My dearest Isabella, I will first address your most serious concern regarding your forthcoming trip to Martha’s Vineyard. Perhaps you are surprised that I know so much about your plans, but I must comment that you have been unusually careless in dropping broad hints that have come to my attention, and as you may realize by now, I am almost psychic in this regard. Should you have any doubts about that, perhaps our mutual friend can put your mind at rest.

There would be something sadistic about your mendacity and duplicity, Isabella, if it all wasn’t so very mindless, and my concern about whether you would be a good candidate for psychoanalysis is because I fear it would reinforce a pernicious lasciviousness in you, which is quite inappropriate for a woman of your notoriety.

I know you have a strong ego, but I worry also that when you learn that you are not the only one who is capable of prevarication that is, when you find that the woman he really loves is not your equal – not in physical beauty, not social status or material wealth, not even in professional recognition in her chosen field – the disappointment may be more miserable than the momentary pleasures of the flesh justify.

I am an ocean away and more than twice your age.

I am confident, then, that you will not feel threatened if I tell you that my feelings for him are just as deep as yours, and so it is with profound respect for both of you that I caution you against the adventure you are undertaking so blithely.

Perhaps you will come to your senses and send him on a plane to come and have some scones and a glass of burgundy with me. Better to love wisely than too well, and so on.

Best ever, Cordelia Jeffers Fellow, Royal Academy of Medicine

Maybe it was just the late hour but the letter made absolutely no sense to me at all. There were two or three others and I tried to skim through them to see if they were any more comprehensible. Was Isabella actually going back and forth to London to see a psychiatrist? There weren’t any copies of envelopes attached to the reports so there were no postmarks to check for the mailing origin. The writing was sophomoric and pretentious, and I found it hard to believe that it could be the jargon or the wisdom of a prominent therapist. Was I the ‘other woman’ referred to in the letter? No match for Isabella Lascar, it’s true – not her beauty, wealth, or fame, but certainly some recognition in my field. Was the mutual friend, in fact, Jed? More and more puzzles presented themselves instead of solutions, and I couldn’t decide if someone had actually had the premonition that Isabella would be in danger if she kept her rendezvous with Jed.

I looked at my watch and saw that it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. I dialed David Mitchell’s number and was about to give up after five rings when he answered the phone.

“David, did I awaken you?”

“No, no. Alex?” He sounded reserved and rather cool.

“Anything wrong?”

“No. But I’ve got some letters here – letters that someone sent to Isabella, maybe a psychiatrist, and I was wondering if you could take a look at them for me.”

He hesitated before responding.

“Sure. Do you think it can wait until morning?”

“Oh, David, I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask – are you in the middle of something?”

“Well, not exactly the middle, but I do have company and…”

“No problem. Let’s make a date for tomorrow. That’s fine.” Just because I’m Miss Lonelyhearts doesn’t mean the rest of the world has to stop for me.

“Come on in for coffee at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Bring the letters. I’m running at six-thirty, then a quick walk for Zac and I can give you as much time as you need.“

“And your company? This is kind of confidential. I think I’d rather wait and see you alone.”

“Gone with the first light of day, Alex. See you in the morning, okay?”

“Thanks.” I undressed, got into bed, and was asleep before I could even think about what the next day was going to bring.

The doorman rang my intercom shortly before seven-thirty on Wednesday morning to tell me that Dr. Mitchell was on his way upstairs and would like me to meet him in his apartment in five minutes. I had been up for almost an hour, getting ready to go to work and browsing through the Times for what seemed like the first day in more than a week. It helped greatly to put my personal situation in perspective to read that there had been yet another Ebola virus outbreak in Central Africa, a new Serbian uprising in a part of the Balkans I’d never heard of, and a recent discovery of mass graves containing hundreds of unidentified bodies in Guatemala. Humphrey Bogart was right: my problems don’t amount to a hill of beans in a world as full of trouble as this one.

David was just unleashing Prozac after their walk when I opened the door to his apartment. The dog greeted me warmly and we played tug-of-war with her chewed-up rawhide toy while David went into the kitchen to get the pot of coffee he had set up before going out to run. She nosed her way into my hand and invited me to rub behind her soft ears, and I was grateful for her early-morning display of affection.