We turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, nodded as Jessica Blaine and Mary descended into the pool of light cast by the single overhead bulb at the foot of the stairway.
"Tom spent so many hours down here," the black woman with the gray eyes and silver hair said wistfully, glancing around the dusty work space. "I'm sorry it's so dirty. Tom would never let me clean down here-he said there were too many toxic chemicals, and he didn't want me near any of them. Tom was really a very tidy man. I just don't want you to think. ."
"There's no need to apologize, Jessica," Garth said. "Tom had a lot more important things on his mind than a few cobwebs in his office."
"Is there something in particular you're looking for?"
"As a matter of fact, there is: Tom's most recent ledger. It doesn't seem to be down here. Is it possible he could have left it around someplace upstairs, and you put it away?"
The silver-haired woman shook her head. "He always kept everything down here, and he would usually take his new journal with him out on the boat. When he didn't, he always left it right there on top of his desk."
Garth and I looked at each other, and my brother grimaced slightly. I knew what he was thinking. We had the jugs he had been carrying on his trawler Sunday night, but knowing what was in them, or even where they had come from, wouldn't necessarily be of any value. We had to know who he'd caught, or what the riverkeeper had been up to on Tuesday night, and that record-along with any samples he might have taken before he died-had disappeared from his boat before it ran aground in Piermont.
"Mrs. Blaine," I said, "has anybody else been down here since Tom's death? The police, maybe?"
She looked puzzled. "No. Why would the police want to come down here?"
A good question. Harry Tanner had made it clear that the Cairn police considered the matter outside their jurisdiction, the Coast Guard was showing no interest, the state police-assuming they were potential players-hadn't even put in an appearance, and Garth and I were the only ones who thought there might be something suspicious about Tom Blaine's death in the first place.
"Mrs. Blaine, with your permission, I'd like to take the most recent samples Tom gathered, the contents of three of those green plastic jugs, back to the city to be analyzed."
"Of course, if you want to," the woman replied, then frowned slightly. "But why? Do you think what happened to Tom could have been. . caused by somebody?"
I wasn't sure how to reply. There seemed no reason whatsoever to flog the emotions of a grieving widow further with conjecture about the possibility that her husband had been murdered. On the other hand, by asking her questions and rummaging around in her husband's office, Garth and I were openly displaying our concern, if not outright skepticism, over the manner in which the incident was being treated by the authorities; the eerie circumstances of the man's death seemed to speak for themselves, even if no one but Garth and I seemed to be listening. But I had no business raising false expectations, or committing the time and resources of Frederickson and Frederickson to an investigation that should properly be handled by the police or Coast Guard. In short, I wasn't quite sure what I was doing or wanted to do;
I didn't know how far I was willing to pursue the matter, and I didn't want to further upset Jessica Blaine.
It was Garth who came up with the right reply. "Jessica, Tom devoted his life to cleaning up the Hudson and keeping it clean, for all of us. Mary and I live on the river, and the beauty she and I enjoy every day is in no small part due to Tom's efforts. He died in the line of duty. Mongo and I would just like to find out what he was working on at the end, so that maybe we can finish his final business for him."
The woman seemed pleased, and she nodded. "Yes. Tom would like that. Thank you."
Garth walked out to the car with me, helped me load the plastic jugs in the trunk. I said, "How's it going with Mary, if I may ask?"
"You may ask." His voice was even, but his brown eyes reflected warmth, gratitude. "She's still a little nervous, but I think things are going to be all right now. I don't know what you said to her, but it seems to have straightened her head out. I owe you, brother."
"Glad to be of service," I replied, getting into the car. "I'll call you."
I dropped the jugs off at a commercial substance-testing laboratory we regularly used, then went back to the brownstone. I parked in the underground garage, then went up the stairs that led to my offices on the first floor. When I walked in, Francisco jumped up out of his chair as if someone had stuck him with a pin. My secretary's razor-cut black hair was rumpled, as if he had been running his fingers through it; he looked pale, his paisley tie was askew, and there were sweat stains around the collar and in the armpits of his blue silk shirt.
"What is it, Francisco? What's the matter?"
He grabbed a piece of paper off the top of his desk, held it out to me with a hand that trembled. "Sir, you're to call this number right away. Garth. . Sir, your brother's dead."
Chapter Six
I took the piece of paper from the slight Puerto Rican's hand and stared stupidly at the writing on it, trying to figure out just what it was I felt on hearing the news that my brother was dead. All I seemed able to identify were the things I didn't feeclass="underline" I didn't feel the shock I thought I should be experiencing; I didn't feel ill; I didn't feel grief. I didn't even feel sad. I didn't feel anything at all, except stupid; suddenly I couldn't remember what day it was, or what I had been doing since I'd gotten up that morning. I couldn't even remember why I'd come into the office; I wondered if it might not be a good idea to go out and come back in again to see what would happen, as if this were a bad dream that might come out differently if I repeated some action. I busied myself with working at the details of the day and time, and why I'd asked Francisco to come in on a Saturday to help me with a backlog of paperwork, and where I'd been, and when I finally remembered it all, I found myself right back where I had been when I'd forgotten, standing beside my secretary's desk, staring vacantly at the number written on the piece of paper, my vision blurring.
Francisco tentatively reached out to touch me, then drew his hand back. "Mongo, I'm so sorry."
"Yeah," I replied in a perfectly normal tone of voice. "Me too."
"Are you all right?"
"I don't think so, Francisco. I don't think so."
"I. . Do you want me to make the call?"
"No, Francisco."
"Mongo?"
"Yes, Francisco?"
"I, uh. . You had four appointments on Monday morning, and you were due in court in the afternoon to testify in the Handley industrial espionage case. I've canceled the appointments, and the D.A. has agreed to reschedule your testimony. I was able to reach him at home."
"Thank you, Francisco."
"Sir, I … I don't know what to say."
"What's to say? You can take the rest of the day off."
"Sir?"
"You can go home now. Thanks for coming in."
"Mongo," Francisco stammered, "it's your brother. I want to help in some way."
"Thank you, Francisco. There's nothing to do. It's really not that big a deal. People die all the time. Living, you know, is a very risky business; like they say, nobody gets out of it alive anyway. Haven't you heard that? By rights, Garth and I should have been dead a long time ago. Hell, we've certainly been responsible for enough other people kicking off. Today was Garth's turn. No big deal."
"Mongo, you don't look or sound good at all. Please let me-"
"Please just let yourself go home, Francisco. I want to be alone, if that's all right with you. I don't need any help. I'm okay."