I put my arms around her, blinked back tears. “I can’t believe you’ve been carrying that around all these years . . .”
Matt swallowed, his voice hoarse. “No wonder you never trusted the police.”
“My darling boy, it wasn’t that I didn’t trust them. I simply needed to get to know them before I could judge which cops were good and which weren’t.”
She paused, met my eyes.
“Mike’s a good cop,” I said quietly.
“I know he is, dear. Officer Quinn saved your life and Joy’s.” She squeezed my hand. “I don’t know why Cormac is back again, after all this time. But I have to trust that your blue knight will protect him from men like that deputy commissioner Hawke. If Cormac gets a fair hearing, I’m sure everything will turn out all right.”
I shifted on the sofa, suddenly queasy. “What did you say about Hawke? How do you know him?”
Madame blinked. “Didn’t I say? Larry Hawke was the name of the corrupt patrolman. The young officer who appeared on the roof, shot the dealer, Cormac’s partner, and tried to kill Cormac. Hawke was the cop who framed him.”
Shaken to the core, I sat frozen a moment. Finally, I rose and quietly excused myself.
In Madame’s bathroom, I sat on the edge of the tub, ran my fingers through my hair. In my bones I knew that Madame was telling the truth. But her facts ran completely counter to the police file.
Will Quinn believe me? Or will he claim Madame is just trying to protect her old boyfriend, like she did before?
I recalled the words we’d had at the dock about Franco. What would Quinn do? Side with me and Madame? Or with the towering command structure he’d trusted for his entire career?
I checked my watch. It was past midnight, but I had to call him, try to explain. I fumbled in my pocket, found my cell. A voice mail was waiting for me. Mike hadn’t rung through. He’d sent a silent message.
“Clare, listen to me carefully. This cold case has gotten complicated... and a little dangerous. I’m going to be out of touch. I’m not sure how long. You won’t be able to reach me through my cell or the police radio. Sully and I need to follow a few leads. For our own safety, we can’t be traceable. I can’t say more to you now, except . . . well, I think you’ll understand this. I’m about to pull a Franco . . .”
Oh my God.
“Try not to worry . . . and, please, do not tell anyone what I’ve just told you. It could put our lives in danger. Just . . . I don’t know, say a prayer for me today. I’m going to need it...”
Praying was the first thing I did, asking God to keep Mike and Sully and Franco safe. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, realizing in a whole new way what Madame must have felt all those years ago.
How do I make sense of this?
Did Mike hear the same story from Cormac and believe him? Were they trying to gather evidence and go to the Feds together? Or had Mike confronted Hawke, just like Franco? Did Hawke try to take Mike’s badge and gun? Or was it even worse? Did he try to take his life?
What in heaven’s name is happening?
I closed my eyes, bowed my head, and lost track of time. When a soft knock sounded on the door, I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Clare?”
I’d spent so long in the bathroom that Matt had grown concerned. I opened the door, moved into the hall.
“Are you okay?” Matt asked.
“I’m staying here with your mother tonight . . .”
“You look like hell,” he whispered, opening his arms.
I stepped into them.
Matteo’s body felt as strong as ever, as strong as his spirit, and I let him lend me that strength. Holding on tight, I let myself break, felt the hot tears dampen his shirt.
“Did Mother’s story upset you that much?” he whispered.
I wanted so badly to spill more than tears, tell Matt about the call, about Franco, Hawke, everything. But I felt bound by Quinn’s request. Just like Madame, I had no evidence of Hawke’s guilt, none. The only thing I could do for Mike Quinn was what he’d asked—not tell a soul what was happening. Not even my family.
“Please don’t cry,” Matt whispered, stroking my hair. “It’ll be okay . . .”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. But I find if you say it enough times—and click your heels—sometimes it is . . .”
“What are you? Glenda the Good Witch?”
“Naw. The good witch auditions aren’t till next week.”
I pulled away, swiping at my eyes. “Better tell Punch then. He’s willing to do drag to get into that show . . .”
Matt touched my wet cheek. I squeezed his hand. “Check on our daughter, okay? Let her know I won’t be back to the coffeehouse until late tomorrow.”
“Where are you going?”
“Your mother and I may not be able to help Cormac O’Neil or Mike Quinn, but we can do something to help Alicia Bower—and that’s what we’re going to do . . .”
Forty-Two
I rented a car and drove us east, toward the brightly rising sun. Bypassing the city’s gritty borough of Queens, we headed for the north shore of Long Island, land of quaint waterfront villages, pedigreed horses, and exclusive yacht clubs.
Over a dozen institutes of higher learning were located on the Island east of New York City. Bay Creek Women’s College was not among them—and for good reason. A decade ago, the school had gone coed, changing its name to Bay Village College.
According to its Web site, the campus’s Essen Library held the archives for student theses, and that was our destination. But we had a problem: neither Madame nor I knew Aphrodite’s real name.
I’d searched the Web, read her Wiki bio, her Facebook page (three million likes!), but Aphrodite had reinvented herself so aggressively, I had no clue where she was born or who she really was.
Fortunately, scholarly papers are generally cross-referenced by subject, so I was hopeful that any thesis referencing Laeta, Severa, or Rufina would be listed in the card catalog.
I didn’t think the paper itself would clue us to the killer’s identity. The real lead would be found on a lending card of some sort, the kind that listed all the people who’d accessed the thesis, hopefully stretching back years. If I found a familiar name—one who had motive and opportunity to frame Alicia and Sherri—that person would zoom to the top of my suspect list.
Now, as we crossed the lush green of the manicured campus, Madame openly admired the main library’s High-Victorian Gothic style. We quickly checked the brass plaque for the architect’s name and I noticed the building was a national landmark, which housed the college library, a collection of rare first editions, and the Juliana Gregg Saunders Archive and Reading Room.
Madame pointed at the plaque. “Who knew Juliana Saunders had a philanthropic bone in that venal body of hers?”
“You know the woman?”
“I’m afraid so. She’s one of Otto’s more disagreeable clients—and in oh-so-many ways. Last year she bid on a Chuck Close self-portrait because ‘it was just the right size’ to fit her two-story Park Avenue living room and the colors matched her brand-new Aubusson.”
“Ouch.”
“Thank goodness she lost the auction.”
“Yes . . .” I was smiling now but not because of the story. I realized Madame’s acquaintance with Ms. Saunders might be the miracle we needed, right when we needed it.
The Essen Library, a private institution at a private college, required a student or faculty ID to enter. Rather than try to explain ourselves at the dean’s office, I thought my work-around would save us valuable time.
“Do you think you can channel this Juliana Gregg Saunders? Imitate her mannerisms? Her attitude? Convince people you’re the real deal?”
“Why would I want to do that?” Madame suppressed a shudder.
I pointed out the security issue, and Madame agreed. As we ascended the steps to the library’s entrance, she slipped into her role and boldly took the lead.