On the ride back to the city we thought aloud about all the possible links among Ivan's fraud investigation, the domestic violence complaints, and Lola's death.
The scene in front of 417 Riverside Drive was a much calmer one than the one the night of the murder. Mike rang the bell in the vestibule next to Lavery's name and within a minute, through the intercom, a voice said, "Yes?"
Mike muffled his mouth with his hand and spoke a single word: "Bart." "Bart" was a few hours late, but still welcome enough for Lavery to buzz us into the lobby. We entered together and walked to the elevator.
When we reached the sixteenth floor, the door to Lavery's apartment was ajar. I could hear someone speaking on the telephone, so I pushed it wider and Mike came inside behind me. The man whom we assumed to be Lavery was standing with his back to us. His conversation was ending, and he thanked his caller before he hung up and turned around, startled to see us.
"I'm Mike Chapman. NYPD Homicide," Mike said, flipping his gold shield out of its case. "This is Alexandra Cooper. Manhattan DA's Office. We've been-"
"Not exactly who I was expecting when I let you in, Detective." Lavery walked to the doorway behind us and stuck his head out in the hallway. "Is Bart coming along, too?"
I could sense that if Lavery did not yet know about Bart's accident, Mike wasn't going to tell him. "He's had a rough day. I doubt he's gonna make it."
Lavery was clearly puzzled. He walked to the CD player on the bookshelf along the far wall and lowered the volume. If Chapman had been expecting Bob Marley and the Wailers, with Lavery smoking weed through a wooden pipe, he must have been disappointed. A Beethoven adagio provided the soft background to our conversation. Lavery had apparently been sitting at a desk in front of his park-view window, working longhand on some piece of writing. He was dressed in African garb and still had his hair done in dreadlocks.
"Bart's been a friend of ours for a long time. He decided, after you two spoke on the phone, that he really didn't want to meet with you alone. He thinks it would be better if you say what you want to say to the two of us."
Lavery's expression gave nothing away, but he seemed too smart to trust the situation. Or the cop who was giving him the once-over.
He folded his arms across his chest and looked at me. "Aren't you the woman handling the investigation into Lola Dakota's death? I recognize your name from the news stories." His voice was a deep baritone, and he spoke in a measured cadence. "Yes, we're both working on that case."
"Lola was a dear friend of mine. And a great supporter, in what have been some difficult days for me." He turned away to walk to a living area, motioning us to follow. "I suppose you've heard about that?" He asked it in the form of a question, not quite sure what to think.
"Yeah, we know a bit about it."
"Lola has stood by me from the outset. Taken my part with the administration. I shall miss her friendship terribly."
"Actually, that's what we'd like to talk to you about. We've been trying to reach you-"
"Would you mind if I called Bart, Detective? I'd prefer to-" "Bart's out of the picture, Mr. Lavery. For the time-" "Doctor. It's Doctor Lavery." He lowered himself into an armchair and we sat opposite him.
"You got a stethoscope, a prescription pad, and a license to practice medicine, then I'll call you 'doctor.' Every other 'ologist' who writes a dissertation on some useless theoretical load of crap is just plain old 'mister' to me."
"Professor…" I tried to start anew. "Ah, the diplomat on the team."
"Yeah, the Madeleine Albright of the Manhattan District Attorney's Office. She wants to know the same thing I do. Bart was kind of surprised when you called. He didn't know you were back in New York."
"I arrived home last evening. Around eleven o'clock." "We've been trying to interview all of Ms. Dakota's associates and friends. I hope you don't mind if we ask a few questions?" I tried smiling at him. "They're quite routine."
"If it will assist you in finding the beast who did this, I’m pleased to help."
"When did you leave town, Professor? I mean, where were you coming from last evening?"
"I flew to visit friends during Christmas week. Went to St. Thomas, in the Caribbean."
"When did you leave town exactly?"
"On December twenty-first. I've still got the ticket right here. I can show it to you, if that's necessary."
"That's two days after Lola was killed. Last Saturday, am I right?"
"I guess it was. I debated about staying for her funeral in New Jersey on Monday, but my friends were expecting me and I didn't think there was anything I could do to be useful. Many of our colleagues didn't share Lola's feelings about my work."
"The guys from my squad canvassed the building on Friday. Miss Cooper and I have read those reports. I understand you were here in the apartment on the afternoon of the murder."
"Yes, I talked to the police. Of course, I have no idea what time it was when all this happened to Lola."
"Don't worry about that. Why don't you just tell us what you were doing that day?"
"Thursday the nineteenth… let me think a moment. Most days, I work from my home instead of the office over at King's. As you must be aware, I've been suspended from the college while they examine this glitch with my grant."
A several-hundred-thousand-dollar glitch, I thought to myself.
"I seem to recall going out in the morning to pick up some things I needed for the trip. The drugstore, the bank, the film shop. That sort of thing. It was snowing, and I remember coming home to work on a study that I've had to write up for the government. Never went outside again. I sat right at this table and kept looking across as the snow covered the bare limbs of the trees in Riverside Park, thinking over and over again that I'd be swimming in turquoise waters in a matter of days.
"Frivolous thoughts, really, when I heard later what had been going on down below. With Lola, I mean. I didn't hear the slightest bit of disturbance. I think that's what will always torment me."
Lavery seemed to be sincerely troubled.
"No loud voices arguing? No screams? No sounds of a struggle?"
"Exactly what does a struggle sound like, Detective?"
Mike was stumped. There had been no furniture overturned in Lola's apartment, no bruising to suggest a prolonged attack by her assailant. Just a wool scarf that had been pulled too tight for too long around her neck. It had caused her to be unable to breathe, and perhaps unable to scream as well.
"I have this tendency, you see, to sit here at my writing table, absorbed in my work no matter what kind of commotion is going on around me or outside on the street. It's a trait that has served me quite well in my career. And when I'm here at home, I've always got music playing. Sometimes a bit too loud, but then these old buildings were really built solid. They absorb the noise pretty well. Every now and then," Lavery said with a slight grin "after a particularly booming crescendo, my friend Lola would bang on the pipes that ran up through her living room into mine.
"But the day she died," he said, somber again, "I can't say I heard anything at all."
"How well did you know Ms. Dakota?"
"Quite well, both professionally and socially. We were in different disciplines, of course, but she was a bit of a maverick, as I am and she was interested in my approach to the urban drug problem Away from the school, we spent some time together, too."
"Did you ever date?"
"Nothing like that. But we could sit up till the middle of the night, arguing about solutions for the homeless or the mentally ill. There was no off switch to Lola. She was always thinking and working and doing."
"Had you seen much of her in the days before her death?"
He took a long time to answer. "I have become so engulfed in my own legal entanglements, unfortunately, that I've tended to push most of my friends out of the way. I'm trying to recall the last time Lola and I had a good, long go-at-it together."