“We don’t have a second,” said Sullivan, taking hold of his arm and yanking him away from the desk.
Astor wrested free and returned to gather up the annual reports as well as the articles Evans had printed out. “You said look for clues. These are clues.”
“I said look. Not steal. That’s obstruction.”
“I’ll let you explain once we’re arrested.”
Astor brushed past the detective and continued down the hall to Evans’s bedroom. Something in the first few paragraphs of the article Evans had been reading had stuck in Astor’s mind. He wasn’t sure what had caught his attention, only that it might be important. “Get that magazine on the bed,” he said. “My hands are full.”
Sullivan stood frozen in the doorway, as if nailed to the floor. “We don’t have time.”
“Just do it.”
“But-”
“I need it.”
Sullivan swore under his breath, then pried his feet loose and retrieved the magazine.
The sirens were louder now. Not one but two police cars.
Astor stopped at the bottom of the stairs, frightened, unsure whether to leave the house the same way they’d come. Sullivan nearly knocked him to the ground in his rush for the front door. “Forget the back,” he said. “Move.”
Astor slammed the front door behind him. As he ran to the car, he realized that he had dropped the handkerchief somewhere inside the house. He climbed into the passenger seat as Sullivan started the engine. In a burst of acceleration, the Audi crested the driveway and turned onto the street. Astor twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder. He caught sight of the first police car, but only for a second. The next, the Audi slid around a curve, and an army of trees blocked the road behind them from view. He remained in that position, watching, waiting, expecting at any moment to see the police car round the bend, lights blazing, siren going full-force. No one followed.
Astor put on the safety belt. He sat still, gazing straight ahead, saying nothing as he played back the last seconds in the house: the rushed theft of the annual reports, the mad scramble down the stairs and out the front door. He did not know where he’d dropped the handkerchief.
Sullivan looked shaken. “Take my word, Bobby. We did the smart thing.”
Astor didn’t respond. It wasn’t the handkerchief that bothered him. It was plain and white and lacking any monogram. It was something else. Something worse.
“What is it, kid? What’s wrong?” asked Sullivan, patting his leg in a fatherly manner. “Had enough of playing cop for one day?”
Astor looked away. In his mind’s eye, he was replaying the moment when, in his hurry to leave the house, he’d placed his bare left hand flat against the inside of Penelope Evans’s front door.
He could still feel the door’s smooth texture beneath his fingertips.
28
Alex stood with her back against the front door of her apartment. She didn’t want to be here. She had work to do.
She entered the kitchen and threw her jacket over the back of a chair. She ran a hand over her forehead and cheeks. Her fingers came away veneered with dirt and grime. She needed a shower and sleep. Janet McVeigh was right. She couldn’t perform at the top of her game as she was. But first she needed a drink.
Alex opened the fridge. In contrast to the stuffed refrigerator at Windermere, her own was sadly understocked. There was milk and juice and Katie’s energy drinks, plenty of condiments, and some cheese and yogurt, but not much to make a meal with. With a twinge of guilt, she recalled the platters of leftover spaghetti, lasagna, and veal, the neatly wrapped trays of cannolis, the brimming bowls of antipasto that occupied every inch of her mother’s refrigerator. True, her family owned a trattoria in Little Italy. It made sense that there was always lots of food. But being an FBI agent didn’t absolve her of the responsibility to feed her daughter.
Alex took a bottle of chardonnay off the shelf and poured a glass. She took a sip, then crossed to the sink and dumped the rest out. She was in no mood for ice-cold, slightly sour wine. She walked into the dining room, knelt to open the liquor cabinet, and selected a bottle of Patrón. She poured three fingers into a highball glass and drank it all. The tequila carved a blazing path to the pit of her stomach. She walked into the living room and made a slow, loving examination of the framed photographs that decorated the shelves. Pictures of summer vacations and Christmas holidays, of school pageants and family birthdays. Pictures of dogs and cats and the longest-living goldfish in Christendom. Pictures and more pictures. All of them just smoke and mirrors to disguise the truth that Mom hadn’t been around.
Alex poured herself another shot of tequila, this one smaller, and wandered down the hall to Katie’s room. The door was open and she entered. As usual, the room was in perfect order. The bed was nicely made, throw pillows arranged just so. The desk was clear. There wasn’t a drawer that wasn’t pushed all the way in. Alex wondered if it was normal for a teenager to be so neat or if it might represent some failing on her own part.
With a sigh, she sat down on the bed. She looked at the old cat clock on the wall, watching the eyes go back and forth ticking the seconds. Nostalgia filled her. The clock had belonged to her as a child and had held a similar place in her bedroom. She stood and noticed a piece of her daughter’s stationery on the night table.
A note.
Hi Mom,
I appreciate you letting me go to the lake. Ali and I can take care of ourselves. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m so sad about Grandpa Edward, but I’d be sadder just staying and hearing everyone tell me how sorry they are. I’m more worried about you. Try and do something for yourself while I’m gone. Go see a movie or even a show to take your mind off things. (Daddy always gets the best tickets-maybe you and he could go together. He might need cheering up, too.) Just don’t work all the time. Gotham will survive a day or two without you. And please, please, please tell me if you hear anything about what really happened to Grandpa Edward.
We’ll all be okay.
Love you tons,
K
Alex reread the note, then folded it and held it tightly in her hand. She was crying. A reflex made her peer over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching.
Her Katie, the strong one. She was a straight-A student, president of Model UN, and captain of the field hockey team at her high school. She made curfew without fail, and despite her sometimes snotty attitude toward her mother, she was never less than a polite, well-mannered, respectful young lady to others.
Her relationship with her grandfather had been loving, if distant. The two had been close when Katie was a little girl, but the demands of his job combined with the equally strenuous demands of being a teenage girl in New York City conspired to limit their contact to the usual holidays-Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter-and even then, one or the other was often away. Over time, he had slowly drifted out of their lives.
Alex went to the window. The view was to the southeast, and the sun shot darts off the Chrysler Building’s steel carapace. She put her hand to the glass. It was warm and comforting. She thought of Malloy and Mara. She would visit the families when she could. But not now. She couldn’t grieve yet. She was too close to it. Too fragile. She could feel a fissure forming inside her. She couldn’t allow it to split open. Not yet. There was too much to do. She could not allow emotion to interrupt her work.
She left the bedroom and headed to her own room. The guest bedroom merited a glance along the way. Bobby had slept there for two years before the divorce. The marriage had ended the day he left their bedroom. It seemed so obvious now.
Inside her bathroom, she undressed, throwing her blouse and slacks into the dry-cleaning pile. She started the shower while her mind continued on its tour of her failings. Wife, mother, and now, the role she would never admit to anyone else that she held most dear, FBI agent.