A couple of guys from the funeral home lifted the stone block into place, and that was it. Nobody but the priest gave a eulogy, which was weird. It looked like it was over.
One more thing she had to do, although Tesla hadn’t told her to, and probably didn’t want her to. Whatever. It was the right thing to do.
She walked over to Mrs. Tesla and held out her hand. “My name is Vivian Torres. I’m here on behalf of your son.”
The woman shook her hand. She wore silk gloves, like a movie star, but her tiny hand was surprisingly strong.
“Thank you for coming.” Mrs. Tesla waved her hand at the phone in her pocket. “And thank you, too, Joe.”
“Would you like to speak to him, ma’am?” Vivian fished the phone out of her pocket. Tesla would probably be furious he was being ambushed like this, but the least he could do was talk to his mother. She needed him, and he probably needed her, too.
Mrs. Tesla took the phone and turned away. Speaking in a low voice, she walked a few steps to the wall. Her finger traced the S in SMITH on the plaque.
Her good-looking older escort made a move to follow her, but Vivian intervened. “Had you known George Tesla long, Mr.…?”
“Hugh Hollingberry.” He shook his head. “I never met the man, but my fiancée was married to him once, many years ago.”
Fiancée? Knowing how rich Joe Tesla was, an alarm bell went off in her head. Mrs. Tesla seemed as if she could take care of herself, but even the toughest of women might have a blind spot about men. “I didn’t realize you were engaged to Mrs. Tesla.”
“Two years ago,” he said, which took him out of suspicion. Joe Tesla had been crazy rich for less than a year. “She humors me. How did you know the deceased?”
“I’m a…friend of his son’s.” That made it sound like she was sleeping with him, but she couldn’t say she’d been hired to cover the funeral, even if his mom would probably tell the man anyway.
“The mysterious software genius.” Hollingberry glanced over at Mrs. Tesla. “I’ve yet to meet him. What’s he like?”
“Mysterious.” She softened her non-answer with a smile. “How’d you meet Mrs. Tesla?”
He pointed to a looped ribbon that looked like the pink ones she’d seen for breast cancer, but this one was denim blue. “I met her at a charity event I sponsored to raise funds and awareness for rare genetic diseases.”
Vivian hadn’t expected that answer. She’d Google him later, but she doubted this guy was after Mrs. Tesla’s money. He sounded as if he had money of his own. “A pretty good cause.”
“I think so.” His blue eyes lit up, and he spoke with a passion that reminded her of Tesla. “My sister died from a rare genetic disease, and I realized how few resources are devoted to them. But these diseases can have profound effects not just on those who suffer from them, but also on our understanding of genetics as a whole. I believe these conditions hold the secrets to understanding many of the body’s processes, like aging, metabolism, mental illness, how—”
Mrs. Tesla had returned. “There now, Holly, no need to bore the young woman.”
“It sounds fascinating,” Vivian countered.
Hollingberry took Mrs. Tesla’s arm. “Are we ready to go home, my dear?”
Mrs. Tesla handed Vivian her phone and thanked her, then the two walked across the grass, through the passageway, and turned left at the street. Vivian decided she liked them both.
She looked at the phone in her hand. She was still connected to Tesla. She popped the phone into her pocket and turned so he could see the wall where his father was entombed and the two old guys who seemed to be the only other mourners. The priest and the two men from the funeral home waited as if they had all the time in the world, although they, more than most, had to know that wasn’t true.
Deciding Tesla might want to learn more about those mourners, she headed toward them. The cemetery was a beautiful place — an island of green and peace in the middle of Manhattan. She hoped that came through on the phone and gave Tesla some comfort.
“Hello.” The taller of the two was Indian, with thick black hair, a good-looking face, and large brown eyes. “I’m Professor Patel, and this is Professor Egger.”
Vivian felt like she was back in school. “Vivian Torres.”
The bald man with the crazy beard held out his hand for a shake. He, too, wore a black suit, but had paired it with an egg-yolk-yellow bow tie that looked jarring at a funeral. He’d taken off his jacket earlier, but he’d put it back on for the service. “I’m Professor Egger, but you can call me Eggy. Everyone else does.”
Well, that explained the tie. An inside joke.
“Please tell us you are a mysterious beauty who helped to ease George’s last hours.” Patel smiled. “Give some old men hope.”
“I’m a colleague of his son’s,” she said. “I never met Professor Tesla, Senior.”
Egger looked as if he held back a smile. “Ah, Professor Tesla.”
He stressed the last name in a way that piqued her interest. “He didn’t like being a Tesla?”
“To the contrary, he loved being a Tesla very much.” Egger straightened his bow tie.
“He wasn’t, of course.” Patel had a slight Indian accent.
“Wasn’t what?” Vivian wished she’d turned the phone off. She had a feeling Joe wouldn’t want to hear whatever was coming.
“In America, you can change your name to whatever you want.” Egger fussed with his yellow tie again. “I could be George Washington if I wanted to.”
Chapter 6
People swirled around Joe, heading for the doors, the tracks, the shops. Everyone was in transit to somewhere else. He was as stuck here as the clock or the light fixtures.
He sighed. He’d get back outside again someday. For now, he was waiting to meet his mother for dinner. They’d set the time and place when he talked to her at the funeral, but he’d kept his phone out of its Faraday cage since in case she changed the plans.
His phone rang, and he glanced at the screen, expecting to see a picture of his mother, but it was Celeste. A picture of her from the days when they dated in college flashed across the screen. Her smile still gave him butterflies.
He couldn’t talk to her here. Her voice was hard to hear under the best conditions.
With Edison at his heels, he scooted across the concourse to the Biltmore Room, also known as the Kissing Room. Originally, passengers met in this room to travel to the luxurious Biltmore Hotel. Later, it became a meeting place for families waiting for incoming troops — a place to kiss them hello. These days the room was usually deserted, but the station had plans to restore it into a new hub. For now, it was the only quiet place in the concourse.
He sat down next to an abandoned shoeshine stand. He liked the Biltmore Room, not just because he cherished the quiet, but also because it was a time capsule — from its old-fashioned signs to the slate board with the arrival and departure times of long-forgotten trains printed in dusty chalk.
He called Celeste back and listened to the faraway ringing. Edison sat next to him, attentive and on duty.
“Hello!” said Celeste in her now-breathy voice. She had good days and bad days since she’d been diagnosed with ALS, but even the good days weren’t that good anymore. Still, she sounded stronger than yesterday.
“Greetings,” he answered.
“Are you home?” she asked. “Haunting the old boards?”
“I can’t go down right now. They’re inspecting the elevator, so I can plummet to my death with the proper inspection certificate in front of me.”
“That elevator is perfectly safe! It hasn’t killed anyone in over a hundred years.”
“Makes it due. Those ancient cables will snap. Game over.”
“I think that’s only happened one time. The Empire State Building, in 1945 when a B-25 bomber crashed into it and damaged the cables. How likely is that to happen underground?” A quick wheeze told him she’d spoken too long.