Drawing Conclusions (11 page)

twenty-one

Officer McDonald picked us
up shortly after the hordes of onlookers began to lose interest and started drifting away. With rivulets of blood dripping toward my wrist, at least a few bystanders seemed relieved that I appeared to be safe and coherent. DeRosa and I piled into McDonald's black and white, with me stuck in the back seat like a common criminal.

“I knew y'all were trouble,” McDonald joked.

“Can you do us favor?” DeRosa asked.

“I think you mean another favor,” I noted from the back seat.

“As long as you don't use my name at the stationhouse. Remember, I'm gunning for promotion, not demotion.”

“Can you get us access to security footage from the station? I'd like to see if Igor made contact with anyone before or after the incident.”

“I can do that. What else?”

“Hello?” I said holding my hand like an Olympic torch. “I've got Igor's DNA dripping down my arm.”

“That's the problem with television crime shows,” DeRosa grumbled. “Everyone thinks there's some master database of instantly accessible DNA.”

“Humor me,” I replied.

“Officer McDonald, can you set CeCe up with an evidence swab while I head over to the NIH?” DeRosa asked and then he turned to me, speaking through the police-grade chicken wire. “CeCe, I'll pick you up at the station on the way back, but you have to promise to stay put. Do not move until I return. Igor was sizing up his opportuni
ty today, but it wasn't the right scene for him. He'll make another attempt because this is his job and he doesn't get paid until you're dead.”

“Why can't I come with you?”

“Because I'm no match for your impulsivity.”

“I'll be bored,” I whined.

“And alone,” DeRosa answered. “You can kill time on the phone with Charlie. You owe him a call. I'll be back later, and we'll catch an evening flight.”

“You're too tough on her,” McDonald remarked. “You never know with a DNA sample. It could turn something up.”

“See?” I said.

DeRosa adjusted the rearview mirror to catch my reflection. “I do see, but I'd like to return you to Long Island in one piece.”

“So I guess my death would be bad for your reputation?”

“Actually, I'm referring to your brains. Your insight is becoming invaluable.” He smiled into the mirror before turning to McDonald.
“Keep her safe. You don't want to deal with her father. Something goes wrong, he'll have you transferred so far south you'll be directing traffic in Puerto Rico.”

“I'm on it,” McDonald said, tipping his head once more.

twenty-two

Defying all odds of
air travel statistics, DeRosa and I ended up with the same seating arrangements on the flight back to New York as we had the way down. Once again, I piled between the two children from the annoying family of five, now cranky and exhausted from touring the capital's monuments. DeRosa fared no better seated in front of me. I could see his broad shoulders shifting uncomfortably so as not to agitate the kids on either side of him.

As the flight taxied down the runway, he attempted to twist his girth over the seat to ask me a question. “What did Charlie want?”

“Plenty of drama at home.” I inched forward and spoke through the crack between the airplane seats. “Jonathan and Trina are heavy into their own version of couples counseling sans counselor, and Charlie feels stuck in the middle.”

“Would he rather be chased by the Russian mob?”

“Hands down,” I replied, knowing full well Charlie was not a source for relationship advice—unless you wanted tips on breaking up or cheating. “Then there's Becky. Charlie thinks she's planning on moving out. Too much upheaval.”

As I'd told Charlie, Becky was never a perfect fit for the house, and I couldn't blame her if she wanted out. Not that she paid rent, but free room and board wouldn't seem all that attractive in the midst of a murder investigation. Even if she could handle the constant police presence, I thought the real reason she wanted out was that she had caught on to Charlie's sudden interest in his old flame.

“What evidence does he have?”

“She borrowed the Gremlin a few times and she's been on Craigslist. Good signs she's shopping around for a new apartment.”

“Did she say anything to you?” DeRosa replied.

I didn't feel comfortable explaining that Becky had probably figured out I'd slept with Charlie recently. If I were her, I'd want to leave too. “No, she never mentioned it to me.”

“That's because she's avoiding you.”

“Why would Becky avoid me?” I said.

“Because you slept with her boyfriend,” he answered.

“What are you,” I asked, “a cop?”

“I'll speak with her tomorrow. She'll need to leave a forwarding address in case we have to contact her.”

“I'll see if I can talk to her when we get back,” I said, wondering how I could make amends with Becky. I tried to switch the subject. “So what happened with Naomi's boss at NIH?”

“Not much, and I grilled the guy pretty hard.” He sounded frustrated at hitting a wall. “It was like interviewing a cop about another cop.”

“I'll bet the NIH works just as hard as the Sound View labs at quashing negative press. Naomi's boss probably prepped ahead of time and stuck to the script. Frank, try to remember that for all the amazing advancements these scientific organizations produce, getting there requires them to push the boundaries. Think about the controversy over stem-cell research. These guys are experts at managing perception. If Naomi was involved in something scandalous, it's being managed internally at a very high level.”

“Then I need to find one disgruntled employee to blow it up.” DeRosa turned his back to me. I suspected he could devise a way to infiltrate the NIH—no simple challenge, but one his strategic brain would welcome.

I sat back and glanced at the child next to me. I should have known better than to make eye contact. Engaging fussy children on an airplane is like catching the eye of a deranged person in Central Park; both actions have negative endings.

She was a tiny spot of a girl with old-fashioned pigtails that had worked their way into enormous knots. I had rather un-fond memories of my own bristled hair being torn at by one nanny or another. I imagined the little girl crying in frustration as her mother tugged at her hair bands. Without asking, she handed me her coloring book and a few crayons. I quickly sketched an exact replica of the youngest brother, whom I had identified earlier as the bastard child. I handed the page to her, and she giggled loudly. Stretching her arm around the chair, she handed my drawing to the brother seated next to DeRosa. The drawing came back with a big red X through it. We played this game for a while, with me drawing all her family members from memory and the brother crossing them out.

Finally, one drawing came back of an adult with chin-length hair and blue eyes, a cartoon-like character executed by someone with absolutely no aptitude for art. There was an arrow pointed at the face with the word
you
. DeRosa had tried his hand at a portrait of me.

I always traveled with my sketching pencils in the same worn case I've used since junior high school. If he wanted the real thing, he would get it and it would be professional. I claimed a clean sheet of paper from the little girl and the blank tableau generated the same excitement as it had since I was the same age as my airplane companion. For an artist, absence represents the beginning of something wonderful, the opportunity to literally fill in the blanks with a personal interpretation of visual stimulation. In this case, the object was me. I worked through my facial features with ease. Of course it was hard to resist covering up my own physical flaws, yet I tried to be fair without being overly generous in my self-portrait. I showed it to my drawing partner, and she smiled her encouragement. I added an arrow with the word
me
and let the little girl pass it back to DeRosa. It was returned instantly.

Is this what you think you look like?
he scribbled in all masculine capitals.

It IS what I look like
, I wrote back.

I saw his arm moving as he wrote his reply. He passed the sketch to the boy, who then passed it on to his sister. Eventually it landed on my food tray.

Give Charlie some credit
,
the note said.

My cheeks grew red with embarrassment. Did DeRosa just comment on my relationship with Charlie, my physical appearance, or both? Either way, I felt exposed by my own art. Sensing my discomfort, the little girl tugged at my sleeve, and I bent down to hear her secret.

“You're much prettier,” she said pointing to my sketch. Apparently DeRosa thought so too. Suddenly I felt enormous seated between two preschool children, like a seven-foot woman in a crowd of midgets. Driven by a self-conscious urge, I fled for the bathroom like a wallflower at the school dance, but the tight confines of the water closet provided no relief. I splashed water on my cheeks, delaying the inevitable march back to my seat.

I returned to my row to find DeRosa seated in my chair. The little girl had been placed, in protest, next to her brother. I took her spot under duress, my portrait balanced on the detective's knees.

“How did you read the YWS financial statements so quickly?” he asked.

“I started a charity in my late teens,” I admitted without hesitation. I lifted the picture from DeRosa's lap and folded it several times before putting it in my pocketbook.

“The plane lands in twenty minutes. A confession takes less time than an interrogation.”

“There's nothing to confess because I have nothing to hide. And my charity has nothing to do with the case.”

“Then the floor is all yours.” DeRosa swept his arm welcoming my story. He settled into his beer as I recounted the events of my early life.

At the age of eighteen, Teddy and I gained access to two separate trust funds: one established by my maternal grandmother and the other by the Prentice family. As the days ticked down to my eighteenth birthday, the tension in our house was explosive, and even a minor action like my purchasing a recycling bin was met with an argument. So fearful was my father that I would donate the entirety of my portion of the trust to an obscure environmental foundation, that he engaged a top law firm to extract my name from the Prentice trust fund. On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, my place in the Prentice line was legally removed, as well as that of any offspring I might bring into the world. My mother was helpless to fight the disinheritance and sunk deeper into her bottle.

It was a conversation I had with Teddy shortly after my disinheritance that inspired me to start a charity. He reminded me that I still had access to the other trust fund. Teddy and I discussed a future for the money at length with our grandmother, an open-minded woman who blessed us with unconditional love. With her guidance, Teddy and I decided to tackle two goals at once.

First, I would take the money from our mother's family and create a charity that funded art programs in the inner city. Art had been my savior all through my school years, and I wanted to give the same gift to underprivileged children. My grandmother's social reach was impressive, and she became instrumental in recruiting a board with members composed of former art teachers, museum presidents, and school principals. At the age of nineteen, I made myself the executor of the newly formed charity, giving me final signoff on all expenses. It was an exhilarating and heady time for me. It was also a planned fiscal nightmare. Earmarking the trust for art programs rendered me penniless, but that was the crux of the second goal. If I truly believed in Freeganism, what better way to practice it than without the cushion of money? Dumpster diving takes on a whole new meaning when your pocket is empty. My grandmother gave me Harbor House as seed money, and we held back a chunk of cash to renovate the house, with a piece put aside for major repairs. It was almost insane for my grandmother to indulge my passion, but I tried to keep in mind that this was the same woman who had happily allowed my mother to traipse unescorted through Europe a few decades previously. She balanced her whimsy with a piece of solid advice: real estate is always a good investment and ignoring upkeep is the equivalent of throwing money away.

As the plane made its descent, I wrapped up my discourse by listing the city schools that had benefited from my converted trust. “Any questions?” I asked, satisfied that I had answered DeRosa's initial inquiry concerning my ability to read YWS's tax statements.

“Yes,” he said. “A decade has passed. Can't your father see what good you've done?”

“He doesn't know all that much about my charity work.”

“CeCe, that's short-sighted. You're purposely driving the wedge between you and your father deeper.”

With my mouth turned down in frustration to hold back years of pent-up resentment, I presented DeRosa with the rationale I had played over and over in my head.

“How can a father not see the good in his own child? Why does my father need unbiased proof? Granted, I was a challenging teen, but I wasn't a bad person. I'm curious, I questioned, and I debated. That's how I learn and strangely enough that is how scientists bring new theories to light. He of all people should recognize these qualities in his daughter. How could my own father not see the real me?”

“I don't know,” DeRosa answered, as if he took the blame for all the wrongdoing purported by males over the centuries.

“Then, I'll tell you. My father favored Teddy and he wouldn't allow me the qualities that DNA usually reserves for boys. Despite all of my father's efforts to manipulate the genetic code for the benefit of humankind, he attempted to thwart my ability to live up to my DNA, the same DNA I inherited from him.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Well that's the best I can come up with, and God knows I've been ruminating over this for years. Parents play favorites, and I'm not my father's favorite,” I added. “I will take some of the blame, though. When I realized my position in the family, I antagonized my dad, and I do regret that.” This last fact was a recent revelation for me. My father's kiss on my forehead days earlier had moved me, and I had to accept that although I made life difficult for my parents, my father still had room in his heart for me.

“I have another theory,” DeRosa offered. “You said your father is researching epigenetics, the ability to alter a human's DNA?”

“Yes, that's his primary research.”

“And solving this scientific mystery could result in epic medical discoveries?”

“Yes. If it happens, the world will change dramatically.”

“Well then, is it possible that despite all his research, he can't prove it? Maybe he's come to the conclusion that DNA can't be changed and that's why he can only see you in one dimension.”

I didn't have a quick comeback for that accusation. And a hefty accusation it was. The idea that my father had failed in his scientific efforts was mindboggling. Before I could answer, DeRosa continued.

“And on top of that, you're broke.”

“Completely. It's the only way to really live free.”

He swigged his beer slowly, giving himself time to digest my brain dump. It was easy now to see when DeRosa thought hard. He had a tendency to clench his jaw with his bottom lip jutting out as if he were chewing on the facts. His jaw muscles ground away. For a few moments I experienced a sense of relief that I had absolutely nothing more to reveal.

“CeCe, I need to ask you a sensitive question.” His voice lowered a notch, although I couldn't imagine how much heavier this conversation could get. “Did Teddy have a will, and is there any chance that you are the beneficiary of his will?”

“So now I killed my brother to get access to the same money my father kept from me?”

“Not exactly. I'm wondering if being the benefactor of Teddy's will is making you a target.”

“Interesting,” I replied, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, DeRosa laughed.