Drawing Conclusions (5 page)

“Hey, unless that gadget can deflect a bullet, it's not going to help us right now!”

“I think we're off Igor's radar,” Charlie said. “He took a couple of pot shots at you and now he's aiming for DeRosa.”

I peeked out the windshield at the exact moment DeRosa went down like a bag of M&M's with a hole in the bottom.

eight

Huntington Hospital was becoming
an all-too-familiar place. A few of the nurses remembered my name, and I was practiced enough to ask for a size small hospital robe. Charlie had a slight concussion, I had two cracked ribs, and a bullet had grazed Detective DeRosa's shoulder. We were functioning, but we had been beaten, and the overall mood ranged from confusion to disbelief. Since it was evident at this point that a real threat against my life had taken place, the three of us were placed in a single room with round-the-clock surveillance.

Detective DeRosa pushed the remains of lunch away and grabbed for his ringing cell phone. He looked at the number and handed the phone to me mouthing the words
your father
.

“Hey Dad,” I said into the phone, “about that limo you sent for me.” I smiled weakly to DeRosa and Charlie, trying to make the best of a miserable situation. I listened quietly to my father and then held the phone against my chest to address DeRosa and Charlie. “He says he didn't send the limo,” I whispered.

“I'm aware of that,” DeRosa replied as I returned the phone to my ear.

“I'm a little banged up, Dad. My ribs are sore, but I'm okay,” I said, thinking how strange it was that I needed a direct threat on my life to get my father's attention. “I think Charlie and Detective DeRosa took the worst of it.” I listened to my father, who was clearly agitated at this bizarre turn of events. His voice took on a deep bellow, and I pulled the phone away from my ear as the volume increased.

“Absolutely not,” I said to my father. “Thank you for the offer, but I don't want to go that route.” I begged off the phone, hitting end while my father was still speaking. “He wants to hire a bodyguard for me,” I said to Charlie. “Can you imagine?”

“It's not a bad idea,” Charlie said. “Tell me you're not just a little bit freaked out.”

I considered his comment. If the eggs were an isolated case, it would be easy enough to explain. Being hijacked by a rogue limo driver was another story. The coupling of these events was indeed disturbing and made me nervous in a way I had never experienced. Yet at the same time, I felt an urgent need to keep my head clear, as if reality had slapped me silly. If someone were after me, I'd need every advantage I could muster; keeping my head together was a priority.

“What do you think, detective?” I asked.

“It's not a great idea,” DeRosa explained. “I spoke to your father about protection earlier. I'd prefer the police department be the sole provider of security. The more parties involved, the more screening for the department. Coordination is key, and an outside provider complicates the effort. That being said, these threats are real and you need coverage—but I'd still prefer the police provide the protection.”

“Well, I guess I should take comfort knowing my life has some value,” I said, “Of course this issue with the limo presents a conundrum. Should I be relieved my father didn't send a limo driven by a hit man or hurt that he didn't send a limo for my brother's funeral?”

“You should be racking your brain to find a link between you and your brother,” DeRosa replied.

“Hey, Igor was shooting at you too. Successfully, may I add.”

“That's because the county is paying me to protect you.”

“So now it's you who's collateral damage?”

“Part of the job.”

“What do we know about Igor the limo driver?” I asked.

“Only what you've told us, CeCe. Short, beefy guy with a Slavic look. The riders that got tossed from their horses reported something similar.”

“Charlie, grab me that pencil and the lunch menu,” I said.

He lowered the sound on the television and tossed the paper and pencil my way. “You can order for me, Ce.”

“Forget food for a second.” I flipped the menu over and grasped at the fleeting details dancing around my head. I sketched quickly with few erasure marks. “Here's your guy.” I passed the drawing to DeRosa.

The detective's skepticism diffused within seconds. “Forgive me if I underestimated your talent. This sketch is excellent.”

“She does caricatures too.” Charlie made a goofy face. DeRosa chuckled and hit the nurses' call button. A cop materialized at the door.

“What's up boss?”

“Fax this picture to the station. Get it scanned and run through the database for close matches. Have the station send the mugs over as soon as possible.”

“Anything else?” the officer asked.

“You done with that newspaper?”

“Sure thing.” The officer handed over the newspaper. Detective DeRosa perused the paper like a speed reader on crack, but I could tell one article intrigued him because he folded the paper inside itself a few times until it was as stiff as a board.

“CeCe, how'd you do that?” DeRosa asked. “The sketch?”

“That's what I do. I've been drawing and painting since I was a kid. I did go to art school, after all.”

“No, I mean how did you remember the details of Igor's face so clearly?”

“I didn't. I don't have a photographic memory or anything like that, but when I paint I practice grouping common facial characteristics. Like Igor, there's a typical Russian nose and few variations of that feature.” My explanation did not satisfy DeRosa. “Charlie, help me out,” I said.

“What can I say? Everyone's got a thing. I'm into computers, she's into facial features.”

“Charlie dropped out of MIT,” I said to fill in the blanks for DeRosa. “Computer Science major.”

DeRosa looked at Charlie. “MIT?” he asked.

Charlie nodded.

DeRosa got out of bed, grabbed the remote from Charlie and turned off the television. With his good arm he swung a plastic chair into place between Charlie and my bed.

“The two of you need to cut the act.” DeRosa slammed the wadded newspaper on my bed to reveal a single story dominating the front page.

“Read it out loud,” he commanded, “and stop pretending you don't know anything.”

I cleared my throat with a sip of water from a paper cup. That bought me just enough time to scan the article in front of me and prepare for the volcanic explosion bubbling up from DeRosa's chest cavity. I tried to breathe deeply in an effort to steady my voice, but my cracked ribs and still-healing stomach allowed only for a shallow huff.

“Bethesda, Maryland. National Institute of Health grant coordinator, Dr. Naomi Gupta, commits suicide.” I eyed Charlie and watched as his features froze faster than a kid's tongue on a metal pole in December. I continued. “Dr. Gupta, a former researcher at Sound View Laboratories and current NIH employee, was found dead by hanging in her apartment. Sources assert that the recent NIH rejection of a twenty-million-dollar grant proposal submitted by Sound View Laboratories, Dr. Gupta's former employer, may have caused undue professional and personal stress.”

DeRosa shoved the paper at me, his thumb pointed squarely at the photo of the deceased grant coordinator, Dr. Naomi Gupta. “I saw this woman in your studio the first night we met. In fact, I saw at least ten portraits of this exact face lined up on the wall of your attic.”

I glanced over at Charlie, who was trying very hard to melt into the folds of his sheets. I broke the silence with the truth. “Naomi and Teddy were engaged.”

“And?” DeRosa pushed.

“They ended it more than a year ago,” I answered. “I was painting her as an engagement gift, but after Teddy and Naomi broke up, there wasn't much motivation to finish.”

“Did she sit for the portraits? Was she at Harbor House at any time?” DeRosa grilled.

“She didn't need to sit. I knew her face and frankly I couldn't stand her long enough to entertain the idea of a sitting. I painted her for my brother. He asked.”

“Were you jealous of her?” DeRosa probed.

“No, we were just different people. She was all about the purchases that come with making money.”

“When were you two going to tell me that your brother was at the tail end of a break-up? If we're looking for suspects, the ex-fiancée would be a good place to start.”

“Come on Frank. You're grasping on this one,” Charlie said. “They dated, they got engaged, they broke up. Like CeCe said, Naomi was materialistic but not a killer.”

“Who broke up with whom?” DeRosa asked.

“Teddy dumped her,” Charlie said. “She fled to the NIH about six months ago. I think Teddy was relieved to have her off the campus.”

“He was? How have we not talked about this, Charlie?” I remember being so thrilled the engagement had ended that I didn't even bother to pump my brother for details.

“Guy stuff,” Charlie replied. “Anyway, something happened that made Teddy question her ethics and Teddy was all about doing the right thing. I think he started to see Naomi the way the rest of us saw her.”

DeRosa turned to Charlie. “I need you to clear one thing up relative to ‘doing the right thing.' You ate the eggs after midnight and no one saw you until the next day, and you were the only resident who didn't get sick. I looked back at the report of the poisoning earlier. Trina said you weren't at breakfast. You caught up with me at the hospital that afternoon. I gave you the benefit of the doubt and figured you needed some time after finding out your best friend was dead. Now I may think otherwise. So I'm asking you, where were you from two a.m. until the next afternoon? Is there any chance you drove to Bethesda, Maryland, and back?”

Charlie fiddled with his bed sheet and readjusted his pillow to buy time.

“Charlie, I'm kind of curious myself, and I won't be hurt if you say you were with Becky,” I said.

“I was Dumpster diving,” Charlie admitted.

“That was earlier in the evening,” DeRosa corrected.

“Yeh, and after the house quieted down and everyone went to sleep, I went to Teddy's place and rooted through his garbage.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don't know. I guess I thought I'd find something.”

“Did you?”

“Not really. I sat in the barn until the sun came up with two bags of garbage, but I couldn't bring myself to go through them. The bags are still in the barn.” Charlie adjusted the gauze pad on his head and directed his confession to DeRosa. “I swear I didn't know about Naomi, but I did go through Teddy's mail and noticed her return address on an envelope. It looked like a Hallmark card.”

In one fluid motion, DeRosa commandeered every electronic device in the room. Calls were being made, buzzers were being buzzed, and stuff was starting to go down.

“Is there anything else you want to add?” DeRosa asked Charlie. He had a cell phone hanging off one ear and a hospital phone off the other. Charlie grabbed his torn jeans, which were hanging over a hospital chair, and tossed a set of keys over.

“These keys are for the large cupboard at the back of the barn. I threw Teddy's garbage in there.” Charlie fished around his jeans once more and produced a thin wafer of metal no larger than a quarter. “And here's the data card from Igor's GPS.”

nine

DeRosa had us all
released from the hospital within the hour. We were escorted back to Harbor House, where the police set up shop in one of the empty bedrooms on the second floor. The room offered a lovely view of the sound with a clear shot of our gardens and farm below but was quickly transformed into a makeshift headquarters—an extension of the Laurel Hollow Police Department on Shore Road. A truckload of computer equipment was carted in, and we did our best to dig up a conference table, a few desks, and at least six mismatched chairs. Trina cleaned out a small storage closet across the hall from the makeshift police office, and we shoved an old bed in the corner for DeRosa. Although unorthodox for the police department to establish camp in a private home, it did create a false sense of security that I was happy to indulge. Having the police on premise also defused my father's demands for increased security, thus reducing his incessant calls to DeRosa.

My life had been threatened twice, my twin brother was dead, and his ex-fiancée was cooling down in a morgue about three hundred miles south of this room. None of this sat well with me. Worse, I had missed my brother's funeral. Closure and safety had replaced mourning.

Information trickled in slowly, and piles of papers formed mountains on the Formica conference table. The official autopsy report appeared inconclusive, revealing only that Teddy suffered an extreme loss of oxygen in a short period of time. For lack of a more accurate label, the coroner used the term
asphyxiation,
although no external bruising was identified around the mouth or neck area. Residual bruising was discovered on Teddy's chest, but the coroner suspected my brother caused it by pounding on his own chest, as if he knew he was choking. Both of Teddy's hands were balled in tight fists, but nothing was found in his esophagus. The results were disappointing and if not for the attempts on my life, the case would probably have been shelved. In light of recent events, however, the autopsy report could not be disregarded. Something or someone had prevented Teddy from taking the hundreds of millions of additional breaths he deserved over a lifetime that would have easily spanned another fifty years.

“Let's take it from the top.” DeRosa had gathered his team, including two cops from the station and me.

As he revisited the facts of the case, I picked up my pencil and started to doodle. I did a quick sketch of Officer Cheski and then started in on a profile of Officer Lamendola. The two turned out to be decent men. Sergeant Cheski hailed from Queens, an ex–New York City street cop who thought the tony suburbs of the North Shore would increase his chances of seeing his children grow up. That was until Igor unloaded a magazine in his direction. His partner, Lamendola, was a rookie who had just graduated at the top of his class from the academy.

“Are you paying attention?” DeRosa asked.

“Sure,” I said.

He reached over and slid the pencil out of my hand. “You realize how unusual it is for the police to actively involve a citizen in a case.”

“My fault,” I apologized. “I'm just trying to get a handle on everyone in the room.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Do you have a brother?”

DeRosa hesitated, though there was no right or wrong answer.

He tapped the pencil on the table before saying. “I'm an only child.”

“That makes two only children in the room,” I said, wanting my comment to make all of them uncomfortable. I rose from the table. “If it's okay with everyone, I need a break.” Before I left the room, I gathered up a pile of my doodles. The incessant sketching had been with me for as long as I could hold a pencil. This current mass of swirls and curves gave way to yet another face. The same face littering my attic with paint still wet from recent brushstrokes. I felt close to this man filtering out of the tip of my brushes and pencils, but the more I drew, the less it looked like my brother. I let the papers slip from my hands and drop into the nearest waste-paper basket.