Drawing Conclusions (8 page)

“Dropping out of Yale medical school is highly embarrassing. My whole life was geared toward achievement. My parents were horrified, and my girlfriend dumped me because she thought she was going to marry a doctor.”

Trina started at the mention of a girlfriend, but she remained seated with her attention on Jonathan's confession.

“I felt awkward staying in the area,” Jonathan admitted as he kicked a ball of dirt with his foot. “But I enjoyed having access to the scientific community. I remained friends with some of the other scientists, at least for awhile. At some point, I had an epiphany. I didn't need millions to plant seeds. I just needed access to land. Meeting CeCe was happenstance or maybe kismet. I was already dating Trina when they became friends. Everyone saw me as the organic farmer, the guru. I guess I didn't want to disappoint them with my history.”

“And Teddy never mentioned anything?” DeRosa asked.

“I asked him not to,” Jonathan said. “I started making real progress here at Harbor House. I wanted to be recognized on my own merit. Teddy honored that request.”

“Explain.”

“The labs are a scientific machine spitting out achievements like an assembly line. Even if my discovery becomes world renowned, the labs could attempt to ride along my success. Their public relations people would find a way to label me as a scientist with a former association to the labs. Accumulating recognition is the route to future funding, after all.” The corners of Jonathan's mouth turned up slightly. “I think Teddy secretly liked the idea that an independent researcher could triumph.”

His last comment received a round of applause from the Harbor House inhabitants. In the greenhouse, the men shook hands and parted ways. I gave Trina and Becky a hug, closing another chapter on Teddy's death. Trina and Jonathan's relationship might require some mending, but I had faith in both of them.

But then I realized that this was the first lead we'd had in days, and it had just dried up. I hoped Cheski and Lamendola had dug something up on Naomi Gupta, my brother's deceased fiancée. There was also the matter of Teddy's garbage slowly rotting in organized piles; maybe there was something to be had there?

fifteen

I came upon DeRosa
wandering the rows of neatly planted corn. In late spring, the baby stalks were barely visible but gaining traction for the long growing season ahead. The farm was impressive even to an experienced grower. With Jonathan's direction, Charlie had built a complex irrigation system with pumps fueled by the power of the sun. Every inch of tubing and hardware was salvaged from a junk yard, giving the operation a Rube Goldberg machine appearance. I imagined DeRosa's opinion of the Harbor House clan was shifting quickly from distrust to respect as he observed the rewards of our labor.

“You seem absorbed,” I said to DeRosa.

“I just got a message from a beat cop in Freeport.” DeRosa turned his cell phone over and held up the text for me to read.

“Holy shit. Your condo was ransacked?”

“Evidently so,” DeRosa replied, his voice tinged with disgust.

“What are you thinking?”

“I've worked a lot of cases. Could be retribution. The department will do a rundown of recently released felons I've collared.”

“But it could also be connected to Teddy.”

“I'm thinking it's that too.”

“Did they take anything?”

“I had a two-drawer file cabinet with personal items. I'll have to drive home today and confirm, but according to the guys there was a square spot free of dust next to my desk exactly where I kept the cabinet.”

“And the contents of the cabinet?” I asked.

“The usual,” DeRosa replied, as he turned off his cell phone. “Mortgage papers, police academy records, birth certificate, release papers from the army.”

“Sounds like someone, maybe Igor, is interested in getting to know you better,” I said.

“Or find a weak spot.” DeRosa turned his phone over a few times and then pointed to a bench with expansive views of Long Island Sound and the Sound View labs. A band of seagulls circled overhead, no doubt planning their farm-fresh meals for the next two months. Seagulls are the Freegans of the bird community, and as much as I hated the damage they caused our crops, I had to admire their ingenuity. No matter how many times we reengineered our compost bin, the seagulls always found a way in. DeRosa and I walked over to the bench. I let DeRosa lead the conversation.

“Let's take it from the top one more time,” he sighed.

“Okay,” I agreed eager to please. “The police came to Harbor House one week ago Sunday after midnight.”

“Back up.” DeRosa rolled his hand counter clockwise. “Your brother died on Friday. The coroner timed the death between eight and nine p.m. His body was discovered by a cleaning person at eleven that night. What were you doing on Friday afternoon?”

“Cripes, Frank. I am not a suspect.”

“Poor wording. Let me rephrase.” DeRosa's gaze was locked on the horizon. Deep in thought, I could see his mind fight to cut through the mounting clutter of the case. “Describe the days leading up to your brother's death.”

“That's unfair, like a trick question,” I said taking offense. “You're asking me to relive normal only to be confronted with Teddy's death again.”

“It's important.” DeRosa's eyes were still frozen in their sockets. If he didn't blink soon, I'd have to snap my fingers.

“Give me a second. It seems like a lifetime ago.” Our lives at Harbor House were relatively fluid. No one had a smartphone or kept a calendar, and since I was not employed, my presence was never required anywhere on any specific day. Thinking in terms of dates did not come easily to me, so conditioned was I to come and go as I pleased. “I guess that Tuesday I reorganized my studio and purged a bunch of older paintings.”

DeRosa popped out of his trance. “So what I saw on Sunday is considered clean?”

“You're just like Teddy. Disarray made his heart palpitate.”

“Why did you keep the unfinished paintings of Naomi?”

I shrugged. “I don't know.” Why did I keep Naomi's portraits? I tried to think of a more suitable answer. “I think I couldn't capture her, and it bothered me. She seemed elusive somehow.”

“You might be on to something there,” DeRosa said. “Keep going.”

“I went to the food co-op with Jonathan and Trina on both Wednesday and Thursday,” I continued. “The beginning of the growing season is a bit like a farmer's kick-off party.”

“How about Friday?”

“I painted most of the day. In the afternoon, Charlie and I took a bike ride.”

“Did you speak with your brother during the week?”

DeRosa's question caught me off-guard.

“I didn't. Not once.”

DeRosa made to continue, but I interrupted him.

“That's a problem. I usually spoke to Teddy all the time.” The revelation disturbed me. I struggled now to recapture the exact time line of events. “I called Teddy on Tuesday, but his secretary said he was busy. Same thing the next day. If I'm remembering correctly, we hadn't spoken since the prior week.”

“Did you have a regular pattern?”

“Teddy checked in almost every day. He usually called me in the morning. Nothing big, just a quick hello. Sometimes Charlie would get on the phone too to confirm their racquetball game. The labs have an indoor court and they played regularly.” I grabbed DeRosa's phone and dialed the house phone. Charlie picked up on the first ring.

“Detective DeRosa, how may I be of help?” Charlie mocked.

“It's me, you halfwit. I have an important question: Did you play racquetball with Teddy the week he died?”

“Uh, no. He cancelled on me,” Charlie replied. “I won the week before, though. I bet he's rolling over in his grave knowing I got the last point.”

I pressed the button to end the call and felt my hand go limp. DeRosa caught his phone as it slipped to the ground.

“Oh my God,” I cried. “Teddy must have known something.”

I turned to DeRosa. My body begged to cry, but my tear ducts were dehydrated. It was almost as if my internal clock for mourning had timed out, forcing me to deal with the case. I buried my head in DeRosa's chest, my hand resting firmly on his shoulder. I felt his heart pick up speed and his chest tighten. A new fact had surfaced now, and we both knew it. Teddy was not caught unaware in his office the night of his death. He was involved in something that led to his death, and he was not oblivious to the threat, hence the canceled appointments and cut-off communication with friends and family.

DeRosa pried my hands from his body. “We're not working fast enough,” he warned. “Forget offense, we're not even playing solid defense.”

“You're supposed to be the expert.”

He punched away at his phone. “I'm going to try and book a flight. I'd be more comfortable if you were with me.”

“Where to?” I asked knowing full well the Caribbean was a long shot.

“National Airport. Washington, D.C.” DeRosa spoke into the phone, dictating flight instructions to a desk officer on the other end. “Just see what you can do,” he said as he clicked off his phone and marched down the dirt path.

“I'll call you with the details,” he yelled over his shoulder.

sixteen

DeRosa slammed his plastic
tray on the wobbly cafeteria table overlooking the runway at LaGuardia Airport.

“Excuse me,” I said, as I inched along the wall past a family with five kids, all of whom required a heavy dose of Ritalin and a solid spanking. Four of the five kids sported the family's upturned nose with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge. I eyed the youngest boy with suspicion and gave the parents the once-over. The boy's dark hair and hooked nose seemed glaringly out of place. I let my imagination wander, coming to the quick conclusion that the mother must have had an affair and in her fried state had lost interest in all things disciplinarian. With my luck in the gutter, I fully expected to see at least two of the kids seated in my row at takeoff.

Cafeteria patrons aside, the flickering fluorescent lights and mauve décor ensured that the Gateway Café would never make the pages of a Zagat's food guide.

“How did you get through the line so fast?” DeRosa squeezed into a chair and eyed my plate full of food. “It's like the entire borough of Queens chose tonight to eat out at the airport. It's not even a Friday night.”

I looked at DeRosa. It was Thursday. Tomorrow was Friday, and Teddy would be dead exactly fifteen days.

“I didn't go through the line.” I bit into one half of a cleanly sliced triple-decker club while I reached for DeRosa's food receipt. “You paid $8.50 for the hamburger, $3.00 for the oversized chocolate chip cookie, and $5.50 for the bottled beer.” I crumpled the slip of paper and tossed it over my shoulder. “Total damage: $17. My bill: zero.”

DeRosa's bottom lip pursed like a fussy baby refusing a bottle. “Please tell me you paid for the food, CeCe.”

“I didn't pay for the food, Frank. You know damn well I snagged leftovers.”

“Leftovers?” DeRosa took a swig of beer. “Well, that's rich. You're actually referring to half-eaten food headed down the conveyor belt as your personal doggie bag.”

“It's all about perception,” I said as I savored a hunk of ham wrapped in bacon and marinated in mayonnaise. “Here's a riddle for you. You work a full day and return home in the evening. You change out of your clothing and stuff your underwear in the hamper.”

“That's overly personal.”

“I take that as a yes.” I sipped my water fountain water from a free paper cup and continued with my inquiry. “The next day you don a pair of fresh underwear and head to back to the station. Within minutes of arriving, the chief assigns you to a stake-out where you stew in an unmarked car for forty-eight hours waiting for a tattooed perp to limp out of a drug den.”

“You watch too much television.” DeRosa broke his cookie in half and handed me the bigger piece. I continued with my riddle.

“You return home and, similar to a regular work day, you undress and put your underwear in the hamper.”

“My mother trained me well.”

“Your future wife will thank Mama DeRosa. Anyway, here's my question.” I leaned across the table and in a serious voice asked, “When is your underwear dirty?

“When I take it off,” Frank replied without missing a beat.

“So, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said as I raised my hands, palms open in astonishment. “The defendant claims that underwear, regardless of how long it is worn, be it ten minutes or ten days, is clean until it is removed. The defendant claims the concept of dirty is a matter of perception.”

DeRosa swallowed his cookie as if it was rotting spinach. He didn't take kindly to a trap that easily caught him. I ignored his displeasure and forged on with my analogy.

“A man with plastic gloves and a hair net prepares a club sandwich.” I took another satisfying bite of my free meal and wiped my mouth politely. “He cuts the sandwich in half and wraps it in clingwrap. I eat one half and a stranger eats the other half. Does it really matter if I pick my half up at the counter or on the conveyer belt? Food ownership is a matter of perception.”

“The conveyor belt doesn't have a spit guard,” DeRosa countered.

“And your underwear is still dirty,” I replied.

“CeCe.” His face relaxed, and he seemed to drift off to a place that preceded his overuse of the word
interesting
. “What if we are making too many assumptions about the facts of the case?” he posed. “If it's all about perception, what if we looked at the facts from another point of view?”

“How about the killer's point of view?” I suggested.

“We'll get there, but we need to go through this exercise first. Work with me,” DeRosa said. “We believe Teddy knew he was in danger. We suspect that Naomi was involved in something per Charlie's feedback about their break-up. We think Naomi's suicide and Teddy's death are linked.” DeRosa rustled in his tote bag and located an evidence baggie holding a greeting card. “I brought this because I wanted to match Naomi's handwriting, stamps, and pen color to anything we find in her apartment.”

DeRosa wiped the table down, unzipped the baggie, and presented the card. We read Naomi's inscription in tandem. “
Teddy, I did what you said, but it's not what you promised
.” Naomi's crisp lettering was confident yet tired. Her signature seemed rushed, and I sensed from the card that her resolve had faded.

“How do you read this?” Frank asked.

I had a slight advantage over him because I knew Naomi when she was alive. The
it's not what you promised
part definitely sounded like Naomi. She had a way of getting what she wanted. I had a distinct and unpleasant memory from the first summer Naomi and Teddy dated. In an effort to establish her power position, she purposely made elaborate plans for Teddy's birthday, refusing to recognize our birthday picnic tradition on the shores of the labs. Through gritted teeth, I even went so far as to invite her along—an honor not even bestowed upon Charlie. With her high heels sinking into the mossy grass and a stern finger wagging at Teddy, it appeared her tantrum was in vain. I watched as my brother marched resolutely away from Naomi and down to the water toward me.

“I think Teddy wanted something from Naomi,” I said tentatively. “Naomi gave him whatever he requested, but he did not deliver on his promise.”

“He purposely screwed her,” DeRosa said.

“Yes.” I felt my grasp on the facts getting fuzzier. “In fact, she was so angry that she found a way to renege on the NIH grant.” I searched for a plausible ending. “Teddy's denial of her was so overwhelming, she hung herself?” My voice rose with uncertainty.

“Does that sound like Teddy?”

“Actually, it doesn't,” I said. “He was a stickler for following through. Especially when it had to do with promises he made.”

“What if Naomi wanted something from Teddy,” Frank said, reworking the scenario.

“Like what?”

“I don't know,” Frank confessed. “What is the goal of a medical researcher?”

“Recognition.” Having listened to years of my father and his cronies discuss the merits of authorship and publication, I was sure of that answer. “Scientists want their names to be associated or assigned to a particular discovery or breakthrough. Recognition would be a definite motivator for Naomi. She needed to be noticed.”

Frank tried a new angle. “Okay, so what if Naomi participated in one of Teddy's studies, but he refused to give her credit?”

“If she deserved it, Teddy would have been happy to recognize her, but maybe she didn't deserve credit.”

“Because her results were incorrect, a case of bad science,” DeRosa said. “That must be professional suicide for a scientist. Is it possible that Teddy helped her undo her mess, but the problem snowballed? Maybe that's why he didn't communicate in his final days.”

I nodded my head slowly and let the snippets of logic fall into place. “Let me try something else. Maybe Teddy didn't want something from her,” I offered a reverse scenario. “Maybe he wanted to stop her from doing something.”

“Interesting.” He used that word again. “Is it possible Teddy wanted Naomi to deny the grant because the application was based on something false that she had provided?”

“Now that sounds like Teddy,” I said with glee. DeRosa's realistic portrayal of Teddy brought back positive memories of my brother. “But why did she
kill
herself?”

“Do you think Teddy led her to believe he'd take her back if she resolved the issue?”

“I'm going to have to give Naomi some credit here. I don't remember her as a wilting flower, and I don't think a break-up would drive her to suicide. If she hung herself, then the professional stress threatened her reputation. Whatever she did wrong was about to be revealed and it was linked to the labs. Teddy asked her to extricate herself from the issue, and he promised to control the negative backlash but whatever it was, it caught up with him too.”

An indistinct female voice pumped through a speaker announcing the boarding call for our flight to Washington. DeRosa grabbed my hand and yanked me from my chair. “We're late, CeCe, but your sophomoric underwear example got us to think out of the box. I think we're on to something. Tell me this: How and when did Naomi come into your brother's life?” DeRosa asked this as he kicked off his shoes for security. He used his badge to signal a security guard, who provided a sealed bag for his gun. I placed my worn Keds in the plastic bin next to his shoes and gun and watched our mismatched assortment of personal items roll down the line. A TSA agent motioned me through the detector. I located my sneakers and slid them on.

“How'd they meet?” Frank asked again as he replaced his gun in his holster.

“I don't remember,” I said with some discomfort, as I bent over to tie my shoes. “One day Teddy was single and the next he wasn't.”