Eye Sleuth (15 page)

“We need to cover a few questions. Timing of your day yesterday, when you left, when you came in this morning. Last time you saw the deceased. You know the drill.”

Hell’s bells, yes. These days I know the damn drill.

The day went down in flames. Everyone, from students to faculty, shed tears, some surreptitiously, some openly weeping as they tried to get on with their work. Depression shrouded us like heavy dawn mist on the Hudson. Our sorrow was palpable. Fred Anders had been a beloved professor, universally liked, respected internationally. We’d lost a good, decent man. Gone was one of optometry’s greats.

The police poked around gathering information but not releasing any details. I admired the skilful way they coaxed answers out of stunned people but sidestepped sharing any information. Staffer after staffer came out from interviews with dazed looks, unsure exactly what they’d said but certain they’d learned nothing significantly different from the official line. It was a relief to retreat to the Infants’ Clinic for the rest of the morning and concentrate on my patients and their needs. I suppressed thoughts of the tragedy. One of the patients, super-aware the way city kids are, asked why I looked sad. I leveled with her.

“A dear friend of mine died.”

She patted my arm to comfort me. That silent reassurance given with such sweet innocence almost undid me but I managed to hold it together. It wasn’t until the last patient left the clinic that I could head for the bathroom and gave in to the luxury of sitting in the stall and sobbing at the loss of a dear colleague, mentor and friend.

When I shakily emerged from the bathroom, I ran into weepy clusters of people mourning the loss of Fred Anders. We were all in shock but that didn’t stop rumors flying. Until the police released a statement about the cause of death we were in limbo. I didn’t voice my thoughts. Although I wondered if it had been a heart attack, I also questioned whether it was yet another act of violence to add to the bizarre events since Mary Sakamoto was shot. My logical self tried to scoff at this but my creative side flitted restlessly through a forest of doom.

At my office, I found Matt and Allan standing in the hall outside Allan’s office. “We’re ordering pizza,” Allan said. “Join us?”

They both looked quite calm and when I stared in surprise, Allan said, “You need to take a break, Yoko, while the police are here. They’ve locked up Anders’ lab and office as tight as a drum until they figure out if it was a murder or not.”

That did me in, to hear Allan talk in such a casual tone. I dug in my pocket for a tissue and frantically mopped at my wet eyes. The two men stood there, embarrassed, and the tears stopped as soon as they’d started. One tissue was enough.

“Let’s go and eat. You gotta eat.” Allan said.

I stifled a laugh, covering it with a cough so that guys wouldn’t think I’d flipped out. But Allan sounded like my Auntie Ai, who always offered food when there were problems. Incredibly, now that Allan mentioned it, I really was hungry. The queasy stomach I’d had when I’d learned about Fred Anders’ death had been quelled by two charcoal tablets. The infuriating truth is that sorrow as well as joy turns my appetite up a few notches.

“Lead on,” I said, and the two smiled in relief.

Allan’s right ear had his Bluetooth gizmo perched on it and as we walked down the hall to the staff room, he ordered two large pizzas, one double cheese, one sausage and peppers. Not surprisingly, the staff room was jammed. Right then and there we had an informal celebration of Fred’s life. No rumors, no speculation about how he’d died. Instead, tale after tale of his beguiling English humor, his eccentric work habits and his creative genius. It was cathartic. People drifted back to their offices with obvious reluctance.

We were silent in embarrassment, then Allan muttered an apology and changed the topic, asking if it was true that the college was scheduled to move uptown. This piece of gossip wasn’t new to me but I was interested in what Matt had to say. Uptown sounded good.

“Between rent hikes here and the wish to have a location closer to Grand Central and Penn Station, it looks imminent. Still, you know politicians, a lot of talk, another committee, plenty of plans but not always any action.”

Eventually, I was able to escape to my office. Finally alone, it was impossible to stop thinking about Fred’s death. If he’d died from natural causes, my worry was pointless. Was I way off track, imagining trouble where none existed? The only way I’d be satisfied was to search for the truth, but I didn’t have any ideas on how to start. Fred’s death was a terrible wake-up call. One fact I knew for sure, I’d keep any personal snooping confidential, particularly from Detective Riley.

Seven

The afternoon dragged but I stuck it out until about seven. Most everyone had gone home and the place had quieted down. The mound of work still on my desk was depressing and I was ready to call it quits when the phone shrilled. I almost didn’t answer it.

“Yoko, glad you’re there, can you come to my office now?”

It was Dean Jackson, someone so high up the ladder that I usually met him only at official functions. Basically, after welcoming me when I joined the staff, my contact with the dean was limited to brief, impersonal conversations at gatherings for visiting dignitaries. You know the type of exchange, “How are you?” “Good speech, wasn’t it?” Nonetheless, we all knew the dean was fully informed about everything that went on in the college. This was my first telephone call from him.

“Yoko, I know this is unexpected but we need someone to attend the conference next week in England in place of Dr. Anders. We hope you will agree to go. None of the senior faculty can get away at this time and you’ve been closely involved with the research and the writing of his paper for the conference. Dr. Anders told me more than once how much he valued your help.”

Astounded, I stared at him for a moment and then blurted, “I don’t have a passport.”

I realized I’d accepted, albeit obliquely.

Dean Jackson smiled. “Not a problem. The passport office will expedite it for an extra fee.” He must have remembered my modest salary because he hastily added, “SUNY will cover all expenses for the passport. Conference fees, the hotel and meals are already paid. My secretary called the travel agent and a ticket will be issued in your name. She’ll make sure it reaches you promptly.”

I nodded my understanding. The dean delivered a second bombshell.

“You’ll have to present Dr. Anders’ paper at the conference.” He smiled. “Don’t look so alarmed, I’ve every confidence in you. We’re not sending you into the lion’s den alone. I’ve spoken to Bernell, the company developing the prototypes. Dr. Steve Farge, who’s leading that work, is already scheduled to attend the conference and he’s agreed to join you at the podium. He will be especially helpful during the question-and-answer session.”

My nod was half-hearted. The rationale behind the dean’s request was understandable. However, it left out the human element, me. The thought of presenting a paper to an international audience was overwhelming.

“Yoko, I know this request is a shock. None of us has had time to come to terms with Dr. Anders’ unexpected death but he’d be the first to say you’re the right person to go in his place.”

“Thank you, Dean Jackson,” I said.

No way could I go home now. I needed to focus on the paper. I’d been working on it for so long and I wasn’t entirely clueless but a burst of enlightenment would be useful. Part of the difficulty was that there was more than one prototype and I wasn’t sure if I’d interpreted the last-minute changes Fred had made. Everything had taken more time than I’d anticipated. The review by several senior practitioners had also generated a little more work. I sat at my desk, sorting papers mechanically, my thoughts racing. My emotions were wildly conflicted. I hated that the opportunity came because of the death of Fred Anders, even though I knew that he, ever the pragmatic scientist, would have cheered me on. I’d felt a fraud accepting the dean’s congratulations but excitement was growing in me.

The words, “When you get to England,” played over and over in my head––I was trying to blot out the part about giving the paper. Thank God two of us would handle that. Farge’s help with the question-and-answer session would be valuable. What a rite of passage––first time to an international conference, first trip to England, first time giving a major paper. The state meetings I’d attended were small gatherings, mostly for continuing education. I’d made presentations but I’d rather poke a sharp stick in my eye than speak to large groups. Remember, I’m an optometrist. I know the damage a stick in your eye can cause.

I looked over my schedule for the days before I had to leave for the conference. Apart from a final editing of the paper and the three mornings at the clinic, the only unusual event was Saturday’s dedication of the renovations to the clinic. Rooting around in my desk I found munchies, crackers, rock-hard cheese and, joy of joy, a Larabar. I labored over the paperwork and sooner than expected was heading home, exhausted. A sense of eager anticipation mixed with dread at the thought of the upcoming trip and I decided to stop thinking about the downside of the conference and look forward to the pleasure of a visit to England. It wasn’t till I reached my building that I returned to earth with a bump. Cautiously I scanned the street. Just a few pedestrians hurrying by, not remotely interested in me.

The hall was bright, the overhead fixture replaced and sporting a high-intensity bulb. No menacing figure followed me in off the street. I relaxed and took the stairs to my apartment. Tired as I was, I knew I wouldn’t sleep unless I ate something more substantial than the leftovers I’d found in my desk. I microwaved a package of mac and cheese and ate while running a bath. I added a few drops of rosemary oil to the steaming hot water to ease my muscles and nerve endings and climbed in. Gradually my body unwound but now my mind picked relentlessly at the beginning of the murder and mayhem, the shooting of Mary Sakamoto and the puzzle of her warning.

Would the police ever reveal any helpful information––if they ever had any? I doubted it. I considered the question of why anyone would target me? It was true I had a stock account, all of two thousand dollars, money from the sale of the family home in Brooklyn, after my parents moved to Arizona. They had gifted me funds to pay down my college loan, insisting I invest what was left over. For weeks, I’d scanned the Wall Street Journal at the library, finally putting half the money into stock in Bausch & Lomb, the other half into Apple. Lenses and computers would always be useful. Maybe that investment would grow enough in a few more decades for someone to want me dead. Not now. Not enough money.