Body in the Big Apple

gone, leaving Faith to speculate about what the hell had just happened.

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* * *

* * *

* * *

Faith went over the scene with Poppy all the way back to work. This was a side Faith had never seen before—the mother lion and her cub. Cubs, if you counted Lucy, but Lucy could more than take care of herself, and Poppy knew it. It was Emma she’d had to go rescue from the commune in the Village, Emma she’d dragged to Dr. Bernardo, and Emma she’d safely married off to “the perfect husband.” What did this intensity mean? And why now? What did Poppy know? She’d been at Fox’s service and had looked bereft. She and Lorraine had been the only two, Faith noted. But what if Poppy knew about the book, knew that Fox planned to name names? There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her daughter. Did this include murder?

Before she threw herself into her work—something she was longing to do—Faith pulled the phone book from the shelf and called Arthur Quinn. He answered immediately.

“Arthur Quinn?”

“This is he.”

“Hello, my name is Karen Brown and I’m doing some research on the sixties, specifically on Nathan Fox, for my thesis. I was wondering if you’d have any time to talk with me. I’m hoping to use my material for a biography of Fox.”

“Sure, I don’t mind helping. What’s your time frame?”

“I’m working pretty intensively on it”—she should have said “desperately”—“so, the sooner the better.”

“How about tonight? You want to meet me for a drink and we can talk? Maybe a little supper after-184

ward? I know a great little place on the West Side. Very cozy.”

Oh no, thought Faith. Just what she didn’t need.

“I’m so sorry. Tonight isn’t good for me. How about if I stop by your office tomorrow or the next day?”

“Tomorrow’s no good for me. Let’s say Thursday.

Lunch?”

He seemed determined to make it a social affair. But then meals and doing business are one and the same to agents, Faith reflected. She could be wrong. Maybe he wasn’t trying to ask her out. With the weather lately, a

“cozy” spot could simply mean he wanted to keep warm.

“Great, but why don’t I meet you at your office first?

I’d like to see where you met with Fox.” What she really wanted to see was what kind of setup Quinn had.

How large an agency, furniture by Knoll—or Ikea.

“Better meet at the restaurant. You like deli? We’ll meet at the Stage at one.”

Didn’t the man have an office? And he’d totally ignored her bit about wanting to see where he’d met with his client.

She hung up and gave her full attention to her work—for once.

Lorraine Fuchs had said to come early, and Faith took her at her word. She was heading against the crowd, leaving the city at seven o’clock Wednesday morning.

With luck, she’d be back at work no later than nine, and she’d have some new reading material. She let her eyes close. The motion of the train and the sound it made on the tracks was soporific, even though she’d gotten enough sleep for once.

She stopped at a bakery and bought some muffins.

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At one time, this section of Brooklyn had been completely Scandinavian, she recalled, but the doughnuts and muffins in the case didn’t resemble Danish pastries in the slightest. Still, they smelled good, and Faith firmly believed it was always better to talk about touchy subjects while eating.

Lorraine’s street was quiet. No dog walkers. No commuters. She climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the bell. And waited. She pushed again. And waited. She’d been warm enough while she was walking, but now the cold crept through her coat. It wasn’t her warm one. That was at the cleaner’s.

She pressed the bell harder. It was working. She could hear it ring inside. She should have called, but Lorraine had been specific, telling her to return Wednesday morning. It was Wednesday morning. Besides, Faith hadn’t wanted to take the chance of getting Harvey. It wasn’t just hearing his voice—although that alone was enough to put her off—but also the thought that he could make things difficult for his mother.

More difficult.

Faith leaned over and tried to peer through the front window. She walked around to the side and then to the back of the house. She looked in the back door. The kitchen was immaculate. Either Lorraine hadn’t had breakfast yet or had cleaned up immediately. Faith knocked. There was no response. Could the woman be an extremely sound sleeper? Maybe she should find a phone and call. She kept walking around the house.

She was by the garage now—and in an instant, she was at the door, pushing it up with all her strength. A motor was running inside.

Lorraine was in the driver’s seat, slumped over the wheel. The door wasn’t locked, and Faith dragged the 186

woman out into the open air. She was in her nightgown; her hair once again in a neat braid. Faith started CPR immediately, then stopped. It was too late. The woman’s face was bright pink, but she was definitely dead.

187

Eight

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Not with the life she led.” An older woman in a housecoat with a parka thrown over it was standing looking down at the body in disapproval. She zipped her jacket up. Now it matched her lips.

“Made her parents’ life a living hell. They did everything for her. Sent her to college. I’m not one to butt into other people’s affairs, but I did say something to Irene—that was her mother. ‘Why waste the money?

She’ll get married. She knows how to type. She can get a job until then. Help you out.’ But they were set on it, and now look at her.”

Tears of outrage—and grief—spilled down Faith’s cheeks. Who the hell was this old harpy? Poor Lorraine. She deserved so much better than this. The sad-dest part was that the woman was right. Where had college gotten Lorraine? She was doing typing jobs at the time of her death. Her death! Had what she’d read in Fox’s book been so overwhelming that she’d had to end it all? Or was this “suicide” really murder?

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The woman narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, anyway? And what are you doing here?”

“I’m a friend of Lorraine’s,” Faith stammered in real confusion. “We met at a temp job. We were supposed to have coffee this morning.”

“You have a name?” She was leaning over the body now, close to Lorraine’s mouth. “Don’t smell any booze, but they weren’t none of them big drinkers.”

“My name is Karen Brown.”

“Well, Karen, I’ll stay out here with the poor girl and you go call nine one one.” She fished a ring of keys out of her pocket, pulled one forward, and handed them to Faith. Faith started off in the direction of the house next door, which she presumed belonged to the woman.

“Not my house. Use their phone. We exchanged keys when we first moved in. I took mine back when Lorraine inherited the place. She’s got this son, you know.”

Faith flushed angrily. What did the woman think?