need for a dedicated space over here. And for the moment, until something comes of it, we've just got a rented room with a secretary as the sole staffer, which is over on Roosevelt Island, on Main Street. It's just a studio apartment that we're using until we need something larger to store any objects that we might find in the dig.'
'Who has keys to that room?'
He yawned again. 'We all do. Even a number of the students. No secrets in there, if that's what you're thinking. Just a desk, a phone, a few filing cabinets. You're welcome to go visit it anytime you like. What are you looking for?'
I wish I knew. 'Something related to Blackwells that one might keep locked up.'
Grenier placed the double helix on the corner of his desk. 'One of Lola's little secrets, no doubt. I'll sleep on it, Ms. Cooper. Maybe one of my charming colleagues knows the answer.' He rose to his feet. 'I understand I'm to show you the packing boxes with her books?'
'That would be helpful.' We walked a short distance from his office. The door was unlocked and he flipped on the light switch. Cardboard cartons lined the bare walls.
'Paolo says they've all been moved in here while I was away. Looking for something special?'
'Not really.'
'He says there's an inventory taped to the wall over near the window. See it?'
I looked over the cartons and nodded to him.
'Can you let yourself out?'
'Yes, thanks.'
Grenier said good night and I started to browse through the descriptions of the books. It was an eclectic collection, everything from Chernow's brilliant biographies of the titans of business through Wallace's definitive study of Gotham; nineteenth-century geological surveys to reports of the Department of Correction from the early twentieth century; stories of immigrants from every part of the world and tales of urban America. I couldn't imagine disliking anyone who had such a love of books and had preserved so many of them with such care.
My finger ran up and down the pages that were hanging on the wall above the boxes. I found the reference I had been looking for, listed with the items in carton eighteen.
The only noise in the empty corridor was the thud of the book crates as I unstacked and stacked them again to get to the one I wanted. The label on its top flap was marked 'Blackwells Project- Penitentiary.' I dragged it off to the side and sat on the floor to explore its contents.
The top volumes were years of annual reports from the Board of Health, which supervised those prisoners who served as 'nurses' in the other institutions. Below those were records of the Department of Correction, leading up to MacCormick's raid, which closed the penitentiary permanently. I piled up a few copies of each series and jotted down a note about which ones I was taking with me.
Three-quarters of the way down in the package was a set of matching black leather albums, their grainy finish frayed at the edges. The bottom right corner of each bore the stamped gold initials o.l. I opened the cover of the one on top and saw the elegant penmanship of the then-young man who had documented his life with such care.
I lifted the six volumes of Orlyn Lockhart's diaries from the box and added them to my stack of organizational reports. Now I could hear footsteps coming closer and resounding in the darkened corridor outside the small room. I stood to gather my night's reading material and put on my coat to leave.
When I opened the door I stood face-to-face with the night custodian. 'Just coming to get you, miss. I'm supposed to lock up the main door at seven o'clock. Heat gets shut way low. The president asked me to be sure you got out okay.'
I thanked him and we walked together down the staircase to the front door. The wind came howling off the river behind my back as I turned up to 116th Street and swept me up to Broadway in its wake. The air was heavy with moisture and the sky was an even shade of dark gray, clouds covering the tops of the tall buildings in the distance. It took me almost ten minutes and several blocks of walking south to find a taxi to take me back to Jake's.
'Smells heavenly.' I dropped my books on the table in the entryway and walked into the kitchen, where he was putting a salad together.
'Worth the trip?'
'Definitely.' I described the conversations and the two meetings.
'Mike called. Said he's got what you sent him for and he'll see you in the morning.'
The table was already set and the candles were lighted. I went inside to slip into leggings and a warm sweater when the chef advised me that dinner would be ready in half an hour.
Back in the living room, I picked up the first volume of Lock-hart's diaries. It was dated 1933, when he was still a prosecutor in the Manhattan District Attorney's Office. I read aloud to Jake, amused by the description of the work in those days. I browsed through the opening pages of the next three books, landing on the one that concerned the raid.
Jake had opened a report by the commissioner of correction and was reading selectively from it to me. ''January 11, 1934. The problem of the female offender is growing, due to her emancipation and tendency toward greater sexual freedom.' Are you listening?'
'Sorry. I'm looking for the part about Freeland Jennings.' I skimmed quickly through Lockhart's recounting of the raid, and his personal pain when he learned of the death of his friend. There was no mention of diamonds or precious jewels, and I recalled that Lockhart had said those stories didn't surface until much later on.
'Slow down. You can read till your heart's content after dinner.'
I came to the description of Jennings's fancy living quarters in the penitentiary. Then the entries stopped for several days. The narrative resumed after the funeral.
I should like to have something of Jennings's to keep for myself, something to remind me both of him and of this daring raid we conducted to weed out the evil on the island. The belonging that most intrigues me is his miniature secret garden, a detailed replica of all of the great buildings of Blackwells constructed in the last century.
It seems that Freeland befriended an indigent prisoner, a stonemason from Italy-same region as Ariana, actually- who was sentenced to the penitentiary because he was a grave robber. Broke into mausoleums and took precious objects that decorated private family crypts. A petty criminal but a gifted artisan nonetheless. He created a meticulous tabletop copy of the island which my own friend kept in his prison room. An exceptional piece of artwork, really. Shows every edifice, every tree, and practically every rock on the whole place. I shall ask Commissioner MacCormick if I may claim the model as my souvenir of our endeavor.
Freeland wrote to me concerning his garden once. Said he would tell me more about it when I came to visit. He said it held the secret to his survival on the island.
27
'I've got to call Skip Lockhart.'
'It's almost eight-fifteen. Can it wait until after dinner?'
I read the section about Jennings's secret model to Jake. 'Maybe this miniature tableau of the island has something to do with Lola's murder. Why hasn't anyone mentioned it to me? Just five minutes and I'll be ready.'
Jake looked annoyed. 'Dinner will be on the table in three. Care to join me?'
I went into the den and opened one of my files. I dialed the number Skip Lockhart had given us for his apartment in Manhattan and got the answering machine. 'It's Alexandra Cooper. Could you please call me first thing tomorrow morning? It's about your grandfather's diaries.' There was no point being coy about this. I assumed he had read the volumes before letting Lola get her hands on them. 'I'd like to talk to you about the model of Black-wells that Freeland Jennings kept in his jail cell.'
Then I tried the Lockhart number in White Plains. A woman answered and when I told her who I was, she told me that Skip had gone back into town. 'Would it be possible for me to have a few words with your father-in- law?'
