Harlem again. Just north of the Columbia campus, and one block away from JTS, where Mike would be arriving just about now. I could ask him to meet me for this conversation.
“Mind telling me what’s so delicate about Faith’s situation?”
“She’s a graduate of Yale Divinity School and taught there for fifteen years. Now she’s in contention to be president of Union — you know it’s more than 175 years old — which is an enormously prestigious post.”
“And probably never held by a woman,” I said.
“Exactly. I’d just like to shelter her a bit from the controversy of the two homicides, so we don’t spoil her chance of an appointment. She may have something to offer you in terms of a lead — she apparently knew this new victim — or she may just want to do what she thinks is the right thing. May I tell her to expect your call?”
“I’ll grab a cab and be to her in half an hour, Justin. Will that do?” This way we could see what Faith had and I’d still be at my desk by midmorning.
“I’m forever in your debt, Alex. And still holding a partnership for you when you’re ready.”
“To come over to the dark side with you? Do I at least get a corner office?”
“I’ll think on that. I should have known you’d want prime real estate. Thanks very much for doing this.”
My files were neatly ordered in a large tote bag. I threw on an all-weather jacket and waited until I was out on the sidewalk, hailing a taxi, to call Mike.
“Good morning. How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Pretty well. And you?”
“Loaded for bear.”
“Where are you?”
“About two blocks south of the seminary.”
“I’m taking you on a slight detour,” I said, explaining Feldman’s call.
I caught up with Mike in front of Union twenty minutes later. The entrance was in the middle of the block, a stone’s throw from the Jewish seminary.
We entered and were met by security. We had already decided to show our driver’s licenses instead of our law enforcement IDs in case Faith Grant hadn’t told anyone in administration we were coming.
“Mr. and Mrs. Chapman,” Mike announced to the sleepy-eyed guard. “She’s expecting us.”
“My maiden name is Cooper,” I said. I didn’t mind Mike’s humor, but the minister was expecting me, not the Chapmans. “Alexandra Cooper.”
As I announced myself, a petite young woman, a bit younger than me, walked briskly through the lobby. She was a striking strawberry blonde, with shoulder-length hair and a dazzling smile.
“Ms. Cooper?” she said, stopping next to me at the security desk when she heard me say my name.
“Yes. Are you Faith?”
“No, no. I’m her sister. I’m Chat. But I just left Faith’s office and I know she’s expecting you. She’s on her way down.”
Chat beamed one of her smiles at Mike and held out her hand. “Chat Grant. And you are?…”
“Mike Chapman. Good to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Then, speaking to the security guard, she said, “I’ll take them through, Henry. Faith’s just a minute or two behind me.”
Mike wouldn’t say “homicide” to a pretty blonde if he didn’t have to. He was ready to go wherever Chat Grant led him.
“This place is like a medieval labyrinth,” she said. “Chapels and libraries and cubbyholes of all kinds. You can really get lost without a guide.”
“I’m all for guides,” Mike said. “You a minister too?”
Chat’s head tipped back as she laughed. “Faith and I look an awful lot alike, but that’s where the resemblance ends.”
She led us through the double-glass doors into the middle of a quad. If JTS most resembled a European’s idea of a New England college, then Union Theological Seminary looked like a prototypical cloistered campus lifted out of Oxford or Cambridge and deposited across the ocean on Broadway.
“What do you do?”
“I’m looking for work.”
“Well, what line?” Mike asked.
It was another gray March morning, but the one or two streaks of sun that broke through the dense clouds found their way to Chat Grant and highlighted her hair like a Botticelli Venus.
“Are you just nosy, or do you run a search firm?” Chat said, good-naturedly. “Where I come from, folks don’t ask all these questions to people they don’t know. It’s not polite.”
“Don’t mind him, Chat. He’s just nosy. It’s meant to be a compliment that he’s interested in what you do.”
Students were already crisscrossing the walkways, probably on their way to their first classes.
She looked at Mike again. “Well, I certainly don’t mind compliments. They’re hard to come by on this island.”
One of the quad doors opened and there was no doubt the woman walking through it was Faith Grant. She was older than Chat and a few inches taller, with the same features and coloring. The hair was a dead giveaway, too, though the minister kept hers shorter and held back, today, by wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“This is my sister,” Chat said as Faith approached and extended her hand.
“Hello. I’m Alex Cooper. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought along a detective.”
“Not at all,” she said. “I’m Faith Grant.”
“Mike Chapman.”
“So you’re professionally nosy,” Chat said. “You’re a cop?”
“Yeah. But I’m still interested in what you do.”
“Why don’t we find somewhere quiet to talk?” Faith asked. “You’re welcome to stay, Chat.”
“You know I don’t want to,” Chat said. The smile disappeared, replaced by an intense expression, as if some unpleasant thought had reappeared to trouble her. “You know I’ve got things to do.”
“Ms. Cooper’s a good friend of that lawyer who’s been so helpful to us here at Union. You might want to talk to her someday.”
Now Chat fixed her attention on me. If I wasn’t part of a career search, that comment probably meant the younger sister had a problem in her past that had not been resolved. That was a typical introduction to so many of the women I met.
I tried to restore her more cheerful aspect. “Happy to talk to you anytime.”
Chat smiled and thanked me. “I’ve really got to go. Nice to meet you both. See you later, Faith.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes. I’ll be home for dinner.”
Faith blew her a kiss and Chat laughed at her sister as they waved good-bye. The sun caught her again as she moved in the opposite direction, luminous and delicate, like a free spirit without any of the responsibility of the scholars who scurried to class around her.
“Sorry to delay you.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “Do you have an office here?”
“Yes, but there are too many eyes and ears around it, not all of them well-wishers. Then I’d have to explain to everyone who you are.”
“Where to?”
“This is a good hour of the day to find a quiet spot. Come with me, please.”
Faith walked several paces ahead of us, and when she reached the far side of the quad, she asked us to give her a few minutes to poke around. “There’s a small prayer chapel off that entryway.” She pointed as she spoke. “If it’s empty, we might talk in there.”
She went inside and I took myself around the quad — another of the city’s hidden sanctuaries — admiring the gardens that were, like the rest of us, waiting for spring, and the benches placed throughout the maze of pathways so perfect for contemplative reveries.
Faith emerged from the building and descended the steps, closer to Mike. “Why don’t you come with me? This will work fine.”
