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  “The letters stopped coming. When Mom called the hospital, they said he’d eloped.” Her voice fell. “Wandered off and disappeared.”

  He wanted to embrace her, let her cry out her pain. “When was this?”

  “Nine months later, in September of sixty-four. Mom thought maybe he’d started a new life, put his past behind him, but I wouldn’t hear of it. ‘He’d never leave without saying goodbye,’ I told her. ‘He loved me too much to do that.’ ”

  Now the tears came, slowly at first, then in torrents. “I don’t know what to do. I need to find out what happened to him. Mom died; I’m the only one left. Nobody cares about him except me. I tried to get his records, but the hospital’s closed and the VA hardly has any medical files left. There was a fire, they told me, but maybe they were just saying that to get rid of me.”

  “No, it’s true,” Jake said. “I’ve come up against it before. It happened in St. Louis in 1973. A lot of VA records were lost.”

  He thought his answer would comfort her, but it seemed to deflate her further.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said again. “I have a daughter who deserves to know about her grandfather. But how am I to get a straight answer? I’m just a middle-aged divorced waitress from Jersey. To the government, I’m a big nobody.”

  Jake handed her a paper towel to dry her tears. “You could hire a private investigator.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of money. But I was wondering: what if it was the hospital’s fault? Do you know a lawyer who might take my case?”

  “You want to sue for damages?”

  “I don’t want money,” she said, as though it were a four-letter word. “I just want to find out what happened to my father.”

  “You want an attorney willing to work for nothing- who’d take your case just for the satisfaction of finding out the truth?”

  She sighed. “I know it’s impossible.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I know the perfect person for the job.”

  WHEN SHE’D HEARD Jake’s voice, Manny had hung up on him. When he’d called again, she acted more grown-up, finally admitting to herself that, arrogant as he was, he’d been right about Essie Carramia. She let him tell her about Patrice Perez. Then she called Patrice, whose story, like a familiar virus, infected her heart.

  Now, somewhat to her surprise, Manny found herself in Poughkeepsie, New York, at the Psychoanalytic Academie for the Betterment of Life, a repository for the records of several now-defunct psychiatric hospitals, Turner among them. She’d surfed for Turner on the Internet and learned that New York State was paying the Academie to archive those of its records that were neither at the Turner Historical Society nor yet retrieved from the hospital itself. So, on a glorious fall day, she had put the top down on her convertible Porsche and driven up.

  Manny had arrived before lunch, to give herself plenty of time to look at the files and drive back in the sunshine, though the building’s gray exterior was like a dark cloud in the middle of the light. She entered its imposing iron-grated doors and walked up to a dour young woman with mousy shoulder-length hair sitting behind a mahogany desk bearing a black sign with gold lettering: RECEPTIONIST, PABL.

  Manny smiled, knowing there was no way the woman would smile back. “Hi. I’m Philomena Manfreda. I called yesterday about records relating to the Turner Mental Hospital, later the Turner Psychiatric Institute.”

  The receptionist looked at her note pad. “Quite right. But Mr. Parklandius, our director, is still not in, and I’m not sure I can give you access to those items until he gets back.” She squinted at Manny as though she’d left her glasses somewhere or the light was too dim.

  She doesn’t know who she’s up against. Manny’s smile broadened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Lorna Meissen. I’m Mr. Parklandius’s assistant. It was I who spoke to you yesterday. I assumed he’d be in by now. Sorry about that.”

  “Lorna. Good morning. I didn’t realize he had to be here in person. I thought the Academie functioned like a public library. I’m a lawyer, and the law says that since the library receives government funding, you can’t deny me, a member of the public, access to the records. Mr. Parklandius would not have to give permission, so it doesn’t matter whether he’s here or not.” Do the new patient privacy laws really say that? If I don’t know, it’s a safe bet Lorna doesn’t either.

  Lorna looked at Manny suspiciously. “I guess it’ll be all right. I should warn you that the records might be hard to find. You’re only the second person who’s asked for them in my three years at the Academie.” She stood. “Come. I’ll take you upstairs to the reading room.”

  She locked the front door with a button from behind the desk and led Manny to an eerie old-fashioned open-cage elevator. The building was owned by the Hawkins family, she explained, who’d made their fortune in real estate. But no member of the family had ever visited, and Mr. Parklandius was closemouthed on the subject. As the elevator ascended, Manny noticed marble floors, vaulted ceilings, a sweeping staircase with a banister of polished brass.

  They got off on the third floor. No one seemed to be in the building besides the two of them, Manny noted. She heard nothing but quiet. At the end of the hall on the right was a large room with several conference tables and uncomfortable chairs. The sign on its door read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Across from it was a closed door with another sign: CHARLES P. PARKLANDIUS, DIRECTOR. Lorna settled Manny at one of the tables in front of a huge stack of file-bearing boxes, dated by year from 1888 to the present, which had evidently been laid out for her arrival. The hospital had been opened in 1869 as the Turner Home for the Feebleminded, Lorna had told her, but these were the only files extant.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” Lorna said. “I’m afraid if you need anything you’ll have to come get me.”

  Manny watched her leave with relief. The room overlooked the Hudson River, and she could think of no more pleasant place to do her research in private. She picked up the first file, dated 1888, containing a list of names of people long dead and the treatments they received. The book could equally well have described the Dark Ages. It was embossed with a symbol, a circle that contained a star.

  Other files contained more mundane records: an order for 150 sheets and pillowcases in 1916; prices paid for laboratory equipment in 1925; and- strange- a copy of the August 1963 Baxter County Daily Gazette. Unusual, Manny thought, for a newspaper to be included in medical files.

  Ah. The front page was devoted to the upcoming Turner Mental Hospital summer picnic. A photograph of the grounds taken at a similar fкte in May showed women strolling in spring dresses, men in fine suits at their sides. A schedule noted the time for the opening ceremonies and promised a barbecue, ring-tossing contest, square dance, and other social events. The public was invited to attend: admission $1 “for the benefit of indigent patients.” There were several other photographs of the May event; some showed doctors, nurses, and patients posing with the patients.

  It became clear to Manny that the Turner Mental Hospital, as it was called here, was more than a treatment center; it had been the social and economic core of Baxter County. Later files covered the final change of the hospital’s name, a near drowning in its pool, a power failure, the menace of a rabid dog. And then, sadly, the closing of the institute due to lack of funds

  GRIM DAY FOR TURNER, a headline in the hospital newsletter proclaimed.

  Finally, Manny came to a different set of files: patients’ records going back to the opening of the hospital. These she began to read with care, distracted from her search by accounts of the treatments for a variety of illnesses from dementia to alcoholism and how they changed over the years.

  In all, Manny read for nearly five hours, spending just the last hour looking for the file on James Albert Lyons. She couldn’t find his name, not in any of the years between the end of the Korean war and 1964, the day he disappeared. Maybe I’ve looked too quickly, she thought, an
d was about to start again when she felt more than heard Lorna Meissen creeping up behind her.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” Lorna said. “I’m the only one here, and I’m finishing up for the day.”

  Damn! “May I photocopy a couple of items?”

  Lorna bridled. “I think you’ll have to come back, Ms. Manfreda. I’m not sure photocopying’s permitted.”

  Manny was too tired to invent a law to cover the situation. “Then may I have fifteen more minutes?”

  “You may. But I leave at four-fifteen sharp.”

  Manny smiled at her. “Thanks. I’ll be downstairs in a few.” Indeed, she was already running late for her dinner date with Jake Rosen, and, having skipped lunch, she was famished.

  When Lorna left, Manny rifled through the remaining files. She opened a cardboard cylinder labeled ARCHITECTURAL PLANS and stuffed it into her tote bag. None of the other files appeared to contain any information on the treatment of James Lyons. Manny justified her prospective action to herself. It’ll give me the feel of the place. She added a variety of files that might contain information on James Lyons, though they didn’t offer much hope. I’ll just take them home, look at them tonight, copy the ones I need in my office, and send them back. Lorna will be too terrified to tell her boss I took them, and no one else will miss this stuff for a few days- or a few years, for that matter.

  She repacked the boxes, left them on the table, and headed out the door, taking the stairs down. She’d have stopped at the second floor to snoop, but she didn’t want to be late for Lorna. She heard the elevator rising as she reached the lobby and thought it was Lorna coming to look for her, but Lorna was waiting impatiently at the front desk. Perhaps the passenger was the mysterious Mr. Parklandius. Frustrated by the day, feeling she’d found nothing important, Manny fought the temptation to run back upstairs just to get a glimpse of him.

  ***

  The air had turned cold. Manny put the top up on the Porsche and called her office.

  “Dull day,” her assistant, Kenneth, reported. “Nothing new on Cabrera or Morales. Mr. Williams claims whiplash. And, bless the good Lord, Mrs. Livingston finally sent you her check. We eat for another month, and don’t forget the sale today at Bendel’s.”

  Kenneth Medianos Boyd was a street kid who had earned his paralegal certification in jail. He dreamed of being a lawyer, but for that he needed a degree, and that meant money, which in turn necessitated two jobs: working for Manny and as a waitress named Princess K in the nightclub Changing Places. Princess K, fastidious about the cleanliness of the ladies’ room, printed out signs saying PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU FLUSH EVERYTHING DOWN THE TOILET and posted them in the stalls. He had been assigned to Manny as a pro bono client when he’d been arrested on charges of conspiracy to destroy evidence- drugs- by flushing it away. He spent the night in the men’s lockup dressed in five-inch platform heels of shiny turquoise patent leatherette, a bright-green string bikini with ruffles and a tail of peacock feathers, full makeup, and, of course, shaved underarms. The men in the holding pen were terrified of him.

  Manny didn’t have to work hard to spring her client, despite his prior conviction on the same charges. The judge laughed so hysterically at the getup and the story he could barely gasp the words “Case dismissed.” But they’d spent enough time together to bond. Kenneth was bright and hard-working, and he needed a day job. She could keep an eye on him and he could double as her fashion consultant, given his talent for mixing and matching outrageous clothes with shoes, bags, and scarves. Every day he checked the paper for designer sample sales.

  “There’s one thing more,” he said. “Dr. Rigor Mortis called.”

  “You mean Rosen?”

  “The very one. He’s at a crime scene, wants to make your dinner later, suggests meeting you at six-thirty at the corner of Sixty-sixth and Third. Says you and he can talk about the case while you walk to the restaurant.”

  It’ll give me time to change. What does one wear to get his attention, a death mask? “Call him back and tell him fine. And give him my cell phone number in case he’s delayed again.”

  If he is, I wonder who’ll do his autopsy.

  It was dark when Manny got to the corner, but she could easily make out his slumped silhouette. He was standing under a streetlight, poring over papers he had obviously extracted from the briefcase at his feet. He certainly hadn’t gone home to change. His suit was wrinkled and he probably hadn’t combed his hair since he testified at the Carramia trial.

  She snuck up behind him. “Good evening.”

  Flustered, he put the papers away and faced her. “Ms. Manfreda, thanks for meeting me.” He gawked. “Didn’t you have red hair?”

  “This week I’m blond,” she said with a shrug. “Didn’t want to clash with my new bag.” She displayed a red tote, a valise-sized affair with natural leather trim and gold hardware. “It’s a Vuitton. I was on the waiting list for nine months.”

  He stared at the bag, then at her. What kind of lunatic…? An attractive one, he admitted. Her hair looked great, going nicely with the bag and her purple-and-red tweed suit. She had a full-voluptuous- figure, unlike the anorexics on TV and the streets of Manhattan, who all seemed in need of a big banana split. Her eyes were a shade between blue and gray, and her clear skin summoned up the usual comparison to porcelain. At least she didn’t layer on the makeup. If he had learned one thing from the autopsy table, it was that too many women weren’t content with the gifts nature had provided.

  “See something interesting?” she asked.

  He blushed, realizing he had stared too long and too hard. “I see what you mean about the bag and the hair.”

  “What restaurant are we going to?”

  “Restaurant?”

  “Yes. Kenneth told me you’d pick one and we’d discuss the case while we walked to it.”

  He picked up his briefcase. “Actually, I’ve no idea.”

  “My choice, then, Italian, of course,” she said cheerfully. “Scalinatella. It’s on Sixty-first between Third and Second.”

  “Fine.” He started across the avenue.

  “Wait! The WALK sign’s blinking.”

  “There are no cars coming. Let’s go.”

  She balked. “I don’t run across streets, especially potholed streets, in shoes like these.” She pointed to her four-inch heels.

  “I’ll hold you,” he said. “You won’t fall.”

  He took her right arm and led her in a half trot across Third Avenue. Her mind flashed to the time after his autopsy of Terrell when he’d shown her how the angle of a bullet track changes depending on the position of the shooter and the movement of the victim. “Terrell was standing,” he’d said. “The shooter crouched on the ground behind him in the firing position the police are taught. That’s what caused the upward angle. Here, let me show you.” He’d put one hand on her back, the other on her chest above her right breast, and began to bend her body up and down slowly. “The most important thing, Ms. Manfreda, is that the bullet didn’t hit the shoulder blade. We have two hundred and six bones in the human body. The only bone that moves up and down on the other bones is the shoulder blade- the scapula. Terrell’s shoulder blade was up when he was shot, which means his arm was over his head in surrender like the neighbors said, and he was not going for a gun in his pocket as the police claimed.”

  Now, rushing across the avenue, what Manny remembered was not the words, though they had freed her client, but the feel of his hands, which sent a tingle down her spine because she thought she might do something silly, like turn around and kiss him. Madness.

  They stepped onto the curb. Jake gestured toward a white brick building across the avenue. “That’s where Tennessee Williams died. Choked on a bottle cap, according to the autopsy report. His brother never believed it, claimed Williams was murdered. I reviewed the files. The brother was partially right. The bottle cap didn’t kill him. He died of a drug and alcohol overdose. It wasn’t murder.”

  Im
pressive. “Weren’t we supposed to talk about the Lyons case?”

  “It can wait. See that streetlamp on the next corner? That’s where Benjamino Bellincaso bought it. Bang! Killed by a gunman who disappeared into the subway. Started a Mafia war that went on for years. Used to be a famous steakhouse there, but they had to move. Nobody wanted to eat at the site of Bellincaso’s last supper.”

  “Anything else on this sightseeing tour I should know about?” I shouldn’t have asked.

  “There was another restaurant near here, the Neapolitan Noodle, forced to close because four garment company executives were shot at a table some organized crime people had just left. Nobody found out who the intended victims were.”

  He was still holding her arm; she made no effort to dislodge it. The passion in his voice, his stride, and his expression were infectious. She felt comfortable with him, mesmerized.

  “Normal people don’t navigate by crime scenes,” she said, when at last he paused for breath. “Have you ever been to Bloomingdale’s? It’s three blocks away. Great store, fabulous clothes, and two shoe departments, one for the times a woman wants to feel chic, the other when she wants to dress like a diva.”

  “Really? I didn’t know.” A monotone.

  She pressed on. “Women navigate by stores- live by them. Shopping, fashion, and clean ladies’ rooms with soft toilet paper.” He’s a doctor. He can take anatomic information. “On the far side of Bloomie’s there’s an outlet store. I bought my Hermиs scarf and coordinating enamel bracelets at their warehouse sale at the end of the year. It’s when they mark down their dated products, but with Hermиs, who cares? After all, my Kelly bag is timeless.”

  He’s staring at me again. Does he think I’ve gone out of my mind? No, he was smiling. Indeed, his eyes were lit by what she took to be enjoyment. “Here’s Scalinatella,” she said. “Their specialty is rare, juicy steak and lobster fra diavolo pasta misto, but after all that spilled blood in the restaurants around here, I think I’ll have fish.”