“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, you’re invited. I’d like to make it to Brooklyn within the hour so you might want to change.”
“Funny ha-ha. Where are we going for dinner?”
“Does it matter?”
“How should I dress, Old Man?”
“In street clothes would be a start. Rina made supper so we’re eating in. Dress lightly. Sammy and Rachel have very poor AC.”
“So why don’t we go out?”
“They couldn’t find a babysitter.”
“So why not just take the kid?”
“I don’t make the decisions, Tyler, I just follow orders. When you’ve been married as long as I have, you just show up and smile. Rina invited you. Do you want to come or not?”
“Yes, I’ll come. Jeez.”
“By the way …” Decker plopped down a box onto the floor. “Your copy of the files. We can go over them tonight after dinner.”
“Where? Here?”
“I’d like to stay here for one more day. There are people on the list who live in New York. Might as well question them while I’m here. And I have to return all the original files to Breck and to Karen now that we have copies.”
“What about the Staten Island police? Do you think we should talk to them since Joanne filed a report with them?”
“We should give them a courtesy call and help them clear their missing persons file. But since Pettigrew was murdered in Greenbury, they don’t have anything to do with the case.”
McAdams stood up and hefted the box. “We’ve got a lot of reading to do.”
“And it’s only going to grow once we get the e-mails and the phone records. Get dressed already.”
“Patience, man. I know you’re starved, but I’m not the cause of your low blood sugar.”
“I know you’re not the problem. But, at present, you’re the only scapegoat I have. Put some clothes on and let’s get out of here.”
Tyler had retired an hour ago, but at two in the morning, Decker was wide awake. By three, he finally crawled under soft down covers. It had been a good night. Gathering all the files and cross-referencing proved to be beneficial. He had put almost all the names listed into four categories: Pettigrew’s relatives, his closest friends, his work people, and his old friends from his Greenbury days, this last category being the smallest but the most important because Pettigrew was murdered there. As for the others, he had narrowed the New York City field down to four people he still wanted to interview:
1 Harold Cantrell: Pettigrew’s boss for two years at a place called the McGregor Fund.
2 Marta Kerr, aged thirty: described by PI James Breck and Karen Osterfeld as a close friend of Pettigrew. He had even stayed with her for a couple of months. Her address was in Chelsea and there was an associated phone number.
3 Darwin Davis, aged twenty-five: a friend of Pettigrew from his Morse McKinley days. They reconnected once Davis graduated and moved to the city.
4 Dr. Elwood Marshall (aged, well, who really cares?): Pettigrew’s surgeon and doctor, who specialized in sex reassignment surgery. He had been working with Pettigrew since he was twenty up until his disappearance five years ago.
Decker would make the calls first thing in the morning. He was thinking about how he’d arrange his day when he drifted off and lost himself in a world he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
The medical practice was in the East Village, near Washington Square and in a maisonette that fronted a six-story residential brick building. Dr. Elwood Marshall specialized in cosmetic and reconstruction surgery, and judging by the amount of people in the waiting room, he did well. All the couches and chairs were taken, and there was a small line at the reception window. Decker waited his turn and it took almost eight minutes before he faced a heavily made-up receptionist wearing a brunette wig of long waves. A pretty woman in that extreme way, except the voice told another story. It was beyond throaty: it was deep as in a well-developed Adam’s apple. The name tag said Eloise.
“Can I help you?”
Decker discreetly took out his official ID. “We have an appointment with Dr. Elwood.”
“We?”
Decker looked around until he spotted McAdams leafing through the magazine entitled Gay Today. If he could have beaned the kid from across the room, he would have done it. He looked back at Eloise, the receptionist. “My detective seems to have found some interesting reading material.”
“People have all sorts of interesting facets to their personality.” Her smile was a smirk. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re here. It may take a few minutes. We’re swamped today.”
Decker thanked her and the glass partition slid closed in front of him. He walked over to McAdams and elbowed him hard. He whispered, “Learning something?”
“There are some real hot-looking dudes in this magazine.” He put it down on the table. “If I were gay, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Lucky for me that women just aren’t that picky.”
Decker stifled a laugh. “Try to concentrate on the investigation, Tyler. It’s what you’re being paid to do.”
“You mean that paltry sum that’s handed to me twice a month?”
“You were the one who turned down those cushy, well-paid internships.” Decker heard someone call his name. “That’s us. C’mon, Harvard. Let’s go find some answers.”
They were escorted into an office that looked out on a small back garden. The sun had ducked behind clouds, leaving the foliage to grow in gray, sooty light. The air-conditioning was running full blast. The nurse was tall with long thin hands. He said, “The doctor will be with you as soon as he can. Have a seat.”
There were two wooden chairs and one plush leather desk chair separated by a large, rosewood desk holding one pile of paperwork, a bamboo file organizer, a cup of pens, a stapler, and a large phone that had many blinking lines. The walls were covered with diplomas and certifications. Ten minutes after the detectives were seated, a white-coated man in his mid to late fifties flew in like a rogue gust of wind. He was medium in stature with a paunch that lay over a Gucci belt. He had a long face with wiry, silver hair and eyes somewhere between tawny and brown. He sat down at his desk chair and extended his hand to both detectives. “How can I help?”
“As I told your receptionist over the phone, it has to do with a case we’re working on involving one of your former patients.”
“And I suppose you know that even if we’re dealing with former patients, there is confidentiality. Who are we talking about? My receptionist didn’t say.”
Decker said, “We found some remains up north in Greenbury near the Five Colleges of Upstate. We have a tentative match to Lawrence Pettigrew. Lorraine Pettigrew.”
Marshall sat back in his chair, a pained look on his face. “That’s awful.” He regarded Decker. “Because the police are involved … was it murder?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The developments are recent, but the murder was not. He has been dead for quite some time. Anything you can tell me about him would be helpful.”
“Like what?”
“Did he confide in you on personal matters, for instance?”
“They