Clearing his throat, Mr. Grant passes the letter to the detective and says, “After you take a look at this, if there are no objections, I’ll read each page aloud into the record. While this includes some personal business of the deceased, I believe it is relevant to these circumstances.”
Detective Keenan scans the pages, says “I agree with that,” and then hands the letter back.
Mr. Grant says, “For the record, I am reading from a handwritten page, and am confident that the handwriting can be proven beyond all doubt to be that of my client, Lawrence Page.” He adjusts his glasses and begins, first reading the date at the top of the page.
I am Lawrence Page, and I am writing this of my own free will, sitting alone in my own home.
Whoever’s reading this knows that I’m gone now. I want anybody who’s concerned, and I’m sure that’s a number of people, to know one thing for certain: No one but me had any part in getting me into the freezer chest that’s located on the ground floor of this home. This was my idea, and I put myself in there.
I’m sorry for the way it looks, and I’m sorry for the fright it must have given someone when I was found.
As I’m writing this, I’m at that point in my life where I know what’s going to happen next. And I don’t want anybody but me to feel responsible about making decisions—what to do, or what not to do for me—during my final days. So I have made my own decision.
Folks might disagree with what I’ve done, or the way I’ve done it, and I expect some will. But there it is. The people who know me and love me will understand, and they’re the only ones I care about.
Lawrence Daniel Page
My dad wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, and Uncle Hank blows his nose into a handkerchief. And I’m crying too. I can hear Grampa’s voice so clearly. I don’t really understand why he did this. But I know that I’m one of the people who loves him. And Grampa says that I’ll understand. So I will. I hope I will.
Detective Keenan pushes a box of tissues in my direction, and I take a few and say, “Thank you.”
Mr. Grant then takes the second page from the envelope. “This,” he says, “is not technically relevant to this proceeding, but I want to publish it into the record of this inquiry so there’s no doubt that it came from the same envelope, and that it was written by the same person.” And again he begins to read aloud.
I am Lawrence Page, and by my own hand I am revising my last will and testament. When and if the property on 109th Street is sold, from the part of the proceeds that belongs to my estate, I want enough money to be set aside to pay the entire cost of tuition, room, and board for the college and postgraduate studies of my granddaughter, Gwendolyn Page. If that property is not sold, then the necessary money should be taken from other available assets in my estate.
In addition, immediately upon my death, I want thirty-five thousand dollars taken from my personal funds and given to this same Gwendolyn Page for the purchase of a violin and a violin bow of her choosing.
I also want enough money to be provided from the funds of my estate so my granddaughter Gwendolyn Page can continue her musical studies here in New York without interruption until the end of this current school year.
These three provisions will be administered by my attorney, Kenneth Grant, as part of his duties as the executor of my estate.
Mr. Grant looks up and says, “And this codicil is signed by Lawrence Page and witnessed by Jason Di Renzo, of the same address as the deceased. It’s dated on the last day that my client was seen alive.”
Robert is smiling and nodding at me, and everyone looks pleased, even Uncle Hank. I’m all weepy again, but what the lawyer said doesn’t surprise me. Here’s my grampa, an hour or two before he dies, and he’s thinking about someone else. It’s beginning to fit.
Looking at the detective, Mr. Grant says, “Shall I open and read these other letters?”
The detective shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s necessary now.”
So Mr. Grant reaches to his left and then his right, handing out the remaining letters, one to Uncle Hank and the other to me.
The policeman says, “We’ve got the preliminary coroner’s report, and as of this moment, this case is pretty much closed.”
Mr. Grant raises his eyebrows. “So it’s . . . suicide?”
And everyone else around the table winces at the word.
Detective Keenan says, “Actually, no. Mr. Page took a small oxygen bottle into the freezer with him, so he didn’t suffocate. And he was all bundled up in his coat and cap and boots, so it wasn’t the cold, either. And he’d put a piece of duct tape over the freezer latch, so he could have opened the lid and gotten out anytime he wanted to. The coroner is ninety-five percent certain that this man would have still passed on, no matter where he’d been at the time of his death. He chose a strange place to lie down, but it’s accurate to say that he died in his sleep. According to the coroner, Lawrence Page died of natural causes.”
Standing up abruptly, the detective walks to the door. “Sorry to rush everybody along, but I’ve got to ask you to leave now. We’ll be in touch as needed.”
And then the detective stands there, one hand on the doorknob, as the group files out of the room.
I’m the last one out, and I’m expecting the detective to follow me, but he doesn’t. He slams the door shut on my heels, and then three other nonuniformed officers in the hallway line up at the door, knock once, and slip back into the conference room. One of the three men has a big video camera.
Before Daddy, Robert, and I are more than twenty feet away, I hear shouting from the room, then the sound of furniture banging around.
I hesitate and look back, but Robert says, “C’mon, just keep going. That’s got nothing to do with us.”
But I stop and then Robert does too, and I look at him. Because it sounds like he’s afraid.
Then from behind the closed door of the conference room, someone yells, “Get your bloody hands off of me!” It’s a man’s voice. And he has a British accent.
My heart stops, and I gasp. “Isn’t that . . . ?”
But Robert shakes his head and makes a stern face at me. “Let’s just go, okay?”
The others are already outside, so we go down the stairs and out of the police station, and then we hurry to catch up with my dad and Uncle Hank. Mr. Grant is already in a cab, and he turns and waves to me out the window. And I smile and wave back.
Then we’re walking behind Uncle Hank and Daddy, and I start to say something to Robert, but he whispers, “Not now.”
So as we cross Amsterdam Avenue and go downhill toward Broadway, I’m left with my own thoughts.
And I’m thinking that I don’t believe what Robert said, that the commotion in the conference room has nothing to do with us.
Because I’m sure Robert’s involved in this, right up to his dark brown eyebrows.
And that means I’m involved too. Even if I don’t want to be.
chapter 16
COMEUPPANCE
My dad takes us all to a steakhouse for an early supper, so it’s over an hour before I get to talk to Robert alone.
The meal feels awkward. There’s only one thing on our minds, but none of us wants to talk about what Grampa did, or how the investigation turned out, even though it was as close to a happy ending as anyone could expect.
And those generous gifts to me are almost embarrassing. I feel like I’ve been picked as the favorite, Grampa’s little pet. Even so, I can tell that the others are all happy for me, Uncle Hank included. Three times during the meal my eyes fill up with tears, thinking how sweet Grampa is to take such care of me.
Then Hank and Daddy start telling stories about growing up in Queens with Grampa and Grandmother, about trips to The Bronx Zoo and Coney Island and Jones Beach, and before long all four of us are laughing. And just when I’m starting to feel happy, my dad says, “I called Veterans Affairs ’fore I left home, and since he’s a decorated officer, they’re gonna send us a
color guard and a bugler, and they’ll have a presentation flag too. He’d want you to have that, Hank.” And the two men start talking about all the other arrangements for Grampa’s funeral.
So I say, “If it’s okay, Robert and I are going to walk back to Grampa’s.”
My dad says, “Sure, sweetheart, but I’d rather you took a cab.”
I make a face. “Daddy, I’m a city kid, remember? Besides, it’s not even dark yet.”
He pushes a twenty-dollar bill into my hand. “Then here, take some money anyway and stop for a treat somewhere. You’re pullin’ out before dessert.”
Robert thanks Daddy for the meal, and then we’re outside. Before we’re thirty feet from the restaurant, someone calls out, “Gwennie?”
I know that voice. It’s Uncle Hank.
Robert says, “I’ll wait here for you.”
I walk back and when I stand in front of him, he talks fast, like he has to get it all out in one breath. “I feel bad, the way I acted, and about what happened. I wanted you to know that. Said some mean things too. Can’t undo anything, but I wanted you to know. The fuel costs hit me, that’s all. Couldn’t even pay my drivers last week. It just . . . I just . . .”
This is hard for him. He’s looking down into my face. “It’s okay, Uncle Hank. And what happened, it wasn’t your fault. I know Grampa didn’t blame you. He even told me not to judge you. And I don’t. I think everything’s going to be all right, don’t you?” Because that’s what I hope.
He nods awkwardly, smiles a little. “Well, got to get back inside. See you soon, Gwennie.”
“Bye, Uncle Hank.”
I’ve been thinking of questions to ask Robert all during dinner, but we walk north on Broadway without talking. I’ve just been given a brand-new portrait of my uncle Hank, and I need to let the paint dry a little.
But after ten seconds, my curiosity won’t be still. “So that was William, in the police station, right? And you went to the police and turned him in, right? Was that your errand this morning?”
Robert’s got his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. He slips me a sideways glance and half a smile. “I also made an important stop at that Italian bakery.”
I ignore his attempt at humor, because this isn’t funny, none of it. “But why did you think William would be at the police station?”
Robert shrugs. “Well, for starters he told us yesterday that he would be very interested to see how the case turned out. You remember that, right?”
I nod, and Robert says, “And he also bragged about what a hotshot snooper he is. But most of all, I was pretty sure William would come there to contact me again. I don’t think I fooled him last night. At all. He knows that I know a lot more than I told him. And two years ago? I can remember how completely desperate I was to find out anything, to follow up any clue, even a tiny one, if it might mean I could get my life back again. And as far as William is concerned, I am a huge clue—a real break. He could have hung around this house and watched for me, but it’s February, and it’s cold out there. But he knew that I had to be at that police station at three P.M. today. So, was I sure he’d show up? No. But I’d have bet you my trumpet that he would. And he did.”
“So . . . what did you tell the detective?”
“Ahh,” Robert says. “That was the artistic part: To tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, but not quite the whole truth. I told Detective Keenan that there was this crazy guy who had slipped into your grampa’s house yesterday during all the confusion, and that he was hiding in the study when everyone was giving their statements.”
I nod. “So far, so true.”
Robert ignores my commentary. “And then I told the detective that this crazy guy talked to us after everyone left, and that he said he was dying to know how the case would turn out. Also completely true. And then I told him that this man said he’d figured out a way to avoid the most sophisticated security systems, and that he’d been acting like a regular Robin Hood at some of the richest stores in Manhattan.”
“So that’s not quite the truth,” I say.
“Close enough. And then I said, ‘It’s almost like this guy thinks he’s invisible or something. Which would make somebody into a pretty great thief.’ ”
“No! You said that?”
Robert grins. “Sure did. Because that’s the big bait. Catching a broad-daylight robber would do a lot for a detective’s career. And I also gave him William’s juice glass, from the dinner dishes last night. So he could match fingerprints from the crime scenes. Because he had to leave fingerprints all over town. Invisible robbers can’t wear gloves.”
And standing there with my mouth open, it dawns on me just how far out of my league Robert is. The guy’s a plotter. But I want to know the rest.
“So what’d he say—when you said that stuff about how he thinks he’s invisible?”
“Well, the detective took this long pause, like a count-to-ten, because now he’s not so sure about me. And he said, ‘So you think he might try to hang around the meeting this afternoon, right in the police station?’ And I say, ‘This man seems to think he can get away with anything.’ Also true, and also great bait for a detective. Then this was the crowning touch. I said, ‘If he’s so good at hiding himself, I think an infrared camera would probably make him show up plain as day.’ ”
“Robert!” I stop short on the sidewalk, and he faces me, beaming.
“And that’s what they did. They lit up their camera, and they tracked his body heat right there in the room after we left. And it was four guys to one, so I’m thinking William the invisible creep is in jail. Right now.”
I reach into my shoulder bag and pull out my cell phone. “Call him.”
Robert looks at me like I’m insane.
“I mean Detective Keenan. Call him right now. I want to know, to really know that that man isn’t walking around my neighborhood tonight. Because if he’s still on the loose, and he wants to find you, he’s going to come to Grampa’s house again. And I don’t want that to happen. Or if it might happen, then I want to be prepared. So call, okay? For me.”
Robert takes the phone and calls 411 to get the non-emergency number of the Twenty-fourth Precinct.
“Hello? Could I talk with Detective Keenan? It’s Robert Phillips calling.”
Robert nods to me and whispers, “He’s there.”
“Detective? This is Robert. We talked about that crazy guy, remember? I just wanted to know if you got him. . . . Oh, that’s too bad.”
Robert shoots me a glance, and I gasp and grab his arm. He pulls loose and keeps talking.
“But I really called because I remembered something else he told me yesterday. He said he had an apartment north of Fourteenth Street, a first floor walk-up above an old meat-packing plant. . . . Right, with an electronic keypad instead of a lock. . . . Right. So I thought you should know about that. . . . Well, anyway, good luck.” And Robert hangs up.
I’m frantic, and my voice has gone up an octave. “They didn’t get him? Robert, that’s really bad. It’s terrible. Because he’s not stupid, and he knows the police were looking out for him, and . . . and nobody could have told them but you. Or me. So now . . . now he knows that one of us tried to turn him in. And . . . and he’ll try to do something, he’ll—”
Robert waves his hands at me. “Hold it, hold it, hold it—calm down. The detective was lying to me. I’m sure they got him. No doubt at all. So just relax.”
I’m stunned. “Lying? What do you mean? He’s a policeman. Why would he lie? Police don’t do that.”
“Right,” says Robert, “unless it’s in the interest of public safety. If the police have a photo of a dangerous suspect, but the suspect doesn’t know that, do they go on TV and say, ‘We have no information at this time’? Yes they do, because that lie makes the suspect think he can walk around freely, and then the police can spot him and arrest him.
“Do you think that detective, who’s got an invisible man in his custody, is going to tell
people about it—even me? No way. And about the rest of it, whether William tells him about me being invisible and all that? I don’t know what’s going to come of that. But for now, I think the police are going to keep a tight lid on this, or maybe they’ll make William an offer he can’t refuse, make him go to work for them. Who knows? Anyway, I’m sure it was right to get him off the streets. So we’ve done our civic duty, and we’ll have to see how all the rest of it works out. Because that’s not our job. So. Where’s the ice cream in this city?”
How Robert can think about ice cream right now is beyond my understanding. Of course, I’ve been on such an emotional seesaw today that everything is beyond my understanding.
But Robert turns on his ice cream radar, which guides us across 105th Street, where we find a sweets shop that’s actually selling waffle cones in February, and he orders for both of us, two massive cones with three scoops each, whipped cream, nuts, sprinkles, the works. Then, by carefully decorating his nose with an assortment of toppings, Robert finally gets me to smile.
Even though I’m having a little fun, and even though I’m grateful for the good things that have happened today, I’m still uneasy about the William situation, and always, always, I feel this sadness that won’t go away. Because I can’t stop thinking about my grampa and that big freezer. About what he did.
And the selfish part of me is still wishing that all the complications would vanish. Because I want to get my story back. My story. I just want to be a musician, and suddenly, I know why.
It’s because I’ve been imagining that it’s going to be easy. It’s because I think I’ll be able to lose myself in great sweeps of harmony, and the all-knowing, infallible conductor will always lead the way. And me? I imagine myself gliding seamlessly from one movement to the next, with hardly a rustle as I turn the pages of the score.