Forgotten City Page 8

  She read the first paragraph.

  Park Manor. The name evokes an idyllic estate in the English countryside, a Downton Abbey for New York City’s aging gentry—retired hedge fund managers, successful entrepreneurs, investment bankers, box-office stars, and Botoxed heiresses.

  The Downton Abbey reference was such a cheap allusion. Leave it to the Post, she thought, and continued reading.

  Situated on the first three floors of a lesser-known Emery Roth building between Fifth Avenue and Madison, Park Manor has served New York’s privileged for almost three-quarters of a century. The institution is now the crown jewel of health care empire Foster Health Enterprises. Competing health care conglomerate Eldercare Elite recently made an offer to acquire Park Manor. According to an unnamed source at Eldercare Elite headquarters, “Park Manor has breathtaking facilities and amenities beyond belief, but its management is bloated and shortsighted. Folding the operation into Eldercare Elite’s portfolio would save money, improve care, and benefit shareholders.”

  Hodges reached for her coffee and wanted to slosh it all over the tabloid. Sam Davidson, the Eldercare Elite CEO, was an egocentric maniac willing to trample over anyone in his path, and Hodges hoped Renee Foster would not let the bastard get his hands on Park Manor. He would cheapen the institution’s name by creating a chain of Park Manors in upscale markets—and Hodges would certainly be out of a job.

  What is life like in this rarified world of the privileged senior set? Park Manor is highly protective of its clientele, but many celebrities, politicians, and business moguls are known to have spent their last days here. No one who’s worked at Park Manor will speak on the record—employees sign a no-exceptions confidentiality agreement for life—but by all accounts, these high-achieving seniors like nothing better than to reenact their glory days.

  Hodges skimmed the familiar anecdotes about high-profile Park Manor residents: Vera Pressley, the invalid actress who clutched a pen in her arthritic hand at all times to sign autographs, and chain-smoking inside-trader Chuck Rose, who rolled his oxygen tank around the first floor giving investment advice until his dementia advanced and he had to move upstairs to the Nostalgia Neighborhood.

  These anecdotes, Hodges was pleased to see, were the tried and true tales regurgitated periodically for the masses who loved to envy or hate the rich. She could tell far more interesting tales—like the night just six months ago when former Federal Appeals Court justice Mark Gallop ordered a prostitute off the Internet and she had to be turned away at the front desk, or the day last month when declining socialite Erika Speers refused to allow two other residents to dine at her table, saying, “You’re just old, you’re not old money,” and a golden girl fight had ensued.

  Hodges skimmed the over-the-top description of Park Manor’s perks.

  Need a quick Buddhist chant to make you forget that your legs don’t work? At Park Manor, a Tibetan monk is a snap of the fingers away, and so are the nutritionist and Hollywood-trained makeup artist.

  Hodges imagined straphangers eating up this exaggerated drivel as their subways slammed through tunnels taking them to their low five-figure jobs. Finally she got to the part about Lucy Merchant.

  Sadly, the musical theater legend did not qualify for life on the vibrant first and second floors. She did, however, receive a standard of care few dementia sufferers enjoy. Sequestered above the socially stimulating world of Park Manor Village is the Nostalgia Neighborhood, a state-of-the-art dementia care unit where the well-heeled participate in brain research studies and pharmaceutical trials that make potentially effective drugs available to them long before they are approved by the FDA. And at Park Manor, the specially trained caregivers outnumber their charges by a ratio of almost 2 to 1.

  Hodges tossed the article onto her desk and sighed with relief. Michael Berger, the Foster Health Enterprises chief of operations, would not be calling her to complain about leaked information. And there was no mention of Julia Merchant’s surveillance video, either. Hopefully, Thomas Merchant had calmed down his daughter since yesterday.

  Hodges smiled when Heather Granahan appeared in her doorway. “Yes, Heather?”

  “Baiba—Ms. Lielkaja, I mean—she just called. She said she’s not feeling well. She won’t be in today.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Codella waved to the desk sergeant, took the stairs two at a time, and walked straight to Dennis McGowan’s office. “You read the paper this morning, Lieutenant?”

  He looked up from his cell phone. “What is this? A quiz?”

  “Did you happen to read about Lucy Merchant?”

  He gave her a blank look.

  “Wife of Thomas Merchant. Bank of New Amsterdam?”

  “I know who he is. What about him?”

  “His wife was Lucy Martinelli Merchant. A five-time Tony Award winner.” She waited for a sign of interest that did not come. When was the last time he had even seen a Broadway show, she wondered. “They dimmed the lights for her last night.”

  “So? Get to the point, Codella.”

  “She died yesterday at Park Manor, that exclusive Upper East Side senior home.”

  “Okay, and why should I give a shit about that?”

  “Because her daughter came to see me yesterday.”

  “Thomas Merchant’s daughter was here?”

  “And told me she thought her mother had been murdered.”

  McGowan was suddenly alert. “And you didn’t bring it to my attention?”

  “There was really nothing to bring you, except her unsubstantiated theories. But I did a little checking, and there may be something there. Maybe not.” She told him about the carpet fibers and Muñoz’s unofficial field test results.

  “Jesus, Codella.” McGowan leaned back, crossed his thick arms, and squinted at her. “We send things to the lab. We don’t go running color tests.”

  “If I waited for lab analysis, I’d be waiting weeks and her ashes would be in an urn,” she told him. “This is a Broadway legend. If something happened to her and we didn’t take action, imagine what the press would say.”

  “And imagine what they’d say if one of my detectives launched an investigation based on a field test kit.”

  “We make narcotics arrests that way all the time.”

  He rolled his eyes. “As I’ve said before, you just don’t like to play by the rules.”

  “And as I’ve said before, I consider the rules to be very important, sir.” She kept her voice even, remembering Haggerty’s advice. “In this case, I figured it was my job to screen things before I raised an alarm.”

  “Oh, you did, huh?”

  She observed his show of sarcasm as if she were a spectator at a sporting event. His intense dislike of her, she reminded herself, could not be explained by anything she had ever done to him. Reilly, her former captain at the 171st, would not have criticized her for showing initiative, and she wished she could be talking to him right now. Maybe McGowan just felt threatened by competent women reporting to him. Maybe he grew up with a sister who had always upstaged him. Whatever the explanation, she told herself for the hundredth time, it was his problem and it blinded him to the importance of the situation. “I’d like to open a case,” she stated firmly. “I want to go to Park Manor and have a look around.”

  “No.”

  “No? Just like that?”

  “It’s above your pay grade, Codella.”

  “Above my pay grade?”

  “You heard me.” His arms were crossed over his worn blue suit jacket.

  You’re the one above your pay grade, she wanted to say. She took a deep breath and held it in for a moment while she dialed down her emotions. If she let her frustration show, he would seize on that. “I don’t understand.” She worked hard to sound innocent. “How exactly is it above my pay grade?”

  “He’s Mr. Page Six,” McGowan said. “The guy’s worth millions.”

  “Billions, actually, but so what? If something happened to his wife, don’t you think he’d
want to know? Don’t you think he’d be pissed if we didn’t look into it?” According to Julia Merchant, he’d be more upset if they did look into it, but she wasn’t going to tell McGowan that. “The daughter came to see me. She brought a suspicious substance. Considering the field test results, I think we’d be remiss if we didn’t take a closer look. I’ve sent the fibers to the crime lab, and I want to pay a visit to Park Manor. Do I have your permission?”

  Then she held his eyes and waited. The silence stretched on. He would be considering a multitude of reasons—excuses—for denying her request. She waited as impassively as she could. Any outward sign of desire, she sensed, would only fuel his denials. Finally he spoke. “One visit. If there’s nothing there, you drop it. Understood?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Brandon’s phone vibrated as he entered Judith Greenwald’s waiting room. “Hey, Baiba, I can’t talk right now.”

  “But—”

  Judith was signaling him into her office. “I’ve got therapy,” he cut Baiba off. “I’ll call you in an hour or so.” He stuffed the phone in his back pocket and took his usual spot on the far right cushion of the olive green couch. Judith sat across from him in her leather swivel chair, and then she waited for him to break the silence, the way she had at the start of every session for the past three years. He stared at her shoulder-length hair, equal parts black and gray. She never wore makeup, but she always accessorized with bold jewelry—thick sterling silver bracelets and pendants with semiprecious stones that he imagined had been crafted in places like Taos or Santa Fe. He had concluded long ago that she must be a lesbian, although she never talked about herself.

  “I set the date for my surgery this morning,” he said. “Three weeks from tomorrow. They had a cancellation.”

  “You’ve been talking about doing that for more than a year, Brandon. Why this morning?”

  He shrugged. “It just feels like the right time. I start my first respiratory therapy internship in May. If I do the surgery soon, I’ll have three whole months to recuperate.”

  “How do you feel about your decision?”

  “Good. A little impatient, too. Dr. Silverman is going to be my surgeon.”

  “I had another client who used him.”

  “He wants a letter from you, stating I’m psychologically stable and ready for this.” Brandon watched her reaction.

  She leaned forward. “I’ll draft it today.” She smiled. “I really can’t think of anyone who’s more sure of him- or herself than you are.”

  “I have you to thank for that.”

  Judith shook her head. “No, you have yourself to thank. You’ve done hard work in here. You haven’t let the world define you.”

  As she said this, Brandon felt the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He pulled it out. Baiba was calling him again. He tapped Ignore and set it on the floor so he would not feel its intrusion. When he was in here, he didn’t want to think about anything or anyone out there—not even Baiba. He pushed his thoughts of her to the back of his mind and let Judith’s words sink in. You’ve done hard work in here. You haven’t let the world define you.

  He remembered meeting Judith two weeks after he’d come to New York. He had gone to a clinic in the Village seeking hormone therapy, and they had referred him to her for an evaluation. “I don’t like therapists,” he had announced at that first visit, standing before her defiantly with his dark blond hair cut short for the first time in his life.

  “Okay. Well, I’m Judith. What shall I call you?”

  Beth Ann was the name on the tip of his tongue because he had been forced to say and write that name his whole fucking life. “I don’t like my name,” he said instead.

  “Well, if you don’t like it, why don’t you give yourself a new one? What do you want me to call you?”

  “Brandon,” he had whispered, and in saying the name to someone else for the first time, he had felt instantly different, like a quadriplegic experiencing a first hopeful muscle twitch.

  “I didn’t hear you. Can you say that louder?”

  “Brandon,” he had repeated.

  “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Brandon. And I’m sorry if you’ve encountered a therapist who put our profession in a negative light, but let’s give each other a chance, shall we? I don’t like to be judged on the basis of stereotypes, and I expect you don’t, either.”

  She had offered him no pity or sympathy. Her words had been a challenge. He had responded with his own challenge. “I don’t have a lot of money. I don’t even have my own bed. I’m sleeping at a friend’s place. Actually, it’s not even a friend. It’s a girl I met. She thinks I’m a lesbian. She’s into me. I lied to her. My parents named me Beth Ann. But I’m not a girl. I’ve never been a girl.”

  They’d met every week since then at a reduced fee he could still barely afford, and he’d told her things he’d never discussed with anyone. How he felt whenever he looked at his body in the mirror. How his father had punished him if he didn’t wear a skirt or dress and carry a purse like a proper teenaged girl. He let himself cry and admit how jealous he was of other gender nonconforming kids with parents who at least tried to understand. And finally he told her about the other “therapist” his parents had forced him to see, Pastor John Sutter, who had promised Brandon’s father he would “put the girl back on God’s glorious path.”

  At their first “therapy session,” Sutter had pointed his finger at Brandon and said, “You have disrespected God’s plan for you, Beth Ann Johnson. You’ve caused heartache to your family and embarrassed them in our faith community. But God is merciful. He’s sent you to me. And I am going to be your spiritual guide. Now take my hand and let’s get on our knees and pray together for God’s blessing as we start our journey.”

  They had knelt side by side on the speckled linoleum in a windowless basement room of the Church of Salvation in Jackson, Michigan. Sutter’s hand felt pudgy and moist, and it was trembling slightly. Brandon watched the pastor gaze heavenward at the low chipped ceiling. He heard Sutter call out, “Dear Lord, this lamb of God, Beth Ann Johnson, has strayed from the path you chose for her.” As Sutter continued the endless prayer, Brandon imagined sitting in a window seat on a Greyhound bus to New York City. He wondered how much money he would need to save up before he took that ride. He calculated how many additional hours he could clock as an EMT.

  “Lord, help me be a shepherd to Beth Ann Johnson.” Sutter reached an emotional crescendo, pulling Brandon’s hand to the front of his sweaty shirt. “Pour into me the power to help her embrace the beauty of her God-given sex.” And Brandon thought about the lockers at the Jackson bus depot and how he could store a set of clothes there for when he was ready to make his escape. Finally, Sutter stood and stared down at him with crossed arms. “Now repeat after me, girl.” His voice turned hard. “My name is Beth Ann Johnson—go on now, say it—and I need God’s help.”

  When Brandon arrived for their sixth session, Sutter locked the door of the little room and gently said, “Get on your knees, Beth Ann.” Brandon figured another long prayer was coming, but Sutter just leaned against the locked door and stared at him. “God came to me last night in a dream,” he said. “And he told me my prayers haven’t touched you one bit. He said I need to pray a different way with Beth Ann Johnson.” He moved within inches of Brandon’s face and pushed down on his shoulders.

  Brandon wasn’t stupid. He knew where this was going, and dry terror crackled in his throat. He jerked back and rose to his feet. Sutter said, “Get back on your knees, honey,” in an ice-cold voice as he reached one hand below his big gut to tug down his fly.

  Brandon’s rage propelled him forward. He charged Sutter, slamming his head and fist into the pastor’s stomach. Sutter doubled over in front of the door, and Brandon pushed him off balance. The pastor landed on the worn linoleum, and Brandon kicked his ribs. Sutter curled up protectively. Brandon kicked his knees and shins. Sutter shrieked in a high-pitched wail. “Stop it, Beth Ann!” And Brandon k
icked all the harder. “Say that name one more time, and I’ll kill you, you motherfucking pervert.” He might have been screaming, but he wasn’t sure. Finally, he pried the door open and left. He never went home again.

  Judith Greenwald was pressing her palm against the back of his hand. He guessed she knew he was remembering again. “You’re right here with me, Brandon,” she said as tears rolled down his cheeks.

  When he left Judith’s office half an hour later, the sky looked intensely blue, and the winter sun glistening off the snow-covered brownstone roofs was blinding. He walked west toward the Borough of Manhattan Community College feeling understood and optimistic. As he crossed Seventh Avenue, he pulled his phone out of his back pocket and called Baiba. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk before.”

  The sound of her sobbing erupted in his ear.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Tell me.”

  “Oh God, Brandon,” she said. “I’ve been so stupid.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Only a small brass plate mounted on the limestone exterior marked the entrance to Park Manor. The building looked like any Upper East Side white glove address, home to titans of industry or heirs to fortune. Beyond the doors, however, understatement immediately gave way to opulence in the form of intricately patterned prewar floor tiles and marble colonnades. A hanging water sculpture assured visitors they had entered a place of serenity, and a granite desk staffed by two men in burgundy Park Manor blazers promised attentive service to those who called this place their last home.

  Codella showed her shield to the concierge whose nameplate read Oscar. “I’d like to speak to your director.”