Free The Deadhouse by Linda Fairstein Page B

Lieutenant
Peterson had just arrived and was talking to the chief, who summoned me
to them with his forefinger.
    "I'm surprised you and Chapman didn't stay for the service."
    "What service?"
    "Peterson's just telling me that President Recantati called for a
prayer session and candlelight vigil tonight, then canceled all the
classes and exams next week, and dismissed the students for the
Christmas recess."
    I was livid. Recantati and Foote must have made those plans before
we saw them in the early afternoon, and they had chosen not to tell us.
I thanked Chief Allee for the news and worked my way through the crowd
to find Chapman, who was in the middle of the dance floor with one of
the assistant DAs from my unit, Patti Rinaldi.
    "You can have the next tango with him, I just need him for a few
minutes." I took Mike's hand and led him to the side of the room,
explaining the news to him. "You realize that means we're not going to
have any kids there to interview by Monday afternoon, and possibly not
any faculty members? They'll all scatter home over the weekend."
    "Relax, blondie. I'll pay Foote a visit first thing tomorrow morning
and get some names and numbers. We'll do the best we can." He shuffled
back to the dance floor without missing a step, calling out to Patti,
to the Motown beat:
"Rescue me! Take me in your arms
    I fumed on the sidelines, annoyed that Chapman didn't seem as
distressed as I was by Sylvia Foote's duplicity.

    7

    "Just once, I'd like to read an obituary of a murdered woman who
hasn't been canonized overnight." It was Chapman, my Saturday morning
6:45 wake-up call. "Doesn't anybody wicked and ugly ever get blown
away? I picked up the tabs on my way home."
    Home from where? Patti's apartment? I wondered.
    "'King's and Columbia Mourn Death of Beloved Professor.' Who beloved
her? Mercer says she was a real ball breaker. 'Raven-haired Prof Slain
After Spousal Sting.' The
Post,
of course. The broad is
dead—what frigging difference does her hair color matter? D'you ever
read a man's obit that says he was balding or blond? Someday I'm going
to write the death notices for all of my victims. Truthfully. 'The
despicable SOB, whose face could stop a clock, finally got what she
deserved after years of being miserable to everyone who crossed her
path.' That kind of thing. So what's the plan for the day? "What time
is Lola's sister expecting us?"
    "When I spoke with her yesterday, she suggested one o'clock. Is that
okay with you?"
    "Rise and shine, twinkle toes. I'll pick you up at Fifty-seventh and
Madison at noon."
    Mike knew that my Saturday routine began with an eight o'clock
ballet class, the one constant in an exercise schedule that had long
ago been abandoned to the unforeseeable nature of the prosecutorial
job. I had been studying with William for years, and relied on the
stretches, plies, and barre work of the studio to distract me from the
tension of my daily dose of violent crime. From there, I was due at
Elsa's, my hairdresser at the Stella salon, for a touch-up on my blonde
highlights, for what I had expected to be a cheerful holiday season.
    I picked up the paper from my doorstep, took the elevator down, and
waited in the lobby until someone pulled up in a Yellow Cab, not
anxious to stand on the corner trying to hail one in the frigid early
morning air. On the ride across town, I read the
Times
coverage
of the Dakota story. The reclassification of her death as a homicide
bumped the news from the second section to the front page, above the
fold: "Academic Community Stunned by Scholar's Death."
    The piece led with the achievements, publications, and awards that
the professor had garnered in her relatively short career. A second
feature described the reaction of college officials. "Morn-ingside
Heights Mourns Neighbor," it began, explaining the decision of both
Columbia University and King's College to suspend classes on the eve of
the holiday week, while police tried to determine whether the killing
was the