Night Film(9)
“The cause of death?”
“Standard for any jumper. Massive hemorrhaging. A broken neck, lacerated heart, multiple broken ribs, and a skull fracture. She was there for a few days before they found her. She’d been admitted last month to some swank private hospital upstate. They filed a missing-person’s report for her ten days before she jumped.”
I stared at her in surprise. “Why? She ran away?”
She nodded. “A nurse confirmed Ashley was in her room, lights off, at eleven o’clock. At eight the next morning, she was gone. Somehow she appeared on just one security camera—crazy, because the place is outfitted like the Pentagon. You can’t see her face. She’s just a figure in white pajamas running across the lawn. A man was with her.”
“Who was he?”
“They don’t know.”
“Why was she at the hospital? A drug problem?”
“I don’t think they knew what the hell was wrong with her. A few pages of her medical evaluation are in there.”
“When did the hospital report her missing?”
“September thirtieth. It’s in the report.”
“And when did she jump?”
“Late night on the tenth. Eleven, twelve midnight.”
“Where did she go during those ten, eleven days in between?”
“No one has any idea.”
“Any activity on her credit cards?”
Sharon shook her head. “Cell was off, too. She must have known not to turn it on. Seems like she didn’t want to be found. There was just one confirmed sighting in those ten days. When they found the body, she was wearing just jeans and a T-shirt. They found a plastic ticket in her pocket. A tree insignia on the back. It was traced to the Four Seasons Restaurant. You know, that little shack on Park Avenue?”
I nodded. It was one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, though it played out more like a rare wildlife reserve. One paid an exorbitant entry fee ($45 for crab cakes) to observe—but never disturb—New York’s privileged and powerful as they fed and fought among themselves, displaying all the recognizable traits of their species: hardened expressions, thinning hair, gun-gray suits.
“A girl working the coat check identified her,” Sharon said. “Ashley came in around ten but left minutes later, without her coat, and never came back. A few hours later, she jumped.”
“She must have been meeting someone.”
“They don’t know.”
“But someone will look into it.”
“No. There’s no crime here.” She eyed me sharply. “To get to that elevator shaft the girl had to enter an abandoned building, which is a notorious squatters’ hangout, the Hanging Gardens. Then, on the roof, she squeezed through a skylight about a foot wide. Few are small enough to get through such a narrow opening, much less if they were holding someone against their will. They combed the place for trace evidence. There’s no sign anyone was there but her.” Sharon continued to watch me—or perhaps the right word was investigate, because her brown eyes were slowly moving over my face, probably in the same methodical grid pattern she used with a widespread search party.
“This is when I ask why you want this information,” she said.
“Some unfinished business. Nothing for you to worry about.”
She squinted at me. “You know what Confucius said?”
“Remind me.”
“ ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’ ”
“I’ve always found ancient Chinese wisdom overrated.” I took out an envelope and handed it to her. It contained three thousand dollars in cash. She shoved it inside her bag, zipping it closed.
“How’s your German shepherd?” I asked.
“He died three months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She brushed her spiky bangs off her forehead, scrutinizing an elderly man who’d just boarded.
“All good things must come to an end,” she said. “We done here?”
I nodded. She looped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and was about to get up when I thought of something else and grabbed her wrist.
“What about a suicide note?” I asked.
“They didn’t find one.”
“Who identified Ashley at the morgue?”
“An attorney. The family hasn’t said a word. I hear they’re out of the country. Traveling.”
With a look of regret but little surprise, she stood up, moving to the front of the bus. The driver instantly pulled over. Within seconds, she was scurrying down the sidewalk, though she didn’t walk so much as plow, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the ground. As the bus took off again with a belch, veering into the road, Sharon became just a shadowed figure moving past the closed stores and barred windows, swerving quickly around a corner—and she was gone.
7
“Who is zis?”
The woman’s voice—thick, with a Russian accent—came out scratchy over the intercom.
“Scott McGrath,” I repeated, leaning toward the tiny black camera above the door buzzers. “I’m a friend of Wolfgang’s. He’s expecting me.”
It was a lie. This morning, after reading through Ashley Cordova’s NYPD file, I’d spent the last three hours trying to track down Wolfgang Beckman: film scholar, professor, rabid Cordovite, and author of six books on cinema, including the popular tome on horror movies American Mask.