“I think evil is less threatening if one understands it. I have never shared Alistair’s optimism that it is possible to rehabilitate a man like Fromley. But when I understand more about him and why he behaves and thinks as he does, then I don’t fear him. Or those like him,” she added, “including the men who killed Teddy.”
In her own way, she was like Alistair then: Her desire to understand the criminal mind had been a method of dealing with her grief following Theodore Sinclair’s violent death.
“But what about you?” she asked. “Your life’s work is spent identifying and arresting criminals.”
“I don’t do it because I want to understand criminal behavior,” I replied thoughtfully. “What I understand are the victims. Once they are gone, no one is left to look out for them—”
“No one except for people like you,” she said softly, finishing my sentence. “You are a good man, Simon.”
We continued to talk about lighter topics, and I managed to enjoy the evening and forget some of my frustration with the case. But after I saw Isabella safely home to her own building, and settled onto the train bound for Dobson, a dark gloom settled over me once again. I began to face up to the possibility that, despite our best efforts in this murder case, we might still fail. This case could prove unsolvable. And while that would certainly amount to a personal failure, what made the idea unbearable was the image of Sarah Wingate—whose life, like Hannah’s, had ended too soon.
Others might say it was the effect of the coffee, but I knew better: The two of them, and the circumstances of their untimely deaths, haunted my thoughts throughout the night, refusing me peace.
CHAPTER 25
I read the Times as the train whisked me back into the city Sunday morning to meet with Stella Gibson in Central Park. The day’s headlines continued to focus upon Tuesday’s mayoral election debacle, informing me that Hearst’s challenge to Mayor McClellan’s victory was headed to New York’s Supreme Court, though the Times editorial believed his chances were slim. Other news was also dismal: Stock markets in New York and London were in turmoil due to alarm over the violence in St. Petersburg and Odessa; and Emil Greder, a baritone with the Metropolitan Opera, had attempted suicide because of money he owed to loan sharks.
The last story returned my thoughts to Isabella’s discovery from yesterday. Someone had known enough about Alistair’s money habits to realize his donations were so large he would not miss the withdrawn amounts. And the thief had known enough about the dean’s disbursement fund that he was able to request—and intercept—the money he wanted without raising suspicion. But his error had been to think funds drawn from the dean were essentially blank checks that would never need to be justified. None of our present suspects seemed to fit that profile—unless Stella offered us new information.
I walked from Grand Central Terminal to the park, energized by the crisp chill in the air, and found myself at Bethesda Fountain before anyone else. Though the park was far from where I used to live, I’d taken many walks there, especially in the early days after Hannah died. This place in particular, with the statue of the Angel of the Waters presiding over the fountain, had always struck me with its serene grandeur.
Alistair arrived shortly after me, the dark bags under his eyes suggesting he also had slept little.
“How was the theater?” I asked.
“Forgettable. I should have seen Peter Pan instead, judging by recent reviews. But Kitty—well, never mind. I was just trying to please the others in my party.”
“Isabella isn’t coming this morning?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She went to the research center instead. She wants to review more of our financial records. Fred and Tom plan to come in this afternoon to assist.”
We stopped talking as two women appeared on the upper terrace and made their way down the stairs toward us. The shorter woman of the two was Cora; Stella towered over her in a way that surprised me. Both the Wingates and Cora had emphasized Stella’s emotional frailty in describing her to me, so I had pictured her as diminutive. But she was tall, with a face marked by strong features, including a sharp, aquiline nose, and unusual pale coloring—blond hair that was almost silver, and eyes of robin’s-egg blue. Her movements were those of a skittish colt, startled by each nearby sound and movement, and I