‘So you’re thinking this is where Gault met her for the first time?’ He looked skeptical.
‘I don’t know if it was the first time,’ I said.
Brick smokestacks were quiet, and beyond guardrails of the Queens Expressway were bleak edifices of concrete and steel. Our taxi passed depressing apartments, and stores selling smoked and cured fish, marble and tile. Coils of razor wire topped chain-link fences, and trash was on roadsides and caught in trees as we headed into Brooklyn Heights, to the Transit Authority on Jay Street.
An officer in navy blue uniform pants and commando sweater escorted us to the second floor, where we were shown to the three-star command executive office of Frances Penn. She had been thoughtful enough to have coffee and Christmas cookies waiting for us at the small table where we were to confer about one of the most gruesome homicides in Central Park’s history.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said, firmly shaking our hands. ‘Please have a seat. And we did take the calories out of the cookies. We always do that. Captain, do you take cream and sugar?’
‘Yeah.’
She smiled a little. ‘I guess that means both. Dr. Scarpetta, I have a feeling you drink your coffee black.’
‘I do,’ I said, regarding her with growing curiosity.
‘And you probably don’t eat cookies.’
‘I probably won’t.’ I removed my overcoat and took a chair.
Commander Penn was dressed in a dark blue skirt suit with pewter buttons and a high-collared white silk blouse. She needed no uniform to look imposing, yet she was neither severe nor cold. I would not have called her bearing militaristic, but dignified, and I thought I detected anxiety in her hazel eyes.
‘It appears Mr. Gault may have met the victim in the museum versus the two of them having met prior to that,’ she began.
‘It’s interesting you would say that,’ I said. ‘We were just at the museum.’
‘According to one of the security guards, a woman fitting the victim’s description was seen loitering in the rotunda area. At some point she was observed talking with a man who bought two tickets for the exhibits. In fact, they were observed by several museum employees because of their odd appearance.’
‘What is your theory as to why she was inside the museum?’ I asked.
‘It was the impression of those who remember her that she was a homeless person. My guess is she went in to get warm.’
‘Don’t they run street people out?’ said Marino.
‘If they can.’ She paused. ‘Certainly if they’re causing a disturbance.’
‘Which she wasn’t, I assume,’ I said.
Commander Penn reached for her coffee. ‘Apparently she was quiet and unobtrusive. She seemed to be interested in the dinosaur bones, walking round and around them.’
‘Did she speak to anyone?’ I asked.
‘She did ask where the ladies’ room was.’
‘That would suggest to me she’d never been there before,’ I said. ‘Did she have an accent?’
‘If she did, no one remembers.’
‘Then it is unlikely she is foreign,’ I said.
‘Any description on her clothing?’ Marino asked.
‘A coat – maybe brown or black, short. An Atlanta Braves baseball cap, maybe navy or black. Possibly she was wearing jeans and boots. That’s as much as anyone seems to remember.’
We were silent, lost in thought.
I cleared my throat. ‘Then what?’ I said.
‘Then she was spotted talking with a man, and the description of his clothing is interesting. He’s remembered as having worn a rather dramatic overcoat. It was black, cut like a long trench coat – the sort you associate with what the Gestapo wore during World War Two. Museum personnel also believe he had on boots.’
I thought of the unusual footwear impressions at the scene, and of the black leather coat mentioned by Eugenio at Scaletta.
The two of them were spotted in several other areas of the museum, and they did go into the shark exhibit,’ Commander Penn went on. ‘In fact, the man bought a number of books in the gift shop.’
‘You know what kind of books?’ Marino asked.
‘Books on sharks, including one containing graphic photographs of people who have been attacked by sharks.’