Cat in Wolf's Clothing (9781101578889) Read Free Page B

it was when I was still married—during a vacation in Southold on the North Fork of Long Island, where I spent days walking dreamily along the shore of Peconic Bay.
    We headed toward the main reading room. Just before we entered, Rothwax said, “By the way, you’ll be getting three hundred dollars a day as a consultant, plus expenses. I’ll show you how to submit the vouchers later.”
    I nodded. What could I say? Between cat sitting for Abelard at one hundred dollars a morning and consulting for Retro, I was becoming independently wealthy.
    Rothwax opened the door and walked in. I followed, Arcenaux behind me. There were about eight people in the room already, sprawled on chairs. It looked like an office that had been converted into a schoolroom. Rothwax pointed to several empty chairs by the window and started to thread his way there. We followed. Halfway to our seats I heard: “Meow.”
    It came from the front of the room. I froze. This kind of childishness was not what I had expected—not even from a group comprising primarily police officers.
    I started to walk again toward the window chairs. This time the “meows” burst out all over the room, and one voice even announced in a melodramatic roll, “The cat woman strikes.”
    I wheeled, furious. Arcenaux stepped between me and the seated antagonists. “Let it slide,” he whispered, “please . . . this time let it slide. Boys will be boys.”
    â€œYou mean cops will be cops,” I retorted. He shrugged and led me to the window seat.
    The moment I sat down I forgot all about the petty harassment because I found myself staring at the front wall, over the blackboard.
    Seventeen large photos were hung there. Seventeen faces. They were mesmerizing. Below each photo in a large, almost childlike crayon writing was the name of the person in the photo . . . age . . . sex . . . race . . . occupation . . . mode of death.
    I was looking at the reason I was there—seventeen murdered people.
    I read the captions carefully.
    Laura Elrauch. Waitress. 24. White female. Shot .22 long.
    David Sprague. Physician. 54. White male. Throat cut.
    Jill Bonaventura. 31. Unemployed. White female. Strangled.
    Sekou Aman. 46. Writer. Black male. Shotgunned.
    Louise Wu. 61. Nutritionist. Asian female. Poisoned (strychnine).
    Patricia Saint-Rossy. 30. Police officer. Hispanic female. Strangled.
    Jonathan Berger. 71. Retired chef. White male. Shot. .38 caliber.
    Simon Baum. 66. Carpet salesman. White male. Shot. .32 caliber.
    Sylvia Bonney. 43. Legal secretary. Black female. Bludgeoned.
    Trent Apple Jr. 26. Unemployed. White male. Thrown from window.
    Dennis Mulholland. 28. Computer programmer. White male. Knifed.
    Harry Oakes. 77. Retired transit policeman. Black male. Shot. .25 caliber.
    Joanne O’Dell. 37. Editor. White female. Shot. .32 caliber.
    Shirley Wahr. 42. Department-store buyer. White female. Knifed.
    Charlotte Koltay. 38. Junior high school science teacher. White female. Shot. .25 caliber.
    Jack Tyre. 63. Retired city worker, Department of Parks. White male. Shot. .44 caliber.
    Arthur Tyre. 61. Retired NYC fireman. White male. Shot. 44 caliber.
    It was so bizarre, sitting in that subterranean classroom, surrounded by men and women determined to find the killers of the people photographed. For a moment I couldn’t care less about the killers. I wanted to do something for the dead. I wanted to . . . Oh, how stupid it sounds. I wanted to resurrect them in their daily lives. I wanted to hear them laugh or weep. And I never knew one of them.
    Arcenaux nudged me and pointed. A short stout woman with styled hair was striding into the room followed by a middle-aged gentleman with long eyelashes and a washed-out black turtleneck.
    â€œThat’s Judy Mizener from the D.A.’s office. She’s the head of Retro. She okayed you. The guy