The Deadhouse by Linda Fairstein

either of you guys since that racket
they threw when me and Harry left the job. Never dull, is it?" The
former detective from the two-six squad, the neighborhood precinct,
crossed the room and grabbed Chapman's hand as he greeted us warmly.
"Want me to take 'em upstairs, Ms. Foote?"
    She was obviously unhappy that we had an independent connection to
the college, and she wasn't about to let him take us to Dakota's office
alone. "If you give me the key, I'll return it to you later today." She
reached out her hand to take the ring from Shayson, motioning to
Recantati to come along.
    The three of us marched down the hallway behind Sylvia Foote and up
two flights of stairs to a turreted corner office. On the wall next to
the door, instead of a nameplate, there was an ink and pen drawing, two
inches by three inches, of a small piece of the U.S. map, with the word badlands written in the
middle. The Badlands of Dakota.
    Foote unlocked the door and entered first, followed by Chapman.
    "Jesus, the feng shui in here is for shit."
    Recantati continued to look lost and overwhelmed. "Sorry, Detective?"
    "Don't you know anything about the principles of negative energy?
This place is a hellhole, just like her apartment. First of all,"
Chapman said, kicking a box of books out of his path into the room,
"all entrances should be free from obstruction. You need a generous
flow into the working environment. And she's got too much black fabric
in here. Bad karma—symbolizes death."
    Chapman worked his way around the room, looking at books and papers
that were piled on the floor, careful not to touch or disturb surface
items. Foote had taken Recantati aside and was whispering something to
him. I took the moment to stifle a smile and ask Chapman a question.
"When did you become an expert in the Chinese art of feng shui?"
    "Attila's been shtupping an interior decorator for the last six
months. That's all you hear about when you work a tour with him. The
office is beginning to look like a Jewish princess's idea of a Chinese
whorehouse. 'Don't leave your toilet seat up 'cause your fortune will
flow down into the sewer.' See, dried flowers like this?" Mike pointed
at the dusty arrangement on Dakota's windowsill. "Lousy idea.
Represents the world of the dead. Gotta use fresh ones."
    Marty Hun was one of the guys in the Homicide Squad. Mike had
nicknamed him Attila.
    "We'll get Crime Scene over here this afternoon. I'd like them to
process the room for prints and take some pictures. Okay with you two?"
    Mike moved behind Lola's desk, noting in his steno pad what lay on
top of it and sketching a general outline of the office. The smile was
erased from his face, and with his pen he shifted some of the papers on
top of the blotter. "Who's been in here since last night?"
    "No one," answered Foote.
    "I'll betcha my paycheck you're wrong on that count."
    Foote approached the desk from the opposite side and placed her palm
on a stack of books as she leaned over to see what had caught Mike's
attention.
    "You wanna get your hand off there?"
    She straightened up and brought her arm down to her side.
    Mike pulled open the top middle desk drawer by putting his pen into
the brass handle. "It's too neat. Way too shipshape, both on top of the
desk and in this first drawer. Right where you'd keep whatever it was
you'd been working on most recently, or something that was pretty
important. Every other pile is sloppy and out of line. Even the stack
of mail is too fastidious. Somebody went through some of this stuff and
couldn't resist just patting these papers into order. Nothing major,
but it's just not in keeping with Lola's messy style. Maybe a careful
once-over can come up with a print or something. She chew gum?"
    Recantati looked to Foote and then shrugged. "Not that I ever
noticed."
    It was Chapman's turn to whisper now, leaning over and speaking only
to me. "Let's lock up the office and get Crime Scene over here
immediately. There's a wad of Wrigley's in the