No matter how hard she tried, Peta was unable to find closure on Arthur's death. Time, purportedly the ultimate healer, passed, but the void he had left in her life kept growing.
After Carnival and the arrival of a new round of students at the medical school, the only distraction she allowed herself was watching news reports of the American elections on television. She found the debates entertaining. The rumpus in Florida kept her laughing, as had the Monica debacle. While morality on the island was purported to be of great significance to its populace, and in particular to those in government, the truth was that Grenadian politicians made Clinton's high jinks look like a good day at Sunday school.
The difference was that here the personal lives of government officials were conducted behind closed doors. Talk at the Watering Hole never lacked its dose of rumors, whispers, and gossip, but it was laced with rum, not with legal action.
With New Year's Eve only ten days away, Peta went to see her travel agent, whose office on the Carenage always seemed to be run with less efficiency than its well-decorated interior might have indicated.
Her travel plan was simple - provided she could get the airline schedule to cooperate: fly to San Juan and connect to New York, if need be via Miami. She had no wish to stay over in New York. All she wanted was time to go to the precinct, collect Arthur's fragment, and be at Danny's on Forty-sixth Street at five o'clock on New Year's Eve. Sentiment drove her to be there on her birthday - their birthday - even though she would be there alone. That and the distant hope that by being there, by keeping their date, she could finally find some degree of closure.
The way she figured it, she could have a car pick her up at Danny's at seven - in time to get her to the airport for a nine o'clock flight to Vegas. Traffic to the airport would be light on New Year's Eve. The flight would get her to her destination by eleven, Vegas time.
Having taken care of her business at the travel agency, she went next door and upstairs to the Nutmeg for a peanut punch and a roti. Sitting at a table next to the open area overlooking the fishing boats and ferries, she made a few notes, reminders of the things she had to do before leaving: go to the bank for money; collect the real artifact from Ralphie; call Ray to let him know that she was coming to the meeting via New York and give him her arrival time in Vegas; and call the maitre d' at Danny's to tell him to reserve a quiet corner table for her for five o'clock. The restaurant wouldn't be crowded yet at that hour, and even if it was, George would find a way to get her a table.
She thought about what to take along and decided that one small roll-on suitcase, her medical bag, and a handbag would be more than enough to hold the necessities. It wasn't as if she were planning to do the town - New York or Las Vegas. Besides, as Arthur had so often told her, she could always buy what she needed at the other end.
She wondered irreverently, without the usual accompanying stab of pain, if the same principle held true for the journeys to heaven and hell. Maybe, she thought, she was beginning to heal after all.
That evening, Peta made the necessary arrangements with her associate and put in a call to Danny's. George was delighted to hear from her.
"Let me look at the reservation book," he said. "Yes. Here it is. I thought I hadn't erased it. Five o'clock. Dinner. Dr. Whyte and - "
He stopped abruptly. She thanked him and quickly hung up. Next, she called Ray in Las Vegas.
"I have a dinner reservation at Danny's at five o'clock. I called George. He said they hadn't erased the booking Arthur made before..."
"I was there when he made that reservation," Ray reminded her, as if she could have forgotten. "You're not even staying over for one night?" He sounded almost irritated with her.
"Is that a problem?"
"I suppose not," Ray said. "You're cutting it awfully close. I just hope there are no flight delays."
"If there are, you can wait to start the meeting."
"New Year's Eve waits for no man."
"Fine. I'm not a man anyway, in case you hadn't noticed."
Ray chuckled. "One more thing. The Strip is closed on New Year's Eve. It'll be shut down by the time you get here. I'll have one of my limos picks you up. The driver will know how to circumvent the barriers. Better yet, I'll arrange for a helicopter out of McCarran and a pilot. Easy enough to land on my helipad and that'll take care of any time crunch."
"Great idea," Peta said, "But you should recall that I won't need a pilot. Just have your driver there to get me to the chopper and make sure all of the authorizations have been cleared."
For the sake of comfort rather than status, Peta had made reservations in first class; for the sake of a show of authority once she got to the police station, she wore a suit - or more accurately, Liz Claiborne wool crepe separates she'd picked up at Saks during her last visit to Manhattan. The black calf-length wrap skirt and fitted fingertip-length black jacket were very New York. A white crew-neck cashmere sweater, opaque black tights, and a pair of black leather knee-high boots completed the look. Hair up in a bun; the real fragment, back in its bezel and hidden beneath her sweater in case some turn of fate brought Frik to the airport; this year's white gold button earrings; and she was good to go. Normally, she would have carried a coat, but since she was only going to be there for a matter of hours, and her jacket would do fine for Vegas, she simply threw a shawl and a pair of warm gloves into her suitcase.
She felt hot and overdressed until she boarded the plane, but she was quickly grateful for having worn a jacket. As usual, Grenada's airport air-conditioning was on slowdown, but the plane was freezing. She hated using the blanket and pillow the airline provided, so she rolled up her jacket as a pillow, snuggled under her shawl, which she pulled out of her bag before throwing it into the overhead compartment, and dozed off.
San Juan's airport was hotter than Grenada's and more crowded. With a lot of hours to kill between flights, she hailed a cab and went to the closest beach hotel. Once there, she changed into the swimsuit she'd shoved into her handbag and grabbed a chaise under an umbrella. Even in the middle of winter, it was hot and humid. They were so damn lucky in Grenada, she thought. Eighty-four degrees, day in, day out, and always an ocean breeze coming off the Atlantic side of the island.
Later, she walked along the beach and watched the sunset. She stayed out there for a while in semidarkness, then walked back and ordered herself a drink. Her flight was due to leave at two in the morning. She glanced at her watch. It was one minute past midnight.
"Happy birthday, Peta," she said. She looked up at the stars. "Happy birthday, my love."
After switching planes in Miami and catching a restless nap during the last leg of the flight to New York, she swore off red-eyes forever. Thanks to delays in the air over JFK, the plane circled for what seemed to be years before it landed. She occupied herself by applying some makeup, putting her jacket back on, and wrapping the shawl around her shoulders in preparation for a New York December day.
By the time the aircraft taxied up to the arrival gate, Peta was ready to scream. There were a dozen people ahead of her in the cordoned-off taxi line. She waited impatiently for the pompous uniformed airport official to whistle her up a cab. When he did, she waved away the suggestion that she share it with someone else in line.
The traffic into Manhattan seemed endless. The cabbie's chattiness, in the past a source of amusement, got on her nerves. By the time he pulled up in front of the Midtown North police station, she felt so guilty about her attitude, she overtipped.
Inside the precinct house, she took out her wallet and retrieved the receipt they'd given her. It was dated December 31, 1999, and signed by Sergeant John Lewis.
Trailing her suitcase behind her, she moved up to the counter. "I'd like to see Sergeant Lewis."
"So would I, lady. We could use him around here."
"Where is he?"
"Retired." The policeman sighed heavily and turned away, but not before Peta got a look at the name on his badge. Patrick O'Shaunessy.
"Detective O'Shaunessy."
He turned back to her. "I'm flattered, ma'am, but it's sergeant. Sergeant O'Shaunessy."
As best she could, Peta stemmed her rising unease. "Well, Sergeant," she said, "I've come to collect, um, my friend's personal effects which were impounded as evidence almost a year ago. I hope you can help me."
He took the receipt from her and examined it closely. "Excuse me a moment, please. I'll be right back. Why don't you take a seat over there." He indicated a slatted bench against the wall.
Peta watched the hands on the large clock over the desk. When he had been gone for twenty minutes, she began to panic. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Miss? Dr. Whyte. I'm Captain Richards. Could I see you in here, please."
Breathing a sigh of relief, Peta stood up and followed the plainclothes officer into a small office. The captain, a man not much beyond middle age, pointed at a chair and she sat down.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Whyte. I'm afraid there's been some kind of clerical error." He waved the receipt. "There is absolutely no record of this case."