Sadie rang the doorbell. She was buzzed into a waiting room with toys all over the floor and a wallpaper of pink and blue teddy bears. A few families—mostly Eastern European, one Chinese—awaited their appointments, their toddlers crawling on the rug.
“Are you sixteen?” the receptionist asked, glancing at Sadie. “Dr. Lipschutz only sees patients under sixteen.”
“Dr. Lipschutz,” Sadie repeated.Edward Lipschutz!That was one of the names from the web! “Uh, is he available to speak between patients? Briefly?”
“His schedule is packed today. Is there something I can help you with?”
Sadie glanced over her shoulder. One toddler pushed a train along a wood track. Another tapped at a rainbow xylophone.
“What about Mr. Griffiths,” Sadie asked. “Is Mr. Griffiths available?”
“Mr. Griffiths?” A look of surprise flickered across the woman’sface. “Hold on.” She stood up and crossed to an inner door, then disappeared.
The woman returned.
“If you’re looking for Mark, I’m sorry to tell you, but he passed away last September.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sadie said, exaggerating her distress, though she couldn’t recall the name Mark. Was Mark related to Ethan Griffiths? She had promised herself not to lie to sources anymore, but this wasn’t even a source—this was just someone in the way of a source.
“That’s terrible news about Ethan.”Fuck.“I mean Mark.”
The woman tilted her head.
“Anyway, do you think I can wish the family condolences? My parents were… friends with Mark.”
Sadie could tell the lady wasn’t convinced.
“What’s your name?” she finally said, reaching for a notepad.
“Sadie… Sadie Wong.”
“I’ll tell Aaron you stopped by,” the woman replied, and she turned back to her computer to indicate the conversation was over.
Sadie made for the door and hurried across the street. Sitting on the steps of another townhouse, she opened her laptop, pulled up ACRIS, and entered “Mark Griffiths” into the search database. One property came up, a home just a couple of miles away. It appeared the property had been transferred from Mark Griffiths to Aaron Griffiths earlier that year. Also, she found an obituary she hadn’t seen before, for Ethan Griffiths—“survived by two sons, Mark and Baine, and one grandson, Aaron,” it said.
This, she concluded, was how it broke down:
Ethan Griffiths had been involved in 78 Livonia Avenue LLC. Ethan was dead.
Ethan had a son, Mark. Mark, the lady had said, was dead.
Mark had a son, Aaron. Aaron was on the deed for 9090 Eighty-Fourth Street.
“That’s where I’m going on my treasure hunt!” Sadie muttered to herself.
She rode the B1 to Dyker Heights, famous for its McMansions—at least that’s what her father had always called them. When she was small, her father had taken her there in the winter to see the gargantuan Christmas decorations: homes lit up like Disney castles, their yards stuffed with flocks of lighted reindeers and human-size nutcracker soldiers. In December, it was hard to believe anyone could actually live in those homes, but in spring they had a neat austerity that seemed to warn the passersby not to gawk, and certainly not to trespass.
She did so anyway—unlocked the bolt and walked right up the steps to 9090 Eighty-Fourth Street, then turned on her Olympus recorder. It was a stone-clad house with a large patio and a border of sturdy evergreen bushes. A minute after she rang the bell, a woman cracked the door. She was middle-aged and heavily made-up.
“Hi. Is Aaron Griffiths home?” Sadie asked.
“May I ask what business you have with him?”
The woman seemed suspicious from the start.
“I would love to speak with Aaron about 78 Livonia Avenue,” Sadie said.
“Who are you?”
