Liberty Falling (Anna Pigeon)
Anna Pigeon is in Manhattan to look after her hospitalized sister, and explores the Statue of Liberty in her spare time. But when a teenage girl falls to her death from Liberty's ledge, Anna wonders if the suicide was actually a homicide-and begins an investigation that puts her in the line of fire.
bad,” was the advice from behind the wheel. Yes it can. “Just drive.” Cursing eyes grown too old to read fine print, Anna squinted at the tiny numbers in her tiny address book and pushed the corresponding tiny numbers on Molly’s tiny cell phone. James Hatchett, Sr., answered promptly. “Jim,” Anna said, no time for hello. “I think I know who killed Hatch and why. I won’t be coming to get you. There’s something going down at the statue.” Going down. Under stress she reverted to cliché. “I need
tore away. From above rain dripped through a skylight framed in leaves—not from the massive and venerable trees outside but from the struggling, anemic upstart of an oak no more than four feet high and rooted in pigeon droppings and plaster dust on the top-floor landing. Fingers hooked through the rusting mesh, feet reaching for stumps of metal the color of dried blood where risers had once been, Anna pulled herself toward the tree, the watery gray light of day. When she’d gained the new-made
York City. Dragged from self-absorption, she saw that the guys from the cleaning crew had come to the stern for the short trip from island to island. The speaker was the oversized white boy with the offensive tattoo. Anna wondered what he was apologizing for. He looked like one of those habitual screw-ups who either bow and scrape or stab and punch, and both with equal lack of provocation. “No problem,” she said, stepping away from his bulk. Clouds of smoke suggested the janitors had come out
secretary—was home. I saw her lights on next door. And her kids, fourteen and seventeen, both boys, were home. I heard the pounding bass of something totally witless. Those boys could teach the party boats a thing or two about rude noises.” “Maintenance?” Anna tried. “Let’s see. What time are we talking about? When he smoked? Eleven forty-five to midnight or thereabouts?” “Thereabouts.” “They could have been, but if the earliest Hatch could have died is eleven forty-five they would have been
bozo upside the head. He screwed it all around and attacked her for his own ends. The toad even admitted he’d ‘never heard Ms.’—Ms., mind you, not Dr.—‘Pigeon’s speech but ...’” Frederick was protective. Anna liked that. Molly was not so tough as she liked everyone to believe. She deserved someone to lift heavy objects for her: couches, suitcases, the death of friends, the loss of years. “I want a silk tux,” Anna said. “Peach with a matching cummerbund.” “Fan club meeting?” Dr. Madison asked