“I’m already upset. I feel like I want to break his face.” I plunge into the crowd of people, with Ned beside me. Lombardo threads his way toward us, and we meet in the middle.
“Drunk driver, Lombardo?” I say to him. “You have to be kidding!”
Lombardo looks around nervously. “Mary, settle down.”
“That’s almost as absurd as gay-basher!”
Lombardo takes me aside, and Ned follows. “Look, Mary, it’s just a preliminary finding, we haven’t stopped the investigation. You said the car was driving crazy when it left the sidewalk. It crashed into the sawhorse. We know it was driving crazy to go up on the—”
“Bullshit!”
“Mary, don’t play cop. I’m the cop.”
One of the gay men in the crowd glances back. On his short leather jacket is a pink button that says ACT UP; they tangled with the police at a demonstration last year. There’s no love lost between the two groups. Lombardo says, “Let’s take it out of here.”
We regroup at the entrance to the Barclay Hotel, next to the Art Alliance. The canvas awning snaps in the swirling winds around Rittenhouse Square. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friend?” Lombardo asks.
“I’m Ned Waters, Detective Lombardo.” Ned extends a hand, but Lombardo hesitates before he shakes it. He’s remembering that Ned’s is one of the names I gave him in the hospital as a suspect.
“He’s okay, Tom,” I say.
Lombardo looks from me to Ned. Whatever he’s thinking, he decides not to say it. “Mary, I followed up on what you told me about your husband. I looked up the AID file on his accident. I even talked to one of the men who investigated. Your husband was hit on the West River Drive, going out of town, at that first curve.”
“I know that.”
“It’s almost a blind curve, Mary. I went out and checked it myself. I found out your husband’s not the only bicycle rider to be killed at the same spot. There was an architect, three months ago.”
“I read about him. He was only twenty-six.”
“Your husband and the architect were killed at about the same time — Sunday morning, bright and early. Probably by someone who’d been out partyin’ the night before and was drivin’ home to the subs.”
“But—”
“Wait a minute.” Lombardo pulls out his notebook and flips through it in the light coming from the hotel. “Wait. Here we go. A doctor was killed there too. An internist, who lived in Mount Airy. The guy was fifty-eight. Two years ago, the same curve. Now Brent was hit at a whole ’nother time and place. So I—”
“Isn’t that a distinction without a difference?” Ned asks.
Lombardo looks up from his little book. “What?”
“Does it really make a difference that one is in the morning and one is at night? Just because they happen at different times and places doesn’t mean it can’t be the same person.”
“Listen, Mr. Waters, I’ve been a detective a little longer than you.”
“I understand that.”
“My gut tells me it ain’t the same guy.” He turns to me. “I ran down your lead, Mary. I treated it serious, because I admit it looks strange, the two incidents bein’ so close together like that. But I gotta go on what makes the most sense, and it’s not homicide. I see two accidents, both involving booze. It’s too bad that one of them was your husband and the other was your secretary, but it’s just one of those coincidences. At least that’s what I think so far.”
“But, Tom, the license plate.”
“Half the cars in this city got no plate. The crackheads take ’em off to sell; the thieves take ’em off for the registration stickers. Look, the way I see it, the guy who killed Brent jumped the curb, trying to avoid the construction. AID told me they had two fender-benders on Walnut Street the same day, all on account of the construction.”
“Then why did he drive away?”
“Happens a lot, Mary. More than you think. Somebody’s drinkin’ a little too much, especially on a Friday night, and before they know it — boom — they’re up on the sidewalk. They’re juiced, they panic. We usually catch up with ’em in a couple of months. Some of ’em even come clean from a guilty conscience. That’s what happened with the architect.” He pauses and returns the notebook to his back pocket. “AID don’t have that many open fatals, you know. The doctor, a kid in a crosswalk in the Northeast, and your husband. He’s one of three.”
I feel numb again. Mike’s a fatal. An open fatal.
“What about the calls?” Ned asks testily.
“You get any more over the weekend, Mary?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been home yet.”
“And what about the notes?” Ned says.
Lombardo glares at him. “I’ll come by and get ’em from Mary. I’ll look ’em over and send ’em to the Document Unit, but I don’t think they have anything to do with Brent. They don’t sound like the kinda notes you see with a killer.”
“What do you mean?”
“The notes don’t say ‘I’m gonna kill you,’ ‘I’m gonna mess you up,’ ‘You ain’t gonna live another day,’ like that. That’s the kind of notes you get from a freak who kills. A freak with cipollines. You know what that means, buddy?”
“Educate me, Detective Lombardo.”
I know what it means, little onions. But the connotation is—
“Balls!”
“Tom, Ned, please.”
Lombardo hunches to replace his raincoat. “I want to see the notes, Mary, but I gotta tell you, I think they’re from some weak sister who’s got a thing for you. Could be someone you used to know, could be someone you know now. It could even be somebody you don’t know at all, like a guy in the mailroom at work. Some jerk with a crush. That’s the pattern, especially with ladies like yourself, career girls. Their name’s in the paper, they’re on this committee, that committee. You on committees like that?”
“Some.”
“This kind of guy isn’t a fighter, he’s a lover. He’s at home, swoonin’ over your picture, tryin’ to get up the nerve to talk to you. So don’t worry. Call me tomorrow and we’ll set up a time.” Lombardo’s attention is suddenly diverted by Delia, who appears out of the darkness, followed by Berkowitz.
“Thomas!” Berkowitz says heartily, grabbing Lombardo’s hand and pumping it. “Thanks for all you’ve done.”
“It’s nothin’, Sam.” Lombardo can’t tear his eyes off of Delia.
“Mary,” Berkowitz says, “I’m sorry about your secretary.”
“Thank you.”
“Why don’t you take a couple days off? I’ll cover your desk.”
Delia purses her glossy pink lips.
I’m surprised by the offer. Covering someone’s desk is strictly associate work. “Uh, thanks. I’ll see.”
“You let me know if you need me, Mary. It’s your call.”
“Sure.”
Berkowitz turns to go. “Thomas, thanks again.”
“No problem.”
Berkowitz strides off, his heavy trenchcoat flapping, and pauses to light a cigarette in a cupped hand. The flame from the lighter illuminates the contours of his face and Delia’s.
Lombardo jerks his head in Berkowitz’s direction. “He’s an all right guy, for a big shot. He thinks the notes are nothin’ too, Mary.”
“You told him?”
“Sure, we talked a coupla times over the weekend. He was very interested in the investigation.”
“Let’s go, Mary.” Ned squeezes my arm.
I feel tired, suddenly. I’m getting nowhere with Lombardo, I can see that. I know I’m right; I can just feel it. It all makes sense, but there’s nothing I can do about it tonight. Wearily, I give in. “Okay.”
“Call me, Mary,” Lombardo says.
I nod, and Ned steers me home. Neither of us says anything on the short walk to my apartment. I don’t know what’s on his mind, but my thoughts are muffled by a thick blanket of fatigue and sorrow. As we get closer to my building,
I feel a distance between Ned and me. I want to be alone with my memories of Brent, and of Mike. I’m in mourning, and it’s déjà vu all over again. We reach the door to my building, near where Ned kissed me for the first time. A lot has happened since that first kiss. Brent was alive then.
“You want to pick up some clothes, Mary?”
“Actually, I think I should get some sleep tonight.”
“You mean you want to stay here? By yourself?” He frowns, causing his freckles to converge at the bridge of his nose.
I nod.
“I’m worried, honey. I don’t know what’s going on, and I have no confidence in that detective. I don’t think you’re safe.”
“Maybe I can call Judy or something.”
“You don’t want me to stay?” He looks confused.
“Ned, it’s not that it wasn’t wonderful…”
His green eyes harden. “Oh, is that it? Was it wonderful for you? Because it was wonderful for me too.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I got to you this weekend, Mary. I know I did. So don’t pull away from me, not now.”
“I’m not, but we’re only a part of what happened this weekend. I keep thinking about Brent.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“I just want to be alone for a while.”
“But call me, will you? Call me if you need anything, no matter how late it is. Call me.”
“Okay.”
“Lock the door.”
“Okay.”
“Eat your vegetables. And wear your muffler.”
“Thanks.” I give him a quick kiss and let myself into the front door of my building. I wave to him through the leaded glass in the outer door, and I think he waves back, but I can’t see him clearly. The bumpy glass transforms his silhouette into a wavy shadow.
I gather the mail and check each letter as I stack it up. I never thought I would be relieved to see a pile of junk mail addressed to Dee Nunzone, but I am. I climb up to my floor, regretting that I didn’t ask Ned to check the apartment. I reach the door, which still says LASSITER-DINUNZIO, and peek vainly through the peephole. I take a deep breath and unlock the door slowly. I open it a bit, then wider. The apartment is dark. I snap on the light with a finger and stick my head in the door. It looks just the way I left it. And it’s silent. No ringing telephone. No other sound. I walk slowly inside, then shut and lock the door behind me.
“Alice?” The window blinds rustle slightly. She’s on the windowsill. I walk nervously into the kitchen, refill Alice’s bowl, and take Mike’s samurai knife from the rack. I head into the bedroom, brandishing the knife. I figure I must look scary; I’m scaring myself. The bedroom looks absolutely normal. I take a deep breath and look under the bed. Dustballs as big as sagebrush, mounds of pink Kleenex, and a tortoiseshell barrette I’d been looking for. I grab the barrette and put it on my bed.
I leave the bedroom and walk into the bathroom. The makeup shelf, which I leave in a secret configuration now — moisturizer, foundation, eye pencil, lipstick — is still in its secret configuration. And the smell of the ripe cat box confirms that at least one other thing remains undisturbed.
I relax slightly and return to the living room.
“Alice?”
The window blinds move in reply, but Alice doesn’t leave her post.
“He’s not coming back, Alice,” I say. I’m not sure whether I mean Mike or Brent, but Alice doesn’t ask for a clarification.
I fall into a chair with my killer knife and close my eyes.
20
The next sound I hear is the ear-splitting buzz of my downstairs doorbell. I glance at my watch. It’s ten o’clock. I must have fallen asleep. Groggy, I get up and press the intercom button, still holding the chef’s knife. “Who is it?”
“Little pig, little pig, let me come in,” shouts a strong voice. Judy’s.
“Hold on.” I buzz her in and she arrives in seconds, having taken the stairs two by two, like she always does. She bangs into the apartment wearing a reinforced backpack and toting a rolled-up sleeping bag. She gasps when she sees the knife. “What the hell is that for?” she asks.
“Bad guys. Are you terrified?”
“Of you?”
“Yes, of me. Of me and my big no-joke knife.” I wave it around and she backs away.
“Watch it with that thing.”
“You ought to see what this knife can do to a piece of celery. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Is this what we’ve come to? You running around with a machete?” She kicks the door closed with the back of her running shoe and tosses the sleeping bag onto the floor, where it rolls into the couch. Alice arches her back.
“Who are you, Nanook of the North?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Yeah?”
“Okay as I can be.”
“I thought so,” Judy says, frowning like a doctor confirming a child’s case of tonsillitis. “I brought something to make us feel better.” She swings the backpack off her shoulder and tugs its zipper open, walking into the kitchen. I follow her in and watch her unpack a bag of sugar, two sticks of butter, and a cellophane pack of chocolate chips.
“You left Kurt to come here and bake stuff?” I stick the knife back onto the rack.
“Not exactly. Your new boyfriend called and said you needed protection. You did use protection, didn’t you?”
I feel terrible all of a sudden. It reminds me of Brent. I flash on him that day in my office, cleaning up the coffee stain. He was so worried about me.
“What’s the matter?” Judy asks, alarmed.
“Brent, Judy. Brent.” I feel myself sag and Judy gathers me up in her strong arms. I burrow into her fuzzy Patagonia pullover, with its fresh soapy smell, and start to cry.
“I know, Mare,” she says, her voice sounding unusually small. “He was a good man. He loved you.” She hugs me closer, and I try not to feel funny about the fact that we’re two women hugging breast to breast. In fact, Judy’s squeezing me so tightly that I stumble backward, to the sound of a loud reeaow!
We both jump. I’ve crunched Alice’s tail underfoot. She hisses at me fiercely.
Judy laughs, wiping her eyes. “Fuck the cookies. Let’s bake Alice.”
I laugh too, for a long time, and it feels good, a release. We take turns drying our eyes with a roll of paper towels that has tiny daisies marching along its border. Afterward, feeling shaky and sober, we look at each other. Judy’s lips are a wavy line. “This must be how you felt after Mike, huh?” she says, leaning against the kitchen counter.
Mike. His voice is gone now, and it was the last of him. I nod.
“You came back to work so soon. I never knew how you did it.”
“I had to. When something like that happens, you have to do the next thing.”
“The next thing?”
“Right. Whatever’s next. You go and do it. Then you do what comes next after that. File a brief. Bake cookies.”
Judy smiles weakly.
I point to the base cabinet. “The cookbook’s inside. You want coffee?”
“Thanks.” Judy yanks her pullover off over her head, revealing one of Kurt’s V-neck undershirts, and settles down on the pine floor of the kitchen. She tugs my Joy of Cooking from the shelf and opens the thick book, idly twisting the red ribbons glued to its spine. “What is this, the wartime edition? You should throw this thing out.”
“I can’t.” I scoop some dry coffee into the coffeemaker. “It reminds me of a missal.”
“A what?”
“Forget it.” Judy was raised without a religion, which is why she has so much faith.
“So, are you in love?”
I watch the coffee dribble into the glass pot. It takes forever.
“Mary? You in love?” She looks up at me expectantly. With her shaggy haircut, there on the floor, she reminds me of a sheepdog waiting for a Milk-Bone.
“I’m in confusion.”
“Tell me what’s going on or I’ll make the German Honey Bars.”
I retrieve two mugs from the cabinet and pour us both some coffee. I take mine with extra cream and extra sugar; she takes hers black. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with his German Honey Bar.” She pats the floor beside her.
“You want to sit on the floor?” I hand her the coffee.
“You had sex on the floor, didn’t you?”
I sit down with a sigh. The kitchen is so cramped our shoes touch in the middle — Ferragamo meets New Balance. I wrap my hands around my own toasty mug.
“Your Honor,” she says, “please instruct the witness to answer the question.” She looks happy again, bugging me to say the unsayable.
“What question?”
“Did you do it on the floor?”
I wince.
“It’s okay to talk about sex, Mary. You’re a grown-up now, and there are no commandments within a five-mile radius. So. On the couch?”
“Judith.”
“That counts as a yes on the couch.”
“You’re relentless.”
“All right. Forget it. You’re in confusion. Are you in danger?” She stops smiling.
“From Ned? No.”
“You sure?”
I tell Judy all about Ned, his therapy and his father. She listens carefully, sipping her coffee. When I’m done, she sets her mug down on the floor and leans forward intently. Uneven bangs shade her eyes from the Chinese paper lamp overhead.
“You want to know what I think?”
I bite my lip. Judy’s a certifiably smart person; she was number one at Boalt. If she says it, it carries weight.
“I think Brent was murdered, and I think there is some connection between Brent and Mike. It’s too coincidental.”
“So I’m not crazy.”
“No. But listen to this. I think you’ve been analyzing this all wrong. Forget for a minute that you think the car was aiming at you, that’s just an assumption. The only facts we have are that Mike’s been killed and Brent’s been killed. So reason backward from that. Assume that the killer did what he intended to do — kill the two men closest to you. He wasn’t after you, he was after them.”