“It sounds like a setup to me,” he said. “Though I’ll tell you this—the last person to believe you’re a junkie is your mother.”
“Or your best friend.”
He looked sad. “I really am sorry, Bennie. I never wanted to get you in trouble.”
“Does your mother know?”
“You think I want to kill her? She knows I’m gay, that’s enough.”
I thought of Sam’s lifestyle, a gay man, maybe even sharing needles, exchanging high-risk blood. “From the looks of it, I think it’s yourself you want to kill.”
Sam’s anguished eyes found mine, and he didn’t disagree.
Later, I bundled him into his bed, now a bare mattress with one of the most exclusive views in the city, overlooking Rittenhouse Square. Where the night table had been were pizza crusts, overflowing ashtrays, and other trash.
I set about cleaning the place while Sam fell into an exhausted sleep. Jamie 17 kept me company and I went from room to room sweeping and vacuuming, just as I had cleaned my own apartment after the cops searched it. I’d gone from relentless slob to white tornado in a matter of days and hated every minute of it.
As the night wore on and Sam woke up, the singing turned to persuading, then pleading, then yelling. I hugged him, ordered him food, and threw him into the mildewed shower as Jamie 17 scampered out of sight. Anything to get him through the night. I made him throw out all the drug paraphernalia from his hiding places; an array of bloody needles, spoons, and stuff he called his “works.” I turned the place upside down, with him screaming at me, crying, begging me to stop. But I didn’t listen and he finally gave in.
I lost track of time and at some point I called a drug hotline as Sam raved in the background. They walked me through it—sweats, shakes, and nausea—from wherever they were to wherever I was. At the other end of the phone line was a kind, knowing soul who stayed with me and Sam through the darkness, asking nothing but to help.
By the time dawn came around, Sam had slipped into the soundest sleep I’d ever seen, sounder than Jamie 17’s at his feet, right through two calls from Ramon. The waiter’s third call sounded panicky and it was clear it wasn’t love he wanted. I hung up the phone.
When dawn finally broke, I rose from my spot on the hardwood floor and stretched, looking out the window over the Square. Every muscle in my body ached, but the scene was beautiful, Sunday morning quiet. The streetlights were still on around the Square, glowing dimly in the hazy gray morning. The green wooden benches were empty, even of the homeless. To my left twinkled downtown Philly, but the Silver Bullet seemed far away, draped in the mist. On the right were the classy rowhouses south of the Square and the backstreet that used to be ours, at R & B. I thought of Mark, then Grady.
Grady. I wondered how he was. I looked at the phone, off the hook on the floor beside Sam and Jamie 17. It was a chance, but I wanted to talk to him. A fugitive needs her lawyer, doesn’t she? The dawn I left him was exactly like this one. How many days ago was that? The truth was, I missed him. I picked up the phone and dialed him at home.
“Wells residence,” breathed a woman’s voice, in a soft whisper.
It took me aback. I squeezed the receiver in my hand. His old girlfriend? Another woman?
“Hello?” said the woman. I could barely hear her.
Good-bye, I thought, and hung up.
28
Sunday morning dawned and I spent it taking care of Sam, who cried, slept, showered, and babbled a Foghorn Leghorn cartoon in a continuous loop. I’d wanted to read the newspapers to track what the cops were saying about me, but the news agency had long ago stopped delivering to Sam’s condo, their bills unpaid. I tried not to think about Grady, which wasn’t hard since my hands were full with Sam, who swore he wanted to get clean.
“For real?” I asked, making him a slice of toast, the only food I could find in the apartment.
“I’m ready to kick. This is it.”
“You’re halfway there, Sam.”
“I’m no longer a duck amuck. That’s 1953, by the way.”
“Stop with the cartoons.” I put the toast on a freshly washed plate and set it in front of him as he rested on his elbow at the counter. “I told you.”
“Okay, okay.” Sam waved me off with a trembling hand. His eyes were bloodshot behind his glasses, his skin a saffron hue, and his frame almost anorexic now that he was out of his tailored suits. “I thought you liked the ’toons, Ben. Why are you so cranky all of a sudden?”
“I decided you’re using cartoons as a facade. You hide behind your humor, you don’t want to face reality. I saw it on Sally Jessy.”
He rolled his eyes. “Did Ramon call?”
“Forget about Ramon. He’s a bad influence on you.”
“Of course he is, that’s what I like about him. So did he call?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not letting you play with him anymore.”
“You taking over my care and feeding?”
“Bingo.”
“I hope you’ll do better with me than with Jamie 17. She’s too skinny.” His eyes followed the cat as she walked back and forth on the floor, rubbing against his stool at the kitchen counter.
“I gave her a Snickers yesterday,” I said defensively.
“She needs real food.”
“When it gets dark I’ll go out and get some food for both of you.” I brushed the toast crumbs off my hands in the small, modern kitchen. It was spotless from my cleaning last night and so bare it looked like no one lived there.
“Thanks a lot for last night, for everything you’ve done.”
“Forget it.”
“No, I know you’re in trouble. This must be the last thing you need.”
“I don’t mind helping you, but I’m no expert. The man on the hotline said you should check into a rehab center. He was telling me the Bar Association even has a service for lawyers with drug problems, there are so many.”
“No. Never.” Sam scowled. “I’m not doing it that way.”
“He said Eagleville is good, not far from here.”
“I don’t need it. I can do it myself. I’m halfway there, you said so yourself.”
“He said it’s a pattern, though. A behavior.”
Sam’s face flushed. “I’m not going to any frigging rehab. I’m not losing everything I worked for at Grun, not for this. No. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I know it was a bitch, but don’t push the rehab. That’s all, folks.”
“But you need therapy—”
“You want to shock me, too? Like your mother?”
It stung. I didn’t know what to say. A lump formed in my throat.
“Shit.” He rubbed his forehead irritably. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
You want to shock me, too? I couldn’t get past the phrase. It had a hangtime of its own and it lingered, suspended in the air between us. It was true. I had shocked my mother. Pushed a giant RESET button on her brain. Rebooted her. How was she? We lived not ten minutes from here. Did I dare go over in the daylight?
“Bennie, I didn’t mean to say that. I was angry.” Sam reached for my hand, but I was heading for the apartment door. I wanted to go. Maybe get some food, maybe stop by my mother’s if it was safe.
“I’ll be back,” I told him.
“Bennie, I’m sorry. Don’t go.”
“You and the cat need food. Wait here and don’t answer the phone.”
“I didn’t mean it.” He got up unsteadily and almost stumbled following me to the door. “Bennie—”
“Take care of the cat,” I said and closed the door behind me.
Outside the building, I fumbled for my sunglasses in the bright sun. I felt nervous, exposed. Too many people around Rittenhouse Square. A runner knocked into me, and I jumped.
“Watch it, buddy!” the doorman shouted. “You all right, Miss?” He rushed over, an older man in a maroon cap and a jacket with epaulets.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” His watery
eyes looked concerned. “I thought he bumped you. Did he bump you?”
“I’m fine.”
“They’re not allowed to do that, cut under the awning. This is Manchester property, not public property. It’s private, not public, you know what I mean?”
“Yes. Thanks, but I have to go.”
“They’re runners, what do they want the shortcut for anyway? They’re supposed to want the exercise, am I right?” he called, even as I walked away. “What are they doin, takin’ the shortcut?”
But I was gone, eyes scanning the street behind my dark sunglasses. There was no police car, marked or unmarked, anywhere in sight, and the Square was crowded with Philadelphians enjoying the weather. Runners lapped the Square, lovers cuddled on the park benches over the newspaper. I walked quickly down the sidestreet next to Sam’s apartment building, bypassing the gourmet grocery on the corner because I shopped there all the time.
I headed down a sunny Twenty-second Street, past the exclusive boutiques serving this upscale residential district. I kept my head down, hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, and barreled toward the supermarket on Spruce. It was huge, anonymous, and I never shopped there.
Only one block to go, but I was already warm in my wrinkly suit. My eyes shifted left and right behind my sunglasses, checking the parked cars on either side of the street. No Crown Vic, but when I turned the corner there was a squad car sitting there.
Christ. I sucked wind. A white police cruiser, with the turquoise and gold stripe of the Philadelphia police. The engine was running, but there was no cop inside. It was parked in front of a Chinese restaurant. Maybe he was grabbing coffee, maybe not. Were the cops looking for me around my mother’s house, or Center City? The business district was small enough.
I hustled past the supermarket, skipping the errand. Instinct told me to run, to hide. I picked up the pace and rounded the corner, getting off Spruce Street and out of the cruiser’s line of vision. I started a light run, fake-glancing at my watch. I was a woman, in a linen suit, in a hurry on a Sunday. Late for church? Late for brunch?
I jogged lightly, trying not to look too panic-stricken. I didn’t know where to go. I couldn’t return to Sam’s, too risky. I was too far from my mother’s house, even if I could go there. I had nowhere to go. I was running scared.
Ahead of me, a few blocks down the street stood the Silver Bullet. A gleaming spire. Grun. Why not? It was as good a place as any, and I was still Linda Frost. A New York lawyer working on a Sunday? It was a natural.
I kept the pace up, passed the shoppers and tourists, and headed for the building. I was sweating, but not puffing too badly. Thank God for the stadium steps and the rowing. Thank God I was still free. Come to think of it, maybe I did believe in God. I slowed to a lawyerly cadence and pushed through the revolving door to the Grun building, where I suddenly lost my religion.
At the desk, talking to the security guard, were two uniformed cops.
29
I couldn’t turn around and leave. I couldn’t run. For a split second, I didn’t know how to react. Then I did.
In character. I approached the front desk with an authoritative air. I was Linda Frost, New Yorker. A top-tier lawyer in a one-horse town. I hadn’t had a decent tiramisu in weeks; I couldn’t find an Ethiopian restaurant to save my life. I pushed my sunglasses up with a stiff index finger and reached for the sign-in notebook, ignoring everyone around me.
“His office is on the 35th floor?” one of the cops was saying to the security guard, Will, whom I’d met the first day.
“That’s what it says on the directory,” Will said, checking behind him. “Mr. Sam Freminet. He’s at Grun, he’s a partner there. I see him most mornings. He’s always in early.”
Sam. They were looking for Sam. My heart began to thud inside my chest, but I wrote my name in the book as coolly as possible.
“Maybe Miss Frost could take you up there,” Will said to the cops. “You need a security card to get through the gate, but she’s a lawyer at Grun, too.”
What? I swallowed hard but kept writing, oblivious to all needs but my own. A bona fide New Yorker.
“Miss?” asked the cop. “Miss?”
I looked up. I had to. “Yes.”
“Would you mind taking us upstairs, Miss?” The cop was about forty, with light blue eyes, furry blond eyebrows, and a brushy blond mustache. A certified hunk, but he wasn’t my type. I sued his type.
“It’s police business,” added the other cop, tall, thin, and black. They both wore chrome badges and nametags, but I was too scared to read them.
“We’d appreciate it,” said the blonde, expectantly.
Gulp. “I’ll take you up.” I turned on my heels like an automaton and led the police to the elevator bank. I fought to control my panic. My throat tightened. I wanted to run, but instead I pushed the elevator button and reminded myself I was not guilty of a triple murder, but was going to work to pad some pretrial time.
“Shame you have to work on such a nice Sunday,” the blond cop said. He slipped his hat off with the cool of a major league pitcher.
“It can’t be helped. I have a trial to prepare for.”
I scanned his handsome features from behind my dark glasses and determined I didn’t know him from my cases. He seemed to appreciate the appraisal, however, and if I didn’t know better, I would have said he was taking a shine to me. COP FALLS FOR FUGITIVE.
I got in the elevator when it came, and they climbed in behind me, handcuffs jingling on their heavy leather belts. Each had a radio with a thick rubber antenna, and they carried service revolvers with worn wooden handles. I inched away from the guns as the elevator doors whisked closed and sealed us inside.
“We need to go to 35,” said the blond cop.
“Oh, sure.” I pressed the button, noticing with relief that my hand wasn’t shaking.
“Do you know Sam Freminet, Miss Frost?”
“No, I’m not from the Philadelphia office.” I kept my eyes glued to the glowing orange letters on the elevator cabin: 3rd Floor. 4th Floor. It was sweltering in here, the air-conditioning must have been turned off for the weekend. “Is there some problem with Mr. Freminet, Officer?”
“Call me Bob. Bob Hall.”
“You were saying. Bob.”
“Right. We found his car, abandoned. Stripped clean as a wishbone.”
8th Floor, 9th Floor. “Too bad.”
“More than too bad. It was an eighty-thousand-dollar car.”
“Jeez.” No wonder Sam had cried.
“We found a briefcase in the trunk, with some of Mr. Freminet’s papers in it. But his license plate was gone, and we couldn’t find his registration or other ID. Do you have any idea where he lives? His number’s unlisted and the DMV can’t give us an answer until Monday.”
“No. Haven’t the foggiest.” 13th Floor, 14th Floor. Come on, faster. Damn elevators went too fast when I worked here.
“They have a directory in the office, don’t they? We need to get in touch with him.”
“I don’t know, I’m from the New York office.”
“New Yawk, you’re kidding!” The blond cop’s face lit up. “I grew up in the Big Apple!”
“Really.” Terrific. 21st Floor, 22nd Floor.
“Sure, I’m from Queens. Richmond Hill, but that was a long time ago.” He was evaluating me more closely, as if he were wondering whether we’d been in French II together.
“Queens, really.” I watched his eyes run down my body and up again, stopping and squinting at my sunglasses. I prayed he wouldn’t recognize me, now that my 8 × 10 was undoubtedly hanging in the Wanted for Murder gallery. Women making progress on all fronts.
“I bet I can guess where you’re from,” he said. “Larchmont or Mamaroneck, am I right?”
Mama-what? “No.” 23rd Floor, 24th Floor.
“Where in New York, then?”
“Oh, I’m not from New York originally. I just work there.”
His broad shoulders let do
wn. “Where are you from originally?”
Here we go again. Worst liar in the bar association. I glanced at the black cop. Which state wasn’t he from? “Iowa. Grinnell, Iowa,” I said.
The black cop shrugged, and I flashed him a tight smile. 30th Floor.
“Aren’t you gonna take your sunglasses off?” the blond cop asked.
“I can’t.” 31st Floor, 32nd Floor. I fought for air and a decent lie. “Hangover. Big, bad hangover. Killer hangover.”
“I see.” The cop’s face relaxed into its confident grin. “Out partyin’ last night, huh?”
“You got it,” I said, with a matching grin.
“Even though you have to work the next day?”
33rd Floor, 34th Floor. Hurry, hurry, hurry! “You know how it is.” What? Help!
He grinned slyly. “No, how is it?”
35th Floor. “Here we are!” The elevators slid aside with their characteristic swoosh, opening onto the snazzy reception area. I was so happy to see the Gold Coast I could have kissed the wafer-thin Persian. An air-conditioned blast hit me full in the face, carrying the twin aromas of power and money.
“Must be nice,” said the black cop. He smelled it, too.
On both sides of the reception area were iron gates, blocking entrance to the floor on other side. I fumbled in my purse for my security card and inserted it in the metal box recessed next to the gate. There was a loud click, then the gate began to travel upwards. I almost applauded.
“There we go, gentlemen,” I chirped. “You’ll see the nameplates next to the office doors, everybody has a nameplate nowadays. I’ll be in my office, drinking lousy coffee and working away.” I heard myself babbling, so I clammed up.
The black cop nodded, and the blonde extended a large hand. “Orange juice,” he said meaningfully.
“What?” My hand was still in a cold sweat, so I pulled it away.
“Orange juice. Lots of it. It’s the best thing for one of those killer hangovers.”