"Lucia?" he asked.
Emma nodded. It wasn't like an actual response but at least she was acknowledging his presence today.
A moment later, Eileen came down the stairs. Three years older than Stemmy, the missus was starting to look her age. She'd given up coloring her hair so the white was beginning to come through. There were wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She always wore a smile but it had lately become a tired smile. Stemmy felt bad. She worked, too, albeit part time, and yet she was constantly saddled with the kids' problems. As a detective, his work often kept him extra hours and odd hours. He'd considered retiring a number of times. His twenty years had come and gone a long time before, but he just didn't have the stomach for retirement. Stemmy wasn't prone to hobbies and he hated to sit and watch TV. If he was home during the day Eileen would besiege him with list after list of chores. Chores were for children.
"Rough day?" Eileen asked as she came up to give him a hug and a kiss. He put his arms around her, trying to ignore the fact that she'd put on weight (more trying to ignore the fact that he noticed that she'd put on weight). He chided himself for his silent criticism. Nineteen years before he had chosen Eileen as his companion. He'd said an oath which he took very seriously and didn't regret for an instant. Besides which, he wasn't exactly too much to look at.
"How can you tell?"
"It's that look on your face."
"Yeah," he said. "I guess."
The day had actually gone by pretty easily, but that last case was preying on his psyche. He couldn't get the image of the guy in the body bag out of his head. The word zombie played at the corner of his mind like some teasing shadow. He was not a superstitious man, not prone to a belief in the supernatural. He didn't care for horror or science fiction movies. Comedies were really all that he watched. Stemmy liked to laugh. But that didn't mean he'd never seen a zombie flick. Those pathetic sons of guns always seemed to take over the world in the middle of the night. Would he awaken tomorrow to find some undead thing chewing on his leg?
"…tomorrow night…" Eileen was saying.
He looked at her blankly. "What? What did you say?"
She pouted, walking off to the kitchen. He followed her and sat down when she sat down.
"Okay," she said. "You'd better tell me about it."
So he did.
She laughed at first. It was all so ridiculous. There had been a mistake. Dead people don't walk around biting live people. There were no such things as zombies. But the sober look on his face dispelled her attempt at gaiety.
"You think it's possible," she said.
"Huh? No. No way."
She shook her head at him.
"Really," he said. "It's just been a long time since I've seen anything for the first time. The rest of it is just a bunch of sensationalist crap made up by people who've seen too many monster movies."
"Uh huh," she agreed dubiously. "That's what they say in all of the monster movies."
This time, Stemmy didn't laugh.
***
THE night yielded a couple of leads. The report from the medical examiner confirmed the John Doe's time of death. The man's prints didn't produce an identity and without ID they'd have to pound the pavement looking for someone who knew him. Prior to his death, he'd been in pretty good shape, well toned. While there was no way to know how far he'd traveled before and after his death, Stemmy and Anthony agreed that checking out the local gyms seemed a good place to start. So with a belly full of coffee, donuts, and sickening dread they got to it.
Most of the morning was unproductive. With the help of the world wide web, they compiled a list of thirty gyms within a feasible radius. Graphic artists and their software were able to produce what looked like a decent picture of the John Doe before his death. Maybe the shape of the eyes was off. Maybe the mouth, too. But most of the features were intact, even in death and it was mostly a matter of color.
Their last stop before lunch was a small gym called Push Ups. It was a local place, not part of any chain, and it was situated in Fulton in between stores that were twice its size. When they walked in they could smell the sweat. A small reception desk was off to the left just past the doors. Beyond that was an open area that was packed in with weight benches, treadmills, elliptical, and all other sorts of exercise equipment. To Stemmy lunchtime didn't seem like the best time for a workout but the place seemed crowded. The five treadmills were occupied and there was one very well toned woman working with some of the lighter weights in the corner. Steam rolled out of a doorway in the back indicating showers.
Behind the reception desk was a middle aged woman. She had dark hair that was worn in a way that indicated that she just didn't know what to do with it. Stemmy's first observation was that she didn't seem to be in particularly good shape. She wasn't fat or ugly but she didn't have that workout look. She was pouring over a ledger, an unidentifiable sandwich sitting on the desk next to a can of iced tea. A nametag pinned to her shirt read Abby.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," Anthony said as he pulled out his badge. "I'm Detective Heron and this is Detective Stemmy."
She looked up from the ledger, closing it slowly as she took in the two officers. They were quite a pair, Heron and Stemmy. The weather was warm today so neither wore a coat, but Heron was dressed well in a casual suit with a jacket. Stemmy wore what looked like it had been a suit at one time but the jacket was absent.
"What can I do for you, detectives?"
"We're trying to find the identity of this man." Anthony produced the picture and laid it on the counter in front of her.
She looked at it a moment, then again. "The picture's a bit off," she said.
"It's computer generated," Anthony confirmed. "Unfortunately, the gentleman is deceased."
Abby reacted to that. "Well if it's the same guy then he was a regular here."
"Do you know his name?"
She nodded, still staring at the picture.
"Abby," Anthony said to her, spying the name tag. "We need to find out this man's identity."
"Yes," she said, breaking out of her stupor. "Of course. I'm sorry. His name's Larry. Larry Koplowitz."
Stemmy was already scribbling in a pad. He asked for a spelling of the last name and got it. "Do you have an address?"
She hesitated again, looked toward the back of the room. Sensing her indecision, Anthony said, "Ma'am, this man was the victim of a violent crime yesterday. Right now his family is wondering where he is."
That seemed to make up her mind for her. She started typing into the computer and within a couple of minutes, the two detectives had the information they needed and were out the door.
***
THE phone rang as the two detectives walked out, leaving Abby in a state of confusion and despair. Though she hadn't known Larry well, he was still a person she saw on a regular basis. He came into the gym at least three times a week. Most weeks he came in more often. Sometimes he worked out alone. If Suzanna was in, he'd work out with her. In fact, she was in right now, working out with the weights. She'd barely glanced up while the policemen were there. Abby wondered if she should tell her about Larry. She didn't know how close the two of them were, but she guessed they were just work out partners. Suzanna was dating that teacher.
The phone rang again. Abby hadn't been counting the rings but a sixth sense told her that the person on the other end was growing impatient. She hastily grabbed for it, jostling it around as she brought it up to her head.
"Push Ups Fitness Center. This is Abby." She said that last part with a British accent. She didn't know why. She'd been born and raised in Connecticut.
"Abby? Everything all right?" Oh, yes. That was why. She'd just picked it up from Martin.
"Hi, Martin," she said. "I'm okay. I was just lost in thought."
"Oh, well. All right then. I was wondering if you'd like to meet for lunch. I've an interview three blocks fro
m you in an hour and a half."
She looked at the half-eaten sandwich on the counter. Then she thought of Larry. Poor dead Larry. She was in no mood for company and in no mood for food. But Martin had been sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Every failed job interview got him started on going back to England. They argued about it. The job situation wasn't any better over there and Abby didn't really want to leave her family. Most importantly, she didn't want to take Sam away from her parents.
She and Martin Benjamin had met while he'd been on holiday in New York. She and her parents had only moved to Queens a few months before so she wasn't all that familiar with the city. The two of them had learned it together and fallen fast in love. With no attachments in England, Martin had brought his considerable technological skills to the States. He'd landed a good job easily enough and it wasn't long before she became Mrs. Martin Benjamin. A year after that Sam had come along. Six months after that disaster had struck the economy and the Benjamin family had fallen victim to it. Martin lost his job and Abby had scrambled to get the position at the gym. Her hours were bad and they had to put Sam, now two years old, into daycare while Martin looked for a job. Her parents weren't physically capable of taking care of him day after day but they had insisted on paying for the daycare. Under the circumstances, Martin and Abby had been left with little choice. It ate at him, she knew. And silently he had vowed to pay them back once he was on his feet. But for now they were doing the best they could and taking help from wherever it came.
"Abby?"
She was startled by his voice on the phone. "Oh," she cried again. "I'm so sorry, Martin."
"What is it?" He sounded tense. Everything made him tense nowadays. He was losing confidence in himself as a provider and as a man. She knew he harbored suspicions of her finding some buff rich guy and taking Sam and ditching the English washout. But of course that was all in his imagination. She loved him dearly even though his recent and frequent mood swings drove her to the point of madness.
"There were two policemen in here just before you called," she told him. "One of our customers was killed yesterday."
He was silent for a moment, chewing it over in his mind she supposed. It was possible he didn't believe her. For just a moment, he would doubt. Then surely his rational side would take over.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said and it was clear that he didn't quite know how to feel.
"I didn't know him that well," she said as much to put him at ease as to carry forward the conversation. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But his workout partner is here at the gym now. Should I tell her, Martin?"
"I suppose you should," he said. "Who else will tell her if you don't?"
She nodded to herself. She would have to tell Suzanna. "I don't know about lunch, Martin. I don't think I could eat. But come by anyway, just so I can see you. I think I need to see your face."
He went quiet again. "All right. I'll stop in. Will you be all right for the time being?"
"I guess so," she said, then, "Of course."
"See you in a bit then, love." And he hung up before she could say anything else.
Absently, Abby put the phone back on the cradle, her eyes on Suzanna. Suzanna was tall and thin. She was maybe twenty five years old but Abby wasn't sure. She was so fit. At the moment she was standing in her spandex leggings and tank top with her legs spread wide, working out her shoulders with ten pound weights. There was always this determined look on Suzanna's face. Defiant, too, as if anyone who stood in the way of her determination was in for a fight. She brought this to bear right then. Without even looking over at Abby she called out, "You're staring at me."
Abby didn't even react for a moment, just continued staring. Only when Suzanna looked up, her sharp dark eyes locking with Abby's own did she break from her reverie. With one hand, she beckoned Suzanna over. The younger woman seemed put out but returned the weights to the stand and came over.
"What is it?"
"Did you see the two gentlemen that were in here a few minutes ago?"
"Yeah. So?"
"They had a picture of Larry."
It didn't dawn on Suzanna right away but then something about her face seemed to change. Then she blushed.
Oh my God, thought Abby. They don't just work out together.
"Is he in trouble?" Suzanna asked. "Did something happen?"
"I didn't know, Suzanna. I'm so sorry."
Suzanna went cold again. "There's nothing to know. What are you sorry about?"
Abby was beginning to regret getting involved. "He's…They said he'd been killed."
Everything froze then except for Suzanna's expression which morphed from confusion to shock to anger with just the briefest glimpse of grief thrown in somewhere. She said nothing before turning away. There was a tear welling in her eye.
"Suzanna, I…"
She put up a hand to forestall anything further. Then, drawing in a deep breath, Suzanna went back to her workout.
***
IT was lunchtime but neither Stemmy nor Anthony felt like stopping on their way to Larry Koplowitz's apartment. Stemmy could wait and Anthony forestalled the hunger with a cigarette. They called in to inform the captain of their good fortune and then proceeded straight to the building.
Koplowitz lived on the third floor of a small building located in downtown Brooklyn. It was an older building and the lobby hadn't been refurbished in a while. Anthony buzzed the super and the two detectives waited patiently for him to arrive.
"What's this all about?" he said gruffly, as if he couldn't be bothered with two policemen in the middle of the day. The super was in his late fifties or maybe even his early sixties. He wore a checked shirt over some old carpenter's pants. There was a large ring of keys dangling from his belt loop which Stemmy found to be both cartoonish and out of place. He had three days' worth of grey stubble on his face and a perpetual scowl. The scowl did not alter when they explained why they were there.
"I doubt the missus is home," the super said. "She's got some kind of high power job in the city."
Stemmy glanced at Anthony. There had been no missing person's report matching Koplowitz's description or identity. They had assumed he lived alone. The existence of a wife who had not shown the usual signs of concern was a bad omen.
"Do you have a key to that apartment, sir?" Anthony asked.
"Of course!" The super was already leading them into the elevator. The three men said nothing to each other during the short ride up.
They stepped out of the elevator into a brown carpeted hallway. Here, too, the walls were in need of repainting and the window at the end of the corridor was grimy. Stemmy wondered how the tenants tolerated it. If he was paying the price of a Brooklyn rental, he would be a lot more vocal about the condition of his building.
"It's that one there," the super said as he pulled the key off his ring.
Stemmy put a hand out to halt him while Anthony approached the door, the third from the end, and knocked. When there was no reply, he called out. "Mrs. Koplowitz, are you home? This is Detective Anthony Heron of the NYPD. We need to speak with you regarding your husband."
There was still no answer.
"Told you," the super said.
"Can you open it up, please?" Anthony asked. He looked at Stemmy, who'd gone white as a ghost. It was on both of their minds. There was a man whose time of death preceded the event by ten to twelve hours. They couldn't escape the meaning of it no matter how unreal it sounded.
As soon as the super had the door open, the smell wafted into the hallways.
"What the hell is that?" he said angrily, wondering about the cleaning up he would have to do. He moved to march right inside and find the source but Anthony put a strong hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. One look at their two faces quelled any defiance the super might have felt rising.
The interior of the apartment was dark, all of the shades pull
ed. There was a table and a lamp right next to the door and Anthony switched it on, bathing the room in dim light. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The door opened up into a small entryway that became the living room. A couch was out in the middle of the room, facing their left, with a long table behind it. Pictures sat on the table, one of them knocked over. The TV was across from the couch with a DVD rack next to it. There was an easy chair on the far side of the coffee table and just behind that was the kitchenette. An opening led into darkness to the right of the kitchen.
The smell was awful. There was no doubt that something dead was in that apartment.
"Wait out here," Stemmy said to the super as he moved in behind Anthony. They both drew their weapons.
"Mrs. Koplowitz," Anthony called. "Are you there, ma'am?"
Even in the face of the undead, Anthony was polite.
"What do you think?" Stemmy whispered, beginning to sweat.
"I think she's probably laying in the bedroom or the bathroom dead," Anthony whispered back. "If he was eating people, God knows what she'll look like now."
"What if she's like him?" Stemmy asked. "What do you think about that?"
"I don't want to think about that."
But they were both thinking about it. You didn't move cautiously through an apartment, checking under tables and into corners with your gun drawn if you weren't worried about being attacked. Stemmy looked back once to make sure the super wasn't coming in and was relieved to find that he wasn't. Apparently the detectives' apprehension was infectious. All manner of surliness had gone out of the poor old super and he just stood in the doorway, protected by the light of the hallway behind him.
There was a switch on the wall between the kitchenette and the hallway that led deeper into the apartment. Stemmy prayed that it would light up the place better as he reached for it. But he froze in mid stride as a soft moan drifted from out of that darkened passage. It had the pitch of a woman's voice but the tenor of a rush of air through an empty tunnel. Stemmy was close to the hallway, not yet close enough to reach the switch but close enough that the odor tripled inside of his nostrils.
"Stemmy, back up," Anthony said and Stemmy obliged.