by Ron Levitsky
“Please.”
Her eyes shimmered behind a well of tears—dark eyes growing darker. He wanted to put his arms around her to stop the trembling, but was afraid that would only make things worse. He waited for her to take a deep breath, the air shuddering in her lungs.
“All right,” he said.
Passing a knot of hangers-on and the police cars with their flashing lights, they continued a half block up Sheridan, crossing the street to Lucila’s old brown station wagon.
As Rosen opened the passenger door, he noticed that the edge of the right front bumper had buckled.
“Did you have an accident?”
“What?”
“Over here.”
She walked around the car and looked at the dented bumper.
“You didn’t know?” he asked.
Not saying a word, she continued to stare at the bumper. Then the tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. Shaking uncontrollably, Lucila kicked the tire.
“Damn! That’s all I need! Damn, damn, damn!”
This time Rosen did hold her, letting her sob into his shoulder, feeling her hot forehead against his cheek. She cried like little girls do, bridling against him, her hands sometimes clutching, sometimes beating on his chest. A few strands of hair, loosened from under her scarf, brushed across his cheek. Smoothing them back, inhaling the fragrance of her shampoo, he felt his heartbeat quicken and her sobs echo in his ears. His hands tightened on her back.
After a few minutes, Lucila’s crying settled into a soft seesawing against his chest. Hesitating, she stepped away from him, then took another minute to regain her composure. He handed her his handkerchief.
Drying her eyes, she said, “I’m sorry. That was real stupid of me.”
“Forget it.” Taking the car keys from her hand, he opened the passenger door. “This time you’d better let me drive.”
Traffic crept up Sheridan Road and continued to move slowly when he cut over to Chicago Avenue.
“What time is it?” he asked.
Lucila checked her watch. “Almost eight-thirty.”
“Feels more like midnight, doesn’t it?”
She closed her eyes. “God, yes.”
She almost looked asleep, her breasts softly rising and falling, and her lips parted as if they’d just been kissed. Passing the Nahagians’ condo, Rosen turned right and pulled into a space along the perimeter of the park.
“Lucila?”
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Like to come upstairs for a cup of coffee?”
Nodding, she let him take her arm, and they walked through the park, not unlike the other couples strolling by. A pair of teenagers sat together on the swings; leaning toward one another, they kissed. The sky was as clear as it had been earlier that evening.
Watching the stars wink back at him, Rosen remembered what Keller had called them—“innocent bystanders,” indifferent to the actions of those on whom they shone. Too cold a thought for such a beautiful night, with him walking beside such a beautiful woman. When Lucila also looked up at the stars, he remembered something else.
“What was that poem you recited for your niece in church? Something about the stars.”
She stopped, and her eyes slowly widened.
“‘Sleep, my little one,
sleep and smile,
for the night-watch of stars
rocks you awhile.
Sleep, my little one,
sleep and smile,
For God in the shade
rocks you awhile.’”
Lucila spoke the last words very softly and, for a moment, seemed about to cry again. But she cleared her throat and tossed back her head.
“Yes. Now, my little one, you can sleep. You can finally sleep.”
Inside the condo, Rosen took Lucila’s jacket and noticed a small rip on the left shoulder seam of her sweatshirt. As she moved, a bit of her soft brown skin played peek-a-boo through the hole, as if daring him to touch it. She walked past him into the living room and suddenly stopped.
“I’ve been here before. Who owns this place?”
“The Nahagians. He’s my boss’s brother.”
“Of course—Ana Nahagian. She’s on the board of the Art Institute and a good friend of Kate’s. She’s a real enthusiast for Latin American art . . . well, that’s pretty obvious.” Lucila studied the paintings on the wall.
“I’m afraid I lied to you,” Rosen said.
“Hmm?”
“I asked you up for coffee, but there’s only instant. None of that espresso you brew in a sock.”
“You mean colador. That’s all right. Tonight I’m your guest, so I’ll have some tea.”
Rosen walked through the hallway into the kitchen and put on the kettle. While the water heated, he stepped out and called, “What kind of tea would you like! I’ve got regular and some herbal that’s decaf!”
“I’ll split a bag of whatever you’re having!”
After filling the cups, he took out a Lipton tea bag and started to dunk it, just as a little boy he’d done for his brothers. He let it steep, watching the dark tea ooze from the bag through the water. Aaron was like that—smooth and patient and inexorable. Again he heard his brother’s voice, “What could I have said?” Aaron the doctor, the good husband and doting father, the eldest son, who’d gained his father’s blessing. As the Patriarch Isaac had said to his son, “Be master over your brothers. . . . Cursed be they who curse you, Blessed they who bless you.”
Taking out the bag to brew the second cup, Rosen wondered again why his brother had visited him earlier that evening. Was it to be the elder brother, loving and forgiving as Esau had been after Jacob’s years of wandering? Or was he just another lackey for Ellsworth-Leary? Rosen remembered what Jacob had said to his brother after having been away for so many years: “. . . to see your face is like seeing the face of God. . . .”
“Oh, Aaron,” he whispered, then, blinking hard, carried the teacups into the living room.
Lucila stood by the bookshelves, admiring the statuettes and other pieces of art. “It’s like being in a museum. I’d forgotten how beautiful they are.”
Handing her a cup of tea, he took a book from the shelf. “Let’s sit on the couch.”
He laid the book on the coffee table and turned the pages. “Daughters of Frida Kahlo: Art of the Latin American Woman. A very interesting book.”
“She was quite a woman.” Lucila turned to examples of Kahlo’s paintings. “Her art showed the same simplicity, the same strength as that of her husband, Diego Rivera. But she was much stronger than him. I guess she had to be, to survive as an artist. You can sense that strength in her paintings. Do you see?”
Rosen turned to the double-page spread of Lucila’s work. “Kahlo isn’t the only woman with that kind of strength. Personally, I like these Melendezes.”
Lucila tried to stifle a smile. “Some of my earlier work, first ever featured in an art book. Do you really like them?”
“Yes.”
She clicked her tongue. “What could you say besides yes?”
“They’re very moving, especially this one.” He pointed to the painting of a pregnant woman being crucified. “The woman looks just like your sister-in-law, Esther.”
“Uh huh. I’ve become a little less dogmatic, but back then I was so angry at how motherhood became a prison for Latin American women. Esther had been so good to my brother, but he was cheating on her even while she carried his child.”
“Nina?”
Nodding, Lucila tried to speak, but her voice broke. She rubbed her eyes hard.
“Pobrecitas”—poor little ones.
Rosen handed her the teacup. It trembled in her hands as she sipped.
She said, “Sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I know you didn’t want me to say anything to the police about our having been in Bixby’s apartment. Guess I kind of fell apart.”
“That’s all right—our fingerprints were all over the place. Besides, you were trying to
cover for me.”
“I wish I was that noble. You don’t know how afraid I am of police.”
“I find that pretty hard to believe. McCarthy said you’d been arrested for some pro-choice marches.”
“That was out in the open, with hundreds of other demonstrators and the TV cameras rolling. The arrest was just procedure. We were released almost as soon as we walked into the station. But tonight.” She shivered.
“Did they threaten you?”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. You couldn’t, growing up in America. As a little girl in my country, I heard so many stories about the dictator Trujillo—the anonymous phone calls at night, then the knock on the door and the people who disappeared, fed to the sharks in Santo Domingo harbor.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“When you lose two uncles like that, you never forget. When Lt. McCarthy called and said he’d send a car for me, I panicked. It took me several minutes just to agree to drive over by myself. Guess I was kind of a basket case.”
Rosen drank his tea. Over the rim of his cup, he saw Lucila’s glance dart away as she chewed on her lower lip.
He said, “That’s not the only reason you acted the way you did.”
“No, it’s not. Guess I just couldn’t believe it was finally over. Didn’t want to believe. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“Didn’t want to believe what was over?”
“Our going after Bixby. I loved Nina so much, it seemed that as long as we were hunting Bixby, she was still with me. I don’t have much family, and Nina was like my child. It gets so lonely. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
She put her teacup down and stared into Rosen’s eyes. “We’re taught that hating is wrong, yet hating Bixby kept Nina alive for me a little bit longer. Was it bad for me to hate him so much?”
“I don’t know. There’s a story in Genesis about a man named Shechem raping Jacob’s only daughter. Even though the man loved and wanted to marry her, Jacob’s sons slew not only Shechem but all the men of his tribe. By comparison, your hate is very small.”
Lucila’s dark eyes, so deep he could drown in them. Again he smelled the simple fragrance of her hair and saw the softness of her shoulder through the torn sweatshirt. He felt a little drunk and, though she said something, couldn’t hear it. All he wanted to do was touch that bare spot of shoulder. He moved toward her.
“Careful.”
He blinked hard.
“You’re spilling your tea.”
Setting his cup down beside hers, he rubbed his eyes. “You were saying something?”
“Just strange, your bringing up a story about rape and murder. Never mind. Esther and I owe you a lot. You said you’d help us, and you did. Now I guess it’s time we start putting all this behind us.”
Lucila touched his arm, almost brushing the bare spot of her shoulder against him. Her lips parted, about to smile—about to kiss him? Rosen wanted to kiss her. He was as lonely as she. Easy to put an arm around her, to draw her close. Why not forget about everything else? It all could end so easily. It already had.
He shook his head. Something wasn’t right. Besides, he owed more to Sarah and to the girl who’d been her best friend.
“Are you sure Bixby killed Nina?”
She cocked her head. “What?”
“Are you sure—”
Of course I’m sure. A pervert like him. And look at the way he died. How can you ask such a thing?”
“When we searched his apartment yesterday, we didn’t find a gun.”
“McCarthy said he might’ve bought it last night.”
“It’s not so easy for someone like a teacher to go into the streets and just buy a gun.”
“Maybe he had it in his car all along.”
Rosen shrugged. “Maybe. The real question is, why would Bixby kill himself? There was no evidence connecting him to Nina’s murder.”
“But we were pressuring him.”
“There were only a couple months left in the school year. He could’ve resigned and gone away. That’s a lot less drastic than committing suicide.”
Lucila pulled at her hands. “His conscience. He just couldn’t live with what he did.”
“Pretty inconsistent. On the one hand you think he’s a sick pervert, and on the other so very sensitive.”
“You’re just confusing things with . . . just your lawyer talk.”
“Am I? Why wasn’t there a suicide note?”
“You saw the photograph—the red circle around Nina.”
“Anyone can draw a circle around a photograph.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“Besides, there’re some things that bother me about the physical evidence.”
“What are you saying?”
He moved close enough to kiss her but instead asked, “Have you seen your sister-in-law today?”
“No—why?”
“I saw Esther late this afternoon, at her place. We had a long conversation. She strikes me as being unstable.”
Lucila raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Unstable—God, what a revelation. After her daughter’s been murdered, you find Esther unstable. How would you have felt, if it’d been Sarah?”
“You know it’s more than that.” He nodded toward the art book. “Esther’s been the subject of more paintings than this.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The painting in Kate Ellsworth’s gallery—The Flowers of Madness.”
“Stop it!”
“It wasn’t chance that made her your subject for a madwoman. There’s something wrong with her, isn’t there?”
Lucila’s eyes flashed as she grabbed his arm. “Now you’re the one who’s inconsistent. How can my sister-in-law be so crazy and yet so coolly plan a murder to look like suicide?”
He looked away for a moment. They both knew Lucila was right, just as they both knew what his next question would be.
“Where were you today?”
“You heard me tell McCarthy I was working in my studio all day.”
“No answer this morning, when I called you.”
“I never answer the phone when I’m working. It breaks my concentration.”
“You answered McCarthy’s call.”
Her nails dug into his arm. “The phone kept ringing every five minutes.”
“So that particular call—”
“What’re you saying? That Esther and I drove over to Bixby’s apartment today? That we brought a gun, forced him to put the barrel against his head and pull the trigger? That we circled Nina’s picture and did everything else to make it look like suicide?” Lucila’s voice softened, and her breath felt warm against his cheek. “Is that what you really think?”
He shook his head hard, not in answer to her question, but to stop the blood pounding in his ears. “I think your sister-in-law’s capable of killing Bixby. You once said if it weren’t for me looking into Nina’s death, Esther might—”
“I’m not talking about Esther. I’m talking about me.” She pointed her right index finger like a gun against his temple. “Do you think I could’ve killed Bixby?”
“I think you loved your niece very much.”
She pressed harder against his throbbing forehead. “Do you think I’m a killer? Do you!”
Twisting her wrist, Rosen pulled her close. His other hand gripped her shoulder, the bare spot where her sweatshirt was torn. The more Lucila struggled to free herself, the tighter he held her, and when she turned toward him, he kissed her hard, as he’d wanted to do for so long. He wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t give himself a chance to think, just kissed her and then forgot everything else when her hands went around the back of his neck.
She drew him onto the couch and, arching her back as his hands crept under the sweatshirt, fell to the wooden floor while dragging him with her. She let him pull off her sweatshirt and held him tightly while he kissed her neck and heavy breasts.
Her hands running
through his hair, she murmured something in Spanish, something that sounded like kisses. He tried to lift her back onto the couch, but she wouldn’t let him, nor did she let him push away the coffee table that restricted their movements. She pulled off her scarf, and the fragrance of her hair overpowered him. And so they struggled with each other’s clothing in a space no bigger than a coffin, and when he finally entered her, they sweated and moaned and gasped for breath as if sharing a coffin. One he’d never want to leave.
Sometime later, she led him by the hand into the bedroom and, throwing off the blanket, made love to him again. She was slow and deliberate, as if every touch, every kiss intended to erase any thought that dared wander from her. Afterward, she curled against him and fell asleep.
The bedroom was dimly lit by the hallway, its light feathering over the soft curves of her hips and shoulders and over her long legs stretched against his. Her scent was on him; with each breath he inhaled it and grew excited again, more excited than he’d ever been with Bess. He wanted to wake her, to once again . . .
Shaking his head, Rosen drew the blanket over their bodies, naked as Adam and Eve. No, not quite. When Adam had tasted the forbidden fruit, at least he’d gained knowledge. “Then the eyes of both of them were opened.”
With Lucila it had been the opposite. She’d made love so that Rosen would forget. But her body, perfect as it was, wasn’t enough. He hadn’t forgotten, and he still had to know.
Chapter Eighteen
The clock on the night table read “8:32,” and light spilled like sugar between the vertical blinds. Rosen began to smile, thinking of a dream he’d had that night. Turning, he realized he hadn’t been dreaming, for Lucila lay beside him, dark strands of her hair tangled like a silken web across the pillow. How beautiful she looked asleep.
Since his divorce, he’d made love a few times but never spent the whole night with a woman. Somehow falling asleep together made them closer than having sex; the unspoken trust more intimate because it needn’t be spoken. He imagined her body under the covers, but even more was captivated by her soft breathing, which made the silken hair on her pillow tremble. At that moment he’d do anything to protect her. Would he have felt that way about any woman lying beside him, or was he falling in love with her? God, he hoped not; that would only make things worse.