I recall gray daylight start to creep in, then nothing.
From my pillow cave, I squint out at the bottle. It sits empty on the night table. How full was it when I started? One third left before last night? Yes, I remember fretting, photographing it with my mind. Lots of evil water for a few hours’ sleep.
But still breathing, still breathing….
It hits like an avalanche.
Chloe Weld. Not breathing, ever again. The cat. The fire escape. Greer’s raging face.
My hand creeps out, drags my phone close.
Nine-forty.
Haven’t slept this late since the time I went three nights without sleep. That was ten days, exactly, after Kim was killed. I had been like a stone who can’t cry. I’d made it through dealing with police and two shrink visits and hearing “how well I was doing”…and then I exploded. Kim’s teddy bear did it; finding the chewed-ears little thing among her effects at Moore’s. They’d given me two hours to get all her stuff out. He actually had one of his thugs stand over me while I packed.
Then Moore himself strode in, gloating how I “had nothing” on him…so I came back later during his party; climbed up his terrace steps and screamed and slugged his long, smug face so hard I heard his goddamn nose crack. That got me in trouble, and at the end of that awful day I finally cried my insides out, and stopped sleeping, night after night…
Stop, I plead with myself. Shrink says obsessing weakens me. Can’t wreak revenge if I’m weak.…
My phone…quick: my escape hatch from this isolation.
I tap and scroll, find a voicemail from Joe. Sun shafts creep up the bed, so I push further into my cave; call back.
“You sound sleepy,” he says. “Good.”
“A whiskey sleep, not great.” My thumb scrolls in the pillow’s dimness.
“Don’t look at the news,” he says nervously, but too late, I see it.
No arrests in NYC West Village murder, says the AP, and trending on Twitter and everywhere else.
I stare at it with no change of feeling, as if I haven’t seen it; I’m imagining.
“No arrests,” my voice croaks.
“According to the Post, one suspect questioned and released.”
“Released,” I repeat dully. I’m back on the fire escape, seeing Greer shove Chloe onto the bed, seeing him pivot for his blazer, glare wildly toward me.
At Joe’s end a woman’s voice interrupts, shrilling about compost. Sounds of a horn come, other traffic. I slide out from under the pillow, squint painfully up at the ceiling. Cracks there I never noticed.
Hurriedly, Joe explains compost versus mulch, then comes back to his phone.
“Yes, released,” he says low.
The heart bangs. Goes from zero to ninety in a second. “People like Greer always have alibis, don’t they?”
“You should rest, keep the door locked.”
“I’m coming in, you’re alone.”
“We’re managing and it’s still early. Joselito’s wrapping bouquets, can you picture it?”
My breath catches, then sudden tears surprise me. Somehow, picturing huge, sweet Joselito cellophane-wrapping bouquets and tying pretty bows…that just pulls me back. He’ll make one for his mom, too; make it extra pretty…aww…and I realize I’m crying. But a better kind of crying: cathartic.
“You there?” from Joe.
“Yes.” I mop tears with my sheet. “What’s happening at the end of the block?”
“Same. Yellow tape, uniforms, CSI types in white suits. If it’s Greer they’ll take him in again, never fear.”
“I’m not afraid. I’m angry.”
As soon as I say it, I feel something change in me. My eyes widen. Slowly, I push off the blanket. Chloe Weld’s murder, I realize, has awakened me from my depressed and vacant gloom.
I repeat that I’m coming, disconnect, and struggle into a sitting position. Great accomplishment, that, like climbing the Matterhorn. My head and body ache. I’m hung over.
Fighting dizziness, I reach across to my desk and our picture, the one of Kim and me lugging a canoe. I drop my head and hug it to me.
“The rat bastards try to get away, don’t they?” I tell it, refusing to cry. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
A corner of the sheet helps me wipe dust off the photo, taking slow, extra care with the glass over Kim’s face.
Then I shower, pop a couple of Advil, and pull on my navy tracksuit.
Back in the bedroom, the news is talking about the murder. My hand stops brushing my hair and I step over to watch.
There’s a photo of Chloe, sweet and laughing; then a candid shot of her hiking with friends; then comes the picture of her brownstone surrounded by yellow tape, police and gawkers. A reporter holding a mike before the building describes the victim’s close friends’ accounts of her late night argument with a date, “who has been questioned and released. Police have refused further comment.”
What kind of alibi could Greer have had?
I can’t inhale. Stupid cops! Bumbling! Ineffectual!
The picture breaks for a cat food commercial, and I sink back onto the bed. Recriminations hurt so bad that I can’t move. I see last night again.
Only I see it differently.
It’s dark. I’m on the fire escape taking a huge, frightened breath and my fist raises, ready to bang hard on Chloe’s window.
If I had, that girl would have stayed alive, told Greer to get lost, changed her locks.
No amount of Joe’s rationalizing can change what I feel. This guilt is unbearable. Chloe has become a twin obsession to what happened to Kim.
I inhale, back to feeling fire.
In a weird, jerky stumble, I get myself to the kitchen. My coffee maker’s been on for hours. Into the questionable brown liquid I load high-mounded teaspoons of instant and sugar; stir, force the brew down – blech! – tastes like hell, but pretty good rocket fuel.
“Hot coals of vengeance!” I think…Shakespeare, Henry IV…as I grab my bag and lock up, head for Eleventh Street with an energy that surprises me.
11
“Released?” I hiss to Joe first chance we get. “How could Greer just get questioned and released?”
But Joe’s distracted and rather frantic. Spider mites have broken out among his majesty palms. He and Joselito are frantically spraying the undersides of the fronds; the store’s passageway is awash and loud with the sound of their hoses, so I stomp back to customers in front.
Incredulous. Furious. For the next two hours scowling down the block to the gawkers and police activity.
Can’t go there yet; they need me here.
Halfway between hanging up new ribbon spools and handing someone a fern, my phone rings.
Ugh, it’s Alex. I notice there’s also a text from my talent agent, Renata. She sounds excited; I’m not. I just don’t care anymore. I’ll call her after Alex.
“You never got back to me,” he complains.
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“Still not sleeping?”
“That’s right.”
He groans. Then says he needs me to read something and starts spouting legalese, but the connection goes weak and there’s too much traffic to hear. It’s almost one; his teeny ant voice suggests meeting for lunch. I decline, citing the extreme pressures of a flower vendor versus the demands of a power law firm.
The connection clears, and I hear, “…for drinks after work? I need to give you these papers.”
Something lights in my head. Don’t know where it came from but I say yes; suggest Régine’s at six-thirty.
“That works,” Alex says. “Perfect, in fact! Six-thirty, see you there.”
Why perfect?
I glare out at the street, traffic slowing before the other end of the block. The sight of CSU vans and yellow tape still stops them, even in New York.
More customers, more minutiae, busy, busy.
At almost two. I return Renata’s call.
A terrific audition, sh
e says. “Morgan Whatsername just dropped out of talks for a thriller, they need to replace her. You’d be perfect.”
“Why bother?” I say. “Brett Moore squashes anyone thinking of hiring me.”
“I’ve been hearing things,” Renata says conspiratorially. “With the trial date set the dear boy may be getting nervous, headlines all over again. He may even be trying to appear nice – ha! - call off his dogs. C’mon, give it a try, Ava - you’re so talented.”
“That has evaporated.”
“No, it hasn’t! Think yourself back to Cape Castle and Jaffa Road and good ol’ Street Beat. Those were good times and not long ago. Think back to that and just go.”
“What’s the name of this opus?”
“Glory. That’s the name of the mother whose child is kidnapped abroad and she has to find and save him.”
“Sounds like overseas locations, forget it.”
Big sigh at the other end. “Ava,” says Renata patiently. Her clients are often depressed or distracted – divorce, drugs, custody battles - and she’s used to cajoling. “Would you go for me? And for yourself!”
“You’re wrong about Brett Moore. Alex says he’s dug in worse, totally defensive.”
“You should be back out there anyway! Be seen! You’d be perfect for Glory, no one’s forgotten your special inner quality.”
“Okay, okay.”
Date, time, place…I scribble the info she gives, not trying to match the zest in her voice. Then I thank her and disconnect, impatient to get off the phone.
Only the end of the block matters.
Joe comes out, tired, shoes and shirt sleeves wet, muttering that he’s sick of plants. He takes in the group of customers waiting. “You’re all alone out here, need help?” he says low, then smacks his brow. “Sorry! You haven’t had lunch.”
“I’m fine, grabbed one of your Danish.”
His lips purse in apology. “Get a sandwich, sit on a bench or something.”
He sees me look toward the crime scene, and his eyebrows go up. “Best to stay away,” he warns.
“Why?”
He points subtly. “Let them do it. Steer clear. See their CSI van parked there? The white space suits have been going in and out. I mean, running in and out.”
“So?”
“Here’s my guess: Greer had someone give him a really good alibi. They had to let him go but he’s still their suspect; they just need evidence and then they grab him. In the meantime, don’t get pulled in.”
“Ever consider being a lawyer?”
“I’d hate it.”
I step out to the sidewalk, jaw set, frowning at the crime scene. “I’m going.”
Joe sees the futility of dissuasion; comes after me with his palms up.
“Just…be careful,” he says low, intently. “Talk to no one. Think of your sister’s trial and your other trips up fire escapes. Talk to no one! Any lawyer would tell you that.”
“It was Moore’s terrace steps.”
“Same thing! You don’t want to get pulled into this.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He gives a last pleading look as I move away.
12
There’s a semicircle of gawkers watching. Inside the tape, the girl named Beth is speaking tearfully to a well-built man. She gestures emotionally as the man nods, not looking up from the notebook he’s scribbling in.
A detective.
I step back, duck behind a broad woman.
In my stunned state last night I forgot Beth’s card, which I now scrabble from my purse. Her last name is Jarrett, and she’s in public relations. Her card shows a planet earth logo on speed skates, shouting through a megaphone.
I watch them subtly, feeling my heart thud.
The broad woman before me raises her phone, photographs them. Beth and the detective look up in annoyance. The woman gets embarrassed and moves away, the space before me empties, and Beth sees me.
Waves forlornly.
Cripes. No way to duck.
She lifts the yellow tape and comes to me.
“Hi,” she says. Her wet hazel eyes are bloodshot.
I give her a tense smile; remember Talk to no one! but I’m stuck; the detective is watching us. “How are you doing?” I manage.
“Horribly. This is Detective Kemp,” she says as he comes up too, solemn-faced in a black crewneck sweater under a Polo windbreaker. He looks to be in his late forties, has strong, broad shoulders and flecks of gray in his hair.
Beth launches into hand-wringing thanks for “how kind you were last night”…then tells Kemp, “She knew Chloe too”…then peers back to me with, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
Kemp looks at me with interest, writes my name down as I tell them.
“I didn’t know Chloe,” I say, as calmly as I can, and point back over my shoulder. “I’d just seen her there, where we sell flowers.”
Kemp asks, with cop-careful blandness, “She liked flowers, did she?”
Beth tells him emotionally, “No, it was him, Peter Greer the plant snob, the everything snob, always pushing her to learn which plants were sophisticated.” Her reddened eyes come back to me. “They let him go – can you believe it? Just questioned the SOB and let him go!”
I look at Kemp.
“He has an alibi,” the detective says bluntly.
My lips part.
“Two different detectives came earlier,” Beth pipes. “I told them it had to be Peter. They wanted to know if Mia and I heard anyone at, like, two in the morning. Of course we didn’t! We were asleep!” Her fingertips swipe tears. “Mia’s parents came for her, they live in Westchester. I feel so alone and scared.”
Her emoting has attracted stares. Kemp motions us to a quieter place, tight to Chloe’s building. Two uniformed officers stand near, watch us.
“Do you live near?” the detective asks me.
“No. West Fifteenth,” I say, too tightly.
“But you’re here days?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware of anyone acting strangely outside this building?”
Just me, I think, with my heart firing away. Talk to no one - and here I am talking to a detective? How to avoid his gaze? I look up at the windows, and all I can manage is, “I’m so sorry. This is so terrible.”
Kemp gives me his card. His first name is David. “If you see or hear anything, please call.”
I nod. My hand holding his card shakes, and I see him notice. Then, unbidden and completely insane, the question leaps to my lips.
“How’s the cat?”
Beth starts to say that Ralphie’s okay, he’s been taken temporarily to animal rescue, and Kemp raises his brows.
“You didn’t know Chloe but knew she had a cat?”
I feel my face pale. Why did I say that? Of course the cat’s okay: they rescue pets first thing.
“She talked about him,” I lie shakily. “He ate her flowers.”
Beth looks at me. Both uniformed officers watch me.
And Kemp stares. I tense further, avoid his gaze, lick dry lips.
Joe was right, mistake to have come! I’ve shown Kemp what police think is every tell of a guilty person – but that’s dumb, isn’t it? Only innocent people feel guilt. Psychopaths can charm their way through the fires they start.
Now Kemp knows I’m hiding something. My whole body tightens as I try to exit gracefully.
Not so fast.
Beth is pleading that she’d like to meet up again, doesn’t know a lot of people, needs a friend to talk to.
Be nice. Kemp’s watching.
I try to smile, and mention Régine’s. “I have an appointment there at 6:30, will probably be free around 7:15. Sure, stop by.”
“I will! Thanks!” Beth looks heartened.
I turn and start to walk back, feeling Kemp’s eyes on me.
13
How’s the cat? How’s the damned cat…
It’s almost closing time and I’m still kicking myself, stil
l can’t believe I said that. Crazy! Breathtakingly inexplicable how that question forced its way up.
A woman is complaining that we’re out of chrysanthemums, and someone else wants delivery of several ficus. Joe switches on the lights under the awning and comes to whisper, “Go home. Catch up on more sleep.”
“Actually, I’m meeting Alex at Régine’s about the trial.” I’ve said nothing about what happened down the block; just shrugged and said it was so sad.
“Is Alex going to see you home?” Joe frowns; he’s gotten protective.
“Probably.” I hesitate; stare at a rose I’m holding. “How worried should I be? The police know who Chloe’s date was. They must be watching Greer.”
Joe’s frown deepens. “He’s still at large! Must have gotten himself one hell of an alibi because he hasn’t been arrested.”
I recall Kemp’s look of frustration admitting to Greer’s alibi. The truth is, I haven’t stopped worrying about it.
There have been no leaks of his name, which seems strange. This morning’s news made it sound like Chloe’s friends had talked to reporters, yet online news just continues to say that a suspect has been questioned and released.
There’s been no report, even, of how Chloe Weld was murdered.
The neighborhood looks nervous.
I’m nervous. Also still raging inside.
It’s 6:20. I tell Joe good night and head four doors down, peering at the police as I go. Their lights are as bright as last night: a glaring dome. Figures move in and out of Chloe’s building. No sign of David Kemp.
Régine’s, if anything, is busier. It booms with Seventies music and loud, nervous laughter crowding the bar. Few want to be alone. Strangers cluster like villagers fleeing a siege.
And there’s Alex, nursing a mojito, clueless about his surroundings and intent on papers spread over his table. He never stops. His brown hair is slicked neat, his dark suit screams Uptown, and his tie’s still knotted. Jeez, at least loosen the tie.
“This’ll be fast, I just want to check that you know it,” he says hurriedly, standing and kissing my cheek, which he does for all female clients. He’s even ordered for me; a waiter with another mojito arrives as I sit.
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