“Who the hell is this?” he demands.
I say nothing.
“Beth again? You think this is a joke?”
Can’t have him think that! I hear her weep Now I’m scared he’ll come after me.
“Not Beth,” I breathe.
“I knew that. Her voice is higher.”
The siren’s getting closer, louder.
“I just wanted to hear your-”
The fire truck passes, screaming in the street. One of Greer’s lower lights goes on and suddenly he’s there, a dark figure tearing down his steps toward me.
Shock. My feet are granite. I lurch away a few steps and he yanks me up hard, slams me against the wall.
“You!” he sneers, shining his phone light at me. The siren shrills from both his phone and the street, telling him I was outside. I twist wildly away, hear my burner drop and clatter, grab the lid of a trash can and swing it at him. It grazes his head and now his gun is out, pointing as he shoves me to the wall again.
“It was you on the fire escape,” he seethes.
“You killed her,” I croak.
He moves his gun hard to my face. His breath is hot whisky. Another fire truck screams by. “You’re insane.”
“That’s right,” I stammer, gasping harshly. “I really am so shoot. Explain another woman killed, right here where you live.”
He glares fury at me, breathing hard, then practically flings me away. “Get out before I blow you to hell.”
“Sure,” I say, stumbling away. “What’s a dead third girl?”
Until this moment, I’ve never realized what a death wish I have. I just turn my back to him, move away on legs of rubber with my heart rocketing. Two smaller emergency vehicles approach. I break into a run, waving frantically, and both slow; the second one stops.
A woman in an EMS uniform leans out. “What’s wrong, honey?”
A cab pulls up behind her, lights bright. I signal it, then point to it and tell the woman I’m okay.
“You sure?” She scowls back to check.
“Yes. Thanks.”
She calls “Stay safe!” and moves on. I grab the cab and sputter directions to the driver; look back as we peel away.
Nothing but darkness in Greer’s disappearing alley.
We swerve north onto Hudson, east over Perry, then back down Seventh.
I manage to get out my regular phone.
It jumps from my wildly shaking hands to the floor but I grope frantically for it; from the floor have just enough time to call them and cry and spew. In minutes the cab slows, and drops me outside the Sixth Precinct on West Tenth.
16
A desk sergeant directs me. I find him upstairs, looking tired, still in his black crewneck with the sleeves rolled up. Two other detectives glance over, then go back to their phones and computers.
“Tell,” David Kemp says, pulling a chair out.
Like a dead weight I fall into it, blow air out my cheeks. My heart still thunders in my chest; it’s too hard to speak.
So Kemp speaks for me: “Greer pulled a gun on you?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he do that?”
I gulp air. “Probably because I was spying on him and accused him of killing Chloe Weld.”
Kemp nods, not without humor. His eyes are a warm amber. His laptop glows with opened files. “Would you like some coffee?”
Something’s off here. He seems barely to react; there’s almost a resigned air to him and I’m confused. “No thanks,” I manage. “Teeth are chattering.”
“Tell me what happened.”
My heart rate’s slowing, at least, and I droop lower in the chair. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Maybe with what you didn’t tell me this afternoon?” He leans closer, expectant, wearing a look that almost says, Gotcha.
But I’m glad he did that, because suddenly I understand myself.
Just hours ago, Kemp was questioning Beth Jarrett and me before Chloe’s building. He knew I was hiding something…and I knew I’d be seeing him again. Now I realize that I’d wanted to, badly; probably why I blurted how’s the cat?
Alarming, how the subconscious rules.
“I saw Greer and Chloe fighting.” I take a huge, deep breath and plunge. “He was an obnoxious womanizer we’d seen before. Chloe had bruises on her wrist, and gave me a troubled look. I went behind her place after work, climbed the fire escape, and saw him being abusive.” My throat tightens; I grip the chair arms. “I’m devastated. If only I’d banged on the window…”
“What time was this?”
“Ten-thirty, roughly.”
Kemp nods. “It fits. A neighbor thought she saw someone on the fire escape. Heavy shadows; she could only describe a figure in a dark track suit.” The detective studies me in my dark track suit. “So that was you.”
I feel my color surge from chalk to crimson. “I didn’t say because I was embarrassed.”
He gestures dismissively. “Describe what you saw.”
At a near desk, one of the other detectives is on his phone discussing the “Weld forensics.” My heart squeezes. I stare at the floor, see it all happen again, and stumble through it: the fast-building argument, Chloe threatening to tell his wife and employer, Greer raising his hand, Chloe ducking and falling back onto the bed. Then the cat jumping up, catching his attention.
“He looked over, saw me, and started for the window. I got scared and ran back down, thinking it was just a breakup fight; Chloe would wise up and end it.”
Quietly, Kemp says, “Did he actually hit her?”
“No, just raised his hand.” I feel somehow defensive, losing control. “He looked like he was going to.”
“She was alive when you left?”
“Yes, yes!” I meet his gaze almost piteously. “I never dreamed! I should have banged on that damned window and climbed through – it was open. She left it open for her cat and plants.”
He studies me thoughtfully. “We know about the window.”
I meet his gaze, feeling my eyes fill. He seems to finish gauging my reactions, then swivels in his chair, frowns at his laptop, and opens one of his files.
He studies it for moments looking frustrated, then seems to make a decision. “You may have seen more than you realize” – he turns back to me – “and there’s more we can discuss as long as it’s off the record. Do you agree?”
“Of course.”
“Good. For starters, your run-in with Greer. Can you describe the gun he pointed at you?”
“Only that it was a semi-automatic. It was dark.”
“How did you know a semi-automatic in the dark?”
I feel myself color. “I’m an actress. Used to play a cop in a TV series called Street Beat. Our guns were real but never loaded.” I cringe. “Still terrifying.”
He almost smiles as one of the other detectives comes to drop a folder on his desk. He opens it, skims a sheet fast, and looks back to me.
Inhales.
“Chloe Weld died at some time after two in the morning. She was shot with a .22, the gun held close to her head, GSR in her hair, on the pillow. Not much blood from such a small slug.”
I gape at him.
His gaze tries to comfort. “So whoever did it was there long after you were. You couldn’t have prevented it.”
“After two in the morning?” I feel shock go through me. “How do you know?”
“Chloe’s friend across the hall went to the john and heard her stumbling around, crying. Almost knocked on the door but figured she was upset, she’d sleep it off.”
“Across the hall… Was that Mia?” I still scowl in disbelief, heart thudding.
“Yes. Mia Dunstan. Did you know these women?”
I explain about meeting Beth Jarrett in the crowd when Chloe’s body was found.
Kemp nods. It’s clear that he knew that.
“The killer was clever. Knows that .22 slugs shatter, they’re just splinters at autopsy. Rarely, the M.E. can fi
nd them whole but they’re usually from illegal guns bought in the street, passed around, used for multiple crimes and too marked up for ID.” Kemp glances back to his laptop. “And yes, Greer’s prints were found on the open window, but he says he’d ‘thrown out the damn cat’ several times. It kept jumping onto the bed.”
I frown at Kemp as if not understanding. “So Greer…what? Came back to kill?”
“His wife and housekeeper say he was back home – the place on Fifth - before midnight. Passed out and stayed there.”
I hunch forward. “How do they know? If he’s estranged from his wife he must have slept on a couch or something. Could he have crept back out? Beth Jarrett said he didn’t sound that drunk.”
“She told us that too. Both of those women were questioned separately; and no, we can’t prove he didn’t sneak back out.”
I stare at the detective, feeling back in Greer’s alley with his gun in my face. “So the police have nothing?” I say incredulously. My heart storms up again.
Kemp gives an unhappy shrug.
A sense of new dread builds. I check the time on my phone; shake my head. “Until thirty minutes ago I wasn’t even sure he’d seen me on the fire escape. His face was crazed, twisted…”
“And your building has zero security.” Kemp’s lips flatten.
I blink at him.
He reaches to open a different file on his screen. “I searched your address. Maybe it wasn’t a terrific idea to confront Greer.”
“It was compulsion. Stupid.”
Kemp watches my face. “I understand compulsion. You’ve done this climb-the-fire-escape thing before; the police were called.”
I bristle. “You know about that?”
“The file’s right here. Brett Moore.”
“I was full of fury.” I bolt up straight and feel myself redden. “He killed my sister. They wouldn’t let me in so I climbed to his terrace, bashed his face in in front of his phony guests. But he didn’t press charges - guess he’d enough headlines over Kim’s death - so I thought my assault was expunged.”
“Well, the restraining order.”
Oh.
I fall back in the chair, exhausted from emotion, rubbing my brow. Kemp’s expression is soft.
“I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I upset you.”
“It’s okay. I used to be more rational, really.” I hesitate; my hands go up. “It’s just that I have this” – I flail – “need! For…for…”
“Justice,” Kemp finishes.
I drop my head, nod.
“Did you feel that before your sister died?”
“No.” I swat at a tear, aware that the other two detectives are glancing over at us. They’re used to such scenes. “I felt compassion, never this rage.”
My shoulders hunch; I feel a sudden, heavy need to confess the state I’m in. “I’ve gotten crazier than you think…climbed a different fire escape, caught a brute landlord about to hit his little old lady tenant, banged on that window-”
“Is she okay?”
“Yes, he hasn’t bothered her since. But the guy I work for calls me Nosy Rosie, Keyhole Katie. See? Crazy.”
“Not crazy at all.” Kemp’s expression goes from soft to trying to reason. “Of course I understand needing justice, but can you leave it to the police?”
“No.” My gaze drops to my lap, hands gripping each other. “They let Brett Moore get away with murder. I don’t have overwhelming confidence in New York’s finest.”
The second I say it, I’m sorry. The Medical Examiner ruled Kim’s death an accident; police hands were tied. But they could have done more before the ruling! Interviewed staff, subpoenaed surveillance, cited their own responses to the domestic abuse calls. But no; and Moore’s lawyers shut it down fast, like what Greer’s lawyers are already doing…
Kemp watches me, his lips bunched, giving up trying to reason. Finally, he picks up his phone, speaks briefly into it.
He gets to his feet. “I’ve called a squad car to take you home, see that you’re inside okay. C’mon. Try to calm.”
Descending the stairs, his hand stays near my arm while he talks, cautions, tells me he’s going to see that Greer stays far away from me.
The door is open to the night. The air is chill and clear, but not clear enough. With swooning horror I smell Greer’s whiskey breath again, feel him shoving me against the wall with his gun in my face. He’s made this really personal. I hate him.
“Can you keep me away from him?” I say quietly.
Kemp looks suddenly very tired. “I’m asking you again,” he says, “leave this to the police.” He has run out of patience with the crazy woman looking to get herself killed.
“The police have nothing,” I say bitterly, avoiding his gaze.
“This isn’t your sister.”
“It’s someone else’s sister and loved one!” I wheel on him, my voice shaking. “I just feel so wretched – and you’re wrong to say I couldn’t have prevented it. If I had called out to Chloe, told her to lock her door and window…hours later the killer wouldn’t have been able to get at her. This is still on me.”
Kemp says nothing, looks stonily away down the street. His reaction confirms that what I’ve said is true, and it breaks my heart. He’s a cop. He must have been thinking it all along…but nice of him to try to make me feel better.
He finally looks back to me, troubled, waiting for my next assault. I’m sorry, but I’m not done.
“Greer definitely could have faked passing out till the others went to bed,” I say low. “You don’t know; with those terrific alibis you won’t ever know. Their apartment must be huge. He could have been in some guest room-”
“You really have to stop this,” Kemp seethes, back to glaring down the street.
“Can’t. Ever argued with compulsion?”
“All the time.” He looks back, his voice rising for the first time. “It never ends well.”
A white patrol car with NYPD blue letters pulls up. Kemp opens the rear door. A uniformed young woman looks back, smiles at me, waves at him.
“Go home,” he says firmly, easing me in. “Lock up, sleep, and give this a rest…please?”
He looks so troubled that I placate. “I’ll try. Thank you, Detective….”
He makes a tired effort to smile, closes the door, and off we go.
I look back to him. He’s standing under the light of the entrance, his worried gaze watching till we disappear round the corner.
17
Can you keep me away from Greer?
Like a mantra, my words to Kemp keep echoing as the young cop checks my locks, assures me that they’re terrible, then leaves with the same cautions Joe urged the night before. She takes it further. “Maybe a hotel?” she says, standing half turned away in the doorway, frowning down to the stairs, the foyer lock below she showed me she could open with a bobby pin.
I shake my head, frozen, and thank her, pointing out that the man I had my run-in with doesn’t know my name or where I live.
“He could have followed you.”
“To the police station and waited? Maybe not.”
She’s a good, caring cop but she gives up, checks that I know how to fast-call 911, and scoots down the stairs.
The front door thuds.
I continue staring down the stairwell.
The building seems so empty. The windows below me were dark when we arrived. The apartment above is almost permanently empty; the absentee owner lives in Shanghai.
I close the door and chain it (not that bad, Joe), re-thinking what I told the young cop. She knew I was more shook than I let on…how could I not be?
Starting tomorrow, Greer could easily find out my name and where I live, or – cripes - just follow me home from work…but he’s had a bad two nights and he’s smart; the kind of smart that fakes leaving the girlfriend he’s just argued with, then comes back hours later to do her in.
So I
think I’ll be okay for tonight.
Something steely cold and shaky accompanied that thought.
I wander into the bedroom and just stand there, heart thudding, hearing again Greer’s Get out before I blow you to hell. The words chill, keep echoing. I’m a definite threat to him, but even drunk, he was controlled enough not to really harm me on his own property.
Another time, likely….
He saw me flag down the emergency trucks after clearly appearing crazed, obsessed…and he probably assumes I went to the police. I’m the only one who actually saw him abusing Chloe. If he decides to come after me, he’ll try something clever…
Something clever like what?
I catch myself peering out the dark bedroom window, and jerk my head back. Stupid, must be more careful.
Like in a bad movie, I press my back against the wall, inch closer, and pull the drapes closed. Then I skulk to the far side of the bedroom, pull off my tracksuit, get into an old jersey and sweatpants, and wander into the bathroom.
My haunted gaze looks back at me. Dark circles like saddle bags, hair a fright, features drooping and scared.
Something clever like what?
Tonight, I try to persuade myself, is a time-out for sure, an intermission in the nightmare I’ve stumbled into. Would someone as smart as Greer, already involved in a murder, chance being seen stalking yet another woman?
Who knows. He looked demented in that alley. The butt of his gun on my cheek has not, for a second, left me and I shut my eyes tight; try to struggle it down.
Can’t.
I start to fret. How am I going to sleep tonight?
I fumble through the medicine cabinet and dream up a new sleep aid: antihistamine and booze – yes, that’s the ticket. In hay fever times the former just knocks me out, so I carry the little bottle to the kitchen, place it on the counter next to an opened bottle of Beaujolais. They look reassuring, my not-as-bad-as-whiskey knockout.
I pour a glass, take out a tablet, gulp it down with most of the wine, and close my eyes. Oh, sweet, immediate relief… I grip the countertop.
Then I bring the Beaujolais and my glass to the table; sit, lean closer to the bottle, and turn it a little. The label is glorious: a chateau before fields of lavender. How I’d rather be there.
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