“And don’t think you’re getting off that easy, bud.”
“Is that a promise?” he asked.
“I’ll collect on that when I’m out of here.”
-45-
Loud voices from the corridor interrupted them. The police must have worked up the courage to face down the head nurse and were forging into the inner sanctum.
“They’re not going to let me stay,” Ted said. “I’ll call in the morning.”
“Or I’ll call you.”
He leaned over for another kiss but stopped before their lips met as the door swooshed open.
“Well, you do get around.” The voice was unpleasantly familiar.
Ted looked up. Detective Duran and his less agreeable number two. Kasabian. Ted was proud of himself for finally remembering the other cop’s name.
“Detectives,” Ted greeted them.
Duran stepped into the room. “Sorry to break this up, Ms. Zielinski. There are some detectives out here who want to speak with you. And I need to talk with this guy.”
“I was just leaving,” Ted said.
Duran tried out a grim smile. “Then we can walk out together.”
“I’ll talk to you in the morning,” Ted said to Kenzie.
The other two detectives pushed their way into the room. Their barely contained hostility took up all the extra space. Ted led Duran and partner out of the ER.
The waiting room was near empty. An exhausted-looking older man cradled a sleeping woman in his arms in the far corner. Two young men, faces etched with deep worry lines, stared down at the grey carpet. A few hard couches lined the walls, and uncomfortable-looking chrome and thin-cushioned chairs faced them, creating not truly intimate spaces. Flat-screen televisions hung in every corner, delivering nonstop local news, with traffic and weather currently being displayed on green maps of Long Island. It was raining. Traffic was light.
“Do I need to call a lawyer?” Ted asked, throwing himself into one of the grey chairs, forcing the two detectives to take the even less inviting couch in front of him.
“Why would you need a lawyer?” Kasabian asked.
Ted sat forward, leaning in as though imparting some secret information. “Because it’s coming up on midnight after a pretty shitty day, and I’ve just left a friend in the ER, and some dickhead cop thinks this is a good time for me to answer his trick questions.”
“Easy.” Duran gestured for his partner to stay seated. Kasabian complied, but he wasn’t happy about it. “Those guys”—Duran waved, indicating the other two detectives—“see you as a possible perp. They ran you through the system, and I got a message. I believe you’re only a witness, but if you fuck with me or my partner . . . No, if you so much as make another wiseass remark, I will toss you to my colleagues and good fucking riddance. Any questions?”
Ted knew he needed help. He and Kenzie were thrashing around and getting thrashed in return. They had no evidence of anything. But he had to keep Kenzie safe. Could he trust them? Or had they already been compromised like the two in the squad car from earlier in the day? Something in their approach, however, reassured him. They didn’t trust him and didn’t try to hide it. So while they were not on his side, they weren’t trying to game him. Now, could he trade his patched-together tale in exchange for Kenzie’s security? Would they believe him? And if they did, would they honor an agreement? He had no choice but to try.
“Can you get my friend someone to guarantee her safety?” Ted asked. “Twenty-four-hour protection while she’s here?”
“Not without hearing a very good story,” Duran said. “Maybe she was collateral damage in a car heist that went wrong.”
“Those guys were after her,” Ted said. “It was a hit. Not an accident.”
Duran smiled. “I’m still listening.”
And there it was. If he told them about the fat man, he’d have to share it all. Explain why he and Kenzie were there at dinner. Put all of their suppositions out in the open and hope that they didn’t sound like some paranoid’s rant. But he needed their help to keep her safe. The alternative was to leave Kenzie and hope the Russians didn’t come back. And that was no alternative at all.
“Bear with me,” he said. “Some of what I’ve got, I can back up with a paper trail, but a lot of it is speculation. You guys need evidence, and I don’t have it. Yet.”
“Tell me your story,” Duran said.
Ted didn’t tell them all of it. Most of it. But he held off on pointing the finger at Jackie Clavette, identifying her only as “a lawyer.” The first time he got to a point in the telling where he might have used her name, he skipped right over it without a thought. But by the time he described the scene in the steak house, he was acting with full deliberation. He knew why he was doing it. Not to protect Jackie or the firm. He was looking out for Jill.
“I dialed 911 and tried to keep the rain off her face.” Ted wanted water. His mouth was dry from exhaustion, stress, and too much talking. “Give me a minute before you start asking questions, okay?” He went to the men’s room, used the urinal, washed his hands, and lapped some water from the tap. When he straightened up, he found Detective Kasabian standing at his side.
“I buy your story, but you’re not giving us all of it,” Kasabian said. “If there’s something you want to share in private, now’s the time.”
Ted wasn’t prepared for this. Had Kasabian switched roles, bad cop turned good buddy? Was this a new game they were playing? Or was this cop on the level? There was no reason to trust him. But if opening up a touch helped to close the deal, it was worth the gamble.
“What does Duran say?”
Kasabian took his time answering. Ted thought the detective was having his own difficulties with trust. “He’s in with your girlfriend telling those other two detectives that this is now our case. He believes you, if that’s what you’re asking. Like me, he’d love to take down a city councilman and a big-shot developer.”
Ted recognized that he had been handed an important piece of information. Which meant that he was expected to reciprocate and offer some of his own.
“I know the lawyer,” he said. “But I won’t give up the name until I’m positive about her guilt.” He could see that the detective wanted to push it—force the issue and get the name. Ted forced himself to relax and waited for the other’s next move.
Kasabian finally nodded. “Okay for now. Maybe we find out on our own. If we don’t, though, I will want that name.” He handed Ted his card. “I want to hear from you. Anything you find out, you call. Don’t make me come find you. Meanwhile, I’ll get a couple of uniforms to keep an eye on the girl. What about you?”
“Me? As in police protection?” Ted hadn’t considered asking.
“I don’t know that I can make it happen, but I’ll try,” Kasabian said. “Of course, if you were to give me the name of this lawyer . . .”
Ted wondered how far he was willing to go to keep Jackie’s name out of it. “I’m mobile. Ms. Zielinski is not. I can do without. She can’t.” First, he needed to talk to Jill. If she’d take his call. In the long-ago world of the day before, Ted would have trusted her with his life. But the world had changed.
-46-
Mohammed showed up early. Ted and Lester had pushed their luck and spent another uncomfortable night sleeping on pews at the church. Lester was already grumpy, sipping lukewarm coffee through a straw and eating mashed bananas from a squeezable foil pouch.
“It says here they’re organic. I believe ’em.”
“Why’s that?” Ted asked.
“’Cause it tastes like dirt,” Lester said.
“Take it with you. Time to go.” Last night’s late call to Jill had gone straight to voice mail. Not surprising, given the hour, but Ted wouldn’t feel easy until he heard her voice.
“You hired the man for the day. What’s the hurry?”
Ted wanted to swi
ng by his apartment for a change of clothes. He also needed to check his mail—despite the distractions of this case, he had a business to run. Then he wanted to find the Preacher and a more comfortable place to hole up. More comfortable and safer. But his main priority was to get to the hospital to check on Kenzie.
“Come on. Mohammed’s waiting.” Ted stuffed his toothbrush and disposable razor into a jacket pocket.
“That’s what you pay him for,” Lester muttered as he pulled himself upright. He jammed the almost-empty foil packet into the fully empty paper coffee cup. “He’s probably eating real food and slept on a bed last night, not an oak church bench.”
“You’re feeling better,” Ted said.
“I’m aching everywhere.”
“How’s the teeth?”
“Taking hold; thanks for asking.”
“You’re talking a lot more and slurring a lot less.”
“I suppose you think you’re being kind to notice.” He held the door for Ted.
The monster rains had ceased sometime in the night, and the sun had been up for two hours, drying the streets and sidewalks. It was going to be hot later on—the sun was already strong—but for the moment one could believe in things like new beginnings. Ted rarely allowed himself to feel that way, even when the weather presented the opportunity.
“Back to my apartment, Mohammed,” he said. “Take a right at Flushing Avenue and I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“I’m on it, boss.” He pulled away from the curb with a neck-snapping lurch.
“Safety first,” Lester mumbled.
Flushing ran into Grand Avenue which was a challenge to Mohammed’s love of speed. Traffic to and from the expressway slowed them to an excruciating crawl. The five-minute drive took twenty. Mohammed tapped out frenetic rhythms on the steering wheel while Lester glowered in the back seat, feeding his foul mood. Ted tried to make plans—or at least to organize his thoughts—but his concern for Kenzie overwhelmed all else.
Israel Ortiz—Ted’s landlord, accountant, and lawyer and the emperor of the first-floor emporium—was at his desk in the far corner of the store, surrounded by displays of candles, Bibles, framed pictures of a Latino-looking Jesus, and dolls representing Shango, Oshun, and Obatala figures, though they all looked identical to Ted. Just inside the door Israel’s secretary, Phateena, looked up as Ted entered and made a noise halfway between a squeak and a squeal.
“Israel,” she cried. “He’s here.” She stood and quickly walked out of the room, her rubber sandals making slapping sounds as she retreated.
Israel looked green—seasick.
“What’s up, Israel?” Ted didn’t move. He felt that the wrong signal, the wrong word, could shatter the tension in the air.
Israel stood slowly, giving himself plenty of time to think of a tactful way to present his case.
Ted had seen the act before and didn’t buy into it. “Just tell me what the hell happened.”
“There was a man looking for you,” Israel answered.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“A big man. He frightened Phateena.”
“And you, too, it appears.”
Israel nodded.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
“You know this man?” Israel asked.
Ted had a bad feeling that they’d met before—and not that long ago. “Not big. Frigging huge. Squeaky voice? Like Axl Rose on helium. Am I right?”
“He went in upstairs.”
Israel meant he had let the giant into Ted’s apartment. Breaking in through the metal door and frame would have left an expensive mess. Israel had handed over the keys.
“Did he take anything?” Other than his laptop, Ted owned nothing of any value. His paper files were all backed up in the cloud. Setting up a new computer would be a nuisance, nothing more. Nevertheless, he felt sick to his stomach.
“I don’t know,” Israel said, but from the tone of his voice, Ted could hear there was more coming.
“Yeah?” he said.
“He did some damage,” Israel said.
What could the guy have done? Smashed Ted’s IKEA furniture? His ten-year-old flat screen? Ted could replace it with a new model with twice the features at half the cost. “Well, I’m sorry you and Phateena were upset. But I’ll take care of it. I doubt he’ll come around again.” There was no point in releasing his anger and frustration on two people who were already terrified. “Did you report it?”
“The police are upstairs now.”
Israel must have been well and truly frightened. In normal circumstances, the only reason to report an apartment break-in was to get a case number to provide the insurance company. Ted didn’t have insurance. The sum total of his possessions wouldn’t qualify for the deductible on a policy.
“I’ll go talk to them. Then I’m going to pick up some spare shirts and get out of here. I’ll be away for a while. Maybe a week or so.” Ted had no idea how long he would need to stay out of the Russians’ crosshairs, but more than a few days sounded like a lot.
“Ted, I am sorry.” Israel looked more embarrassed than apologetic.
“No, don’t sweat it, Israel. It’s the big city. Shit happens and people are nuts, but I’m going to take care of it. This was in no way your fault.”
“No. I am sorry that I have to say this, but you have to move. Right away. I can’t have that man here.”
Ted let it sink in. He could argue, but what was the point? If the giant wanted to find him, he would always look here first—as would the Russians if they wanted to slap him around again. He would never be safe here.
“I’ll continue to get my mail here,” Ted said.
This took Israel by surprise. “Why? I mean, if you’re gone—”
Ted cut him off. “You want me out? We could be in Housing Court for months, and you might not win. I’ll pay you to hold my mail. Ten bucks a week.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do. And I’ll bet you still want me as a client.”
Israel’s surprised expression was all Ted needed. The fees Israel had been paid for basically no work at all added up over time. “Take the deal, Israel. You owe me for two weeks’ rent plus my deposit. Cut me a check. I’ll pick it up the next time I come by for the mail.”
“Phateena won’t like it. She’s frightened.”
“So are you. So am I. So what?”
The smell hit Ted as soon as he started up the stairs. Burnt plastic. He was surprised the aroma hadn’t permeated Israel’s office—yet. He held his breath and charged up to the landing. A uniformed patrolman holding one of Ted’s kitchen towels over his mouth and nose blocked the door.
“Hold up,” the cop said.
“This is my apartment,” Ted said, sidling around him.
The cop dropped the towel and took Ted’s arm. He had a grip like a blacksmith. “You wait.” He was convincing. Ted waited. “Detective,” the patrolman called. “I got a guy here who says he’s the tenant.”
Ted got a look around the cop. A second patrolman stood by the kitchen window silently begging the air shaft to grant him a breath of fresh air. Beyond him, two suits, both with wet towels covering their faces, were examining the damage to the rest of the apartment. One was tall, broad shouldered, and black. The other was his partner. Duran and Kasabian.
“Come in, Mr. Molloy,” Detective Duran said. “We were just talking about you.”
Two detectives for an apartment break-in was unheard of in the outer boroughs. Even in Manhattan you’d have to be living on Park or Fifth Avenue to be granted that kind of attention. “What are you guys doing here?” Ted asked.
“When your name pops up in connection with a crime, I take an interest,” Duran said. “And what’s it been? Eight hours? Ten? Can you blame me? Trouble seems to follow you around.”
Ted looked into the kitchen. The oven door hung open, but the heat had not yet fully dissipated. The particular aroma of melted plastic was explained. The remains of his laptop had melted into a blackened goo that had oozed and dripped through the racks with odd bits of metal shining through like tiny misshapen marshmallows in last week’s chocolate pudding.
“It’s not like I go looking for it,” Ted said. The furniture was all broken. Most of it would have surrendered to a good kick from a three-hundred-pound steroidal madman. “Do you know who did this?”
“God’s honest truth, we think we do,” Duran said. “But what gets me is that I think you know, too.”
“I told you to ask Cheryl about the giant.”
Kasabian crowded Ted, standing too close and leaning in. “You know what my ex told me before she left? She said I had gone from discerning to skeptic to cynic. She couldn’t live with that. And she couldn’t understand why. I told her it was the job. Everybody lies to me. And when they’re not lying, they’re not telling me the truth, which amounts to the same thing.”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Ted said. “I told you to check him out.”
“Forgive a confirmed cynic, Mr. Molloy, but you failed to mention that this person was known to you or that he might have reason to toss your home and destroy your possessions.”
“I don’t even know his name.”
Duran flashed a sad smile at him. “I wish I could believe that. Really, I do.” He even sounded sincere.
Ted took the moment to retreat to the relatively open space of the main room. It was a mistake; he could see much more of the damage from there. “He threatened me. He wanted me to get Cheryl Rubiano that surplus money. Somehow, he followed me to a ball game. He’s a nutjob.”
“Your landlord gave us a very good description,” Duran said. “Including the visible tats. The man is well known in legal circles. He’s been arrested fourteen times. He has never been to jail. He’s never been tried. Witnesses recant or disappear. He’s that kind of a guy.”
“Who is he?” Ted asked.
Tower of Babel Page 22