“Do you like Chinese food?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I like this, though, so … It’s way better than hospital food, that’s for sure.”
I watched her face as she ate—a pretty face with eyes just a shade darker than cornflower blue. I was pleased that the scrapes on her chin and forehead had healed, leaving not a blemish on her smooth skin. She caught me staring and lifted her short golden hair a few inches above her ear.
“Want to see the scars where they drilled the holes in my head?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. I was staring.”
That’s why it’s short now, my inner voice told me. They cut her hair when she was in surgery.
“You were looking at me the way the policeman looked at me, like he wanted to see what was inside,” Fifteen said. “Problem is, I don’t know what’s inside. I would tell you if I did.”
“I apologize for being rude.”
“No, I—I apologize. I never thanked you for what you did. They showed me, the policeman showed me the film from the highway camera. He thought it might … I saw what you did. Thank you. I’m so sorry about your car.”
“The policeman is an old friend of mine. He’s very concerned for your welfare. He asked me to help, and I said I would.”
“People have been very kind to me since I woke up.”
“I have another friend, a psychiatrist—Dr. Jillian DeMarais.”
“That tramp?” Nina said.
Fifteen covered her mouth with her hand in a failed bid to hide her smile.
“One of McKenzie’s ex-girlfriends,” Nina told her.
Fifteen smiled some more.
“She’d be happy to see you if you’re willing to see her,” I said. “Maybe the day after tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” Fifteen said. “I’ve spoken to so many doctors in the past month. Can I think about it?”
“Of course.”
“It’s just that … it’s so scary. Not knowing who I am, not knowing where I came from, I mean. I get images in my mind, but they’re cloudy, you know? I can’t quite make them out. It’s like looking at something through a telescope that’s out of focus. If you could just turn the knob—only I can’t.”
Is that true? my inner voice asked. Or is she playing a part? Jennifer Jones in Love Letters or Geena Davis in The Long Kiss Goodnight if you prefer shoot-’em-ups.
“It must be terrible,” Nina said.
“I want to know, yet at the same time I don’t,” Fifteen said. “What if I find out that the people who tried to kill me, that I deserved it?”
“No one deserves that,” I said.
“You’ve been so good to me already.”
“We’re happy that you’re here,” Nina said. “You’re going to stay in our guest room. My daughter is away at college, and she’s left plenty of clothes that you can borrow.”
“Wait. You have a daughter in college?”
“Erica. She’s a sophomore at Tulane University.”
“No way. Grade school, maybe junior high. But college? I would never have guessed.”
Nina took Fifteen by the elbow and started leading her toward the guest room.
“We’re going to get along just fine,” she said.
* * *
I busied myself by policing the kitchen. Nina returned alone twenty minutes later.
“Fifteen’s trying on clothes,” she told me.
“Okay.”
“I like her.”
“You don’t know anything about her.”
“She’s sweet.”
“A pretty girl and pleasant, giving off a please-help-me vibe…”
“I’ve heard that voice before. You’re overly suspicious.”
“Nina, the young lady could be everything she appears to be. She could also be the most conniving, black-hearted bitch, a woman with carefully honed skills of persuasion, who knows when to smile and laugh and cry and pretend to be vulnerable to get what she wants, who knows just which buttons to push and exactly when to push them.”
Nina thought about it for a moment and announced, “I like her,” again.
“So do I. That’s the problem.”
I poured Nina half a glass of Riesling and treated myself to a Summit Ale. We sat on the big sofa in front of the fireplace. I had a nice conflagration going when Fifteen emerged from the guest room. She wore Erica’s pajamas and fluffy pink slippers and had wrapped herself in a thick pink robe. She looked like she was eleven years old.
I noticed that Fifteen was limping slightly and asked her about it.
“My knee still hurts a little,” she said. “Kinda funny when you think about it, I had so many broken bones.” She flexed the fingers of her hand. “They all healed real nice, but my knee … and sometimes—sometimes, I get an ache deep inside—just an ache. And headaches, too. The doctor said that I might not get completely back to normal for like two years.”
Just saying it seemed to dredge all the pain to the surface at once. Fifteen closed her eyes and remained still for a moment. When she opened them they were wet, and she brushed at them with her knuckle.
“I’m okay, though,” she said.
Nina patted the cushion next to her, and Fifteen sat facing the fire.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Would you like a drink?” I asked.
“I don’t know if I’m old enough to drink.”
“Coffee?” Nina asked. Before Fifteen could answer, Nina went to the coffeemaker in the kitchen area. She poured a generous amount into a mug. “Cream? Sugar?”
“I don’t know,” Fifteen said.
“I like mixing in some Hershey’s syrup with a dollop of whipped cream.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Nina made the beverage, returned to the sofa, and served it. She stood watching while Fifteen took a sip.
“This is really good,” the young woman said.
“A poor man’s café mocha,” Nina said.
“I know that.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“I know a lot of things. I just don’t know how I know them. I remember movies—we had cable at the hospital—but I don’t remember seeing them. I know music, too, songs. When I hear them on the radio, I can sing along, only I don’t know where I learned them. Ever since you brought me here, I’ve been staring at your piano. I think I know how to play, but I don’t remember taking lessons.”
“Go ’head,” Nina said.
“Is it okay?”
“Certainly.”
Fifteen went to the piano and made herself comfortable on the bench as if she had done it a thousand times before. She lifted her fingers over the keyboard—and froze. Her face scrunched up with effort and her muscles strained as if she were trying to open a stubborn jar, yet her fingers did not move.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“No it’s not. It’s not.”
Fifteen slammed her fists down on the piano keys. Nina went quickly to her side, sat on the bench next to her.
“What am I doing?” Fifteen said. “I don’t know if I can play the piano. I don’t know if I like music. Or Chinese food. Or coffee. I don’t know my family, if I have a family. Or friends. Where I went to school. I don’t even know if I like me. I mean, if I’m a good person or … I don’t know how old I am. I don’t know anything.”
“Try this,” Nina said. With her right hand, she picked out the opening notes to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” Fifteen gathered herself and listened. Nina played the notes again.
“I’ve heard that before,” Fifteen said.
Nina played the notes a third time. Fifteen flexed her fingers as if she wanted to be sure they still worked. She rested them gently on the piano keys and closed her eyes. A moment later, Fifteen played the same notes Nina had. She didn’t stop where Nina had, though. She opened her eyes and continued playing. She played the entire song all the way through.
“How did you guess?” Fifteen asked.
>
“It was one of the first songs I learned when I was taking lessons,” Nina said. “I think every piano instructor in the world teaches that piece. Try this one.”
Nina played the opening to Eine kleine Nachtmusik by Mozart. Fifteen did the same. She stopped abruptly and wrapped her arms around Nina. She wept into her shoulder.
I finished my beer and opened another.
THREE
I was making Spanish omelets when Nina came into the kitchen area, opened the refrigerator, and removed a jug of orange juice. I was dressed in sweats and Nikes. She was wearing black knee-high boots and a clingy burgundy knit dress, reminding me that smart, tough, funny, and kind weren’t her only attributes. She filled a tumbler with juice and drank half of it.
“Where’s Fifteen?” she asked.
I gestured toward the balcony. Fifteen was outside, leaning on the rail, wearing one of Erica’s down vests.
“What are we going to do with her?” Nina said.
“I don’t know, but eventually your daughter is going to return home, and I’ll bet she’ll want her room and clothes back.”
“Do you think Jillian can help her?”
“That tramp?”
“I admit I liked her better when you two were still calling each other names.”
“I dialed her service earlier. I have an appointment scheduled for eleven tomorrow.”
The mention of time caused Nina to glance at her watch.
“I gotta go,” she said.
“What about breakfast?”
“I’ll grab something at the club.”
Nina took up her coat and bag and headed for the door.
“I’ll be home early,” she said.
That was unusual for her. Usually Nina stayed at Rickie’s until well after one in the morning, although she was getting better lately at delegating responsibilities to her assistants and taking more time for herself.
“Who’s playing tonight?” I asked.
“Your girlfriend, Connie Evingson.”
“Girlfriend? I barely know the lady well enough to say, ‘Hi, how are you?’”
“How many times have you seen her in concert in the past two years?”
“I haven’t kept track.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe we’ll come down later for dinner and, you know, catch the show.”
“Uh-huh.”
Nina stopped and regarded the young woman standing on the other side of the glass wall for a moment. She draped her bag over her shoulder, went to the balcony door, slid it open, and poked her head out. She said something I didn’t hear. Fifteen smiled at her and waved. Nina closed the door.
“I’m off,” she said. “Call if you’re coming down.”
Usually I get a kiss good-bye. This time I didn’t.
* * *
I finished making the meal and went to the balcony. I slid open the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind me. It was barely twenty degrees, but there was no wind on our side of the building, and that made the temperature more bearable. Fifteen kept leaning on the railing, showing no sign of being cold. I stood with my back to the glass and shivered.
“It’s so beautiful,” Fifteen said.
From where we stood, you could see the curve of the Mississippi River as it approached St. Anthony Falls and the lock and dam, the ice and snow that covered much of it, and the patches of water that remained unfrozen where steam rose up. On the east side of the river, Nicollet Island, where they launched the Minneapolis Aquatennial fireworks, and Father Hennepin Bluffs Park, where Nina and I used to watch them while sitting in canvas chairs. On the west side, parts of downtown Minneapolis, including the Guthrie Theater, Mill City Museum, and Gold Medal Park. Plus the Hennepin Avenue, Third Avenue, and Stone Arch Bridges that connected the two banks. And far to the right if you leaned over the railing, the I-35W freeway bridge that had been built to replace the one that collapsed a few years ago, taking with it thirteen lives and much of our peace of mind.
“It seems much higher than it really is because of the way it looks down into the river,” Fifteen said.
“I suppose.”
“This view … There’s isn’t a single building in Deer River that is more than two stories. I was in high school before I even saw an elevator. Tell me, McKenzie, living so high up, does it make you feel big or small?”
“Actually, it makes me feel a little nauseous. I have a touch of acrophobia.”
“You’re afraid of heights?”
“Just a bit.”
“Why do you live in a building like this, then, with a balcony and glass walls and a view?”
“Well, you see, there’s this girl…”
“You moved here for Nina? Wow. That is so cool. No one has ever done anything like that for me. At least … I don’t remember, but it doesn’t feel like it.”
“You’re still very young,” I said. “Give it time.”
“You think?”
“You’re very pretty. Once you get past all this, you won’t have any trouble finding somebody.”
“Yes, but finding someone, that’s the trick, isn’t it? McKenzie, do you mind if I take a walk down there? Along the river?”
“Do you mind if I go with?”
“Are you asking because you think I’m in danger? Your cop friend, Commander Dunston, he thinks I am. That’s why he sent me here.”
“Breakfast is getting cold.”
* * *
Fifteen dug into her omelet the same way she had consumed the Chinese dish the evening before—as if food were something she had just discovered.
In between bites, she said, “You are a marvelous cook.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Modest, too. Tell me, how does this work?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and Nina? I know she has a job. She said she was going to her office. Are you like, a househusband?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I am.”
“She supports you?”
“No, not at all. We—Nina owns a restaurant and jazz joint in St. Paul called Rickie’s, that she named after her daughter. It’s her pride and joy. Both the club and Erica.”
“Erica’s not your daughter, too?”
“Nina and I aren’t married.”
“Ahh,” she said around a mouthful of the egg dish. I wasn’t surprised. We get that a lot.
“What about you?” Fifteen asked.
“What about me?”
“What do you do?”
“I’m what the screenwriters call independently wealthy.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
“I used to be a police officer in St. Paul. One day, working on my own time, I tracked down a rather enterprising embezzler with a substantial price on his head. Actually, it took longer than a day. Anyway, I retired from the cops to collect the reward. The idea was to give my father a comfortable retirement, only he passed six months later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what do you do now?”
“Whatever I feel like.”
“Must be nice.”
“It has its moments.”
“So, you basically took the reward money and started living a new life.”
“Pretty much.”
“God, I wish I could do that.”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“It’s not the same thing. I mean, how can you start a new life if you don’t know what the old one was like? It could have been the worst life ever. Or it could have been the best. I might have been in love. Someone might have loved me. I like to think I was a good person, McKenzie, except … except if I was, why did they try to kill me—kill me that way?”
“I have an appointment scheduled for you to meet my friend at eleven tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted
fools the way to dusty death.”
“Shakespeare. Macbeth. I’m impressed.”
“Who’s Shakespeare? Who’s Macbeth?”
* * *
Food was consumed. Dishes were cleared. Heavy winter clothes were donned. Fifteen was smaller than Erica, yet not by so much that she was uncomfortable in her clothes.
We took the elevator to the lobby. I threw a wave at Smith and Jones, but their attention was focused on the girl and they didn’t notice. Outside the door, we hung a right and made our way along icy sidewalks and ramps to a path near the bluff above the river that had been cleared by a miniplow. We followed it west. It was like walking through a trench. The snow on each side was piled nearly to our shoulders. The Cities hadn’t received more snow than usual; it was just that it had been so damn cold that very little of it had melted. There was more snow on the ground at that time in March than in the past thirty-plus years. Which made sightseeing problematic.
Nina was a talker. She noticed everything and loved everything, and she enjoyed pointing out the things that she noticed and loved from the dynamic lighting displays on the top floors of Target Plaza South to the authentic cobblestones beneath her feet. Fifteen, though, was quiet. I didn’t know if that meant she was uncomfortable with my presence—or with herself—or if it was just her natural state. As for me, I tended to be more watchful than talkative. I didn’t study the skyline or the river. I studied the people. Probably that was my cynical, suspicious nature again. It was also the reason why I spotted him.
Tall, with a blue jacket and a gray knit cap; I first picked him up when we hit the sidewalk at Gold Medal Park, and he was there when we reached the Stone Arch Bridge, a former railroad bridge now reserved for bicycles and pedestrians. (Nina would have told you it was the only arched bridge of stone on the entire river and that it was built in 1883 by James J. Hill for his Great Northern Railway.) When we strolled across the bridge, he trailed behind.
Normally, I wouldn’t have cared. The area was filled with people who were doing exactly what Fifteen and I were doing, some of whom could be accused of following us as well. It was his unwavering pace that made me anxious. He always remained thirty yards behind us—never gaining, never losing ground. His presence reminded me whoever tossed the girl off a speeding truck might be keen to do it again.
Unidentified Woman #15 Page 4