“Oh, certainly not. It was all wrapped up in blankets.”
“I see, but you do have locked in your memory, the child’s age?”
“Of course, but let me check.” He opened the file. “Yes, here it is, just as I thought, estimated age four or five.”
Rosalie let out a small shriek and collapsed against Seymour.
“Is there anything wrong?” the man asked, confusion broad on his bony face. “She is the one you are looking for, isn’t she? I’d hate to think, you know, well, it’s impossible.”
“No, she’s not, thank God,” Seymour managed to say. “But thank you for your time.”
As he turned to leave, the man started to raise his finger to his head. “Sometimes—” he began to say, but then retreated into his office.
* * * *
“Let me drive,” Seymour said as they reached the car. “You can sleep if you want.”
She handed him the keys.
“We’re going home, aren’t we?”
He shook his head.
“Look, I’ll drop you off, but I’ve got a thought, and I have to check it out.”
“You won’t drop me off. If you have some crazy idea just because you saw Emily’s face on the television, you’d better tell me about it.”
He leaned against the car.
“I feel it coming together. This business with the baby. While we’re here, something must be happening someplace else.”
“Like what?” she asked.
The realization came to him.
“Something O’Riley said, when I talked about the evidence, and how I could prevent him from getting a sample from Junior, at least long enough to make charging Junior unattractive.”
Rosalie shifted her eyes into the car for a moment, as though deciding whether she should drive.
“But maybe they can get something from Gomez, more easily,” she said.
He nodded.
“Then, we’d better get there, don’t you think?” She was quivering. “I know I can’t stop you, and I’m not sure I would if I could.”
“Meaning?” he asked.
“Just that. Nothing more.”
* * * *
They drove in silence, as though they both recognized that whatever they found in Gomez’ apartment, even nothing, would announce the end of the whole tangled affair. It occurred to Seymour, as they passed through the nearly deserted streets, that he was not prepared to conclude their joint efforts. Junior’s problem had brought them back together after so many years, and even if he felt her tension as her brother’s fate approached, they had formed a bond that he did not want to break. He glanced over at her sitting with her bright eyes fixed on the road ahead, her body erect and tense in spite of her exhaustion. The strong line of her nose, her expressive lips, the slender curve of her neck disappearing into the raised collar of her coat, all so familiar, saddened him. She seemed to feel his eyes on her.
“Anything the matter?” she asked.
“I guess I was just thinking about us. After this is all over,” he said. He felt he had to be tentative. Too much was at stake.
“I’ve thought about that, too.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll deal with that one when we get there.”
“But we will deal with it together, won’t we?”
She smiled, her white teeth bright in the darkness of the car. His mood lightened with her smile. He had not realized how important the question had become for him. He felt comfortable enough to give voice to another thought that had struck him since they stood together staring into the empty crib.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that when all this is over I should fly out to the coast and look up my son. It’s more than time.”
Her face softened.
“If you want, I’ll go with you.”
“I think,” Seymour said with a breath that seemed to expel a cloud of foul vapors, “that I would like that very much.”
Rosalie turned to him.
“Do you think we could stop for a minute?” she asked.
He pulled the car to the curb. When he turned the key off, she put her hands gently on both sides of his face.
“We don’t know what we’ll find, or what we’ll feel tonight, or tomorrow. So, let’s just hold onto this moment for as long as we can.”
He pressed his lips to hers and swallowed her next words in a long kiss.
* * * *
Seymour parked a couple of blocks from the entrance to the complex of buildings that looked, in the moonlight, like so many shadowy obelisks rising high above the weary asphalt of the city streets. They got out of the car and walked briskly toward the entrance. When they were a block away, they could see two or three cars double parked. Several men were milling around the cars. Seymour peered toward them, and he was sure he could make out the outlines of the lights on each roof, but they were dark and still. They slowed their pace until they were about fifty yards from the cars, and then Seymour guided Rosalie toward the building line and into the shadows. They stepped over a low iron post and rail fence that separated the sidewalk from a narrow area in front of the building intended to be landscaped with grass and shrubs but now a jumble of bottles, frozen paper bags, and newspapers. Seymour slid a cigarette out of his pack, and put it to his mouth. He felt Rosalie’s hand on his, and he followed her eyes back to the cars. He thought he saw one of the men looking in their direction, and he took the cigarette from his lips. They flattened themselves against the building and waited.
For several minutes nothing happened. Seymour slid the cigarette back into the pack, and with his back pressed against the cold brick of the building, he edged closer to the cars. Rosalie followed, but then she held his arm.
“Do you think this is such a smart idea?” she whispered.
At first he was irritated by what was becoming a familiar refrain—as though she would take each step with him, but heavily, as a weight against his movement. But after a moment he recognized that her objection might be perfectly sensible.
“Smart has nothing to do with it. If we were smart, we wouldn’t be here at all, pressing our butts against the wall. But I want to see the action.”
She squeezed his arm instead of letting it go.
“Is that all?”
“Yes,” he said, “probably that’s all we’ll do.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know, but it’s the best I can promise, right now.”
They worked their way to the end of the building, within about thirty feet of the cars, which they could now see clearly were police cruisers. Although all their lights were out, Seymour could hear the soft crackle of their radios. Gomez’ building was the next one, but a walkway separated them from it, and the path was, unfortunately, well lit. Seymour felt Rosalie nudge him from behind.
“What next?” she asked.
Seymour glanced over his head at the fire-escape ladder.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
“I wasn’t,” he said, although he had, for a moment, contemplated a leap from building to building. “I’ll try to slip by and find a back entrance.”
“And what should I do ? Create a diversion by kicking over a garbage pail or something?” Her voice shook.
He held her hand.
“I want you to wait here, right where you are. In case they come out before I get up there.”
She returned the pressure of his hand.
“Do you know what you’re going to do?”
“No,” he said. He loosened his grip and headed for the walkway. At the very end of the building a low hedge of scraggly yews provided some cover. He knelt down and eased himself onto his hands and knees. The ground was cold and hard. He could feel the rough, dead weeds between his fingers. He moved forward and carefully pushed a broken bottle aside. Within a minute, he was well down the walkway, past the point where the corner of Gomez’ building screened him from the street. He stood up and fl
attened himself against the building. He could see a service entrance on the side of Gomez’ building. Walking toward it, he felt exposed, although he knew he should be safe. He ran the last few steps to the entrance and started down the steps. His foot slipped on a soggy newspaper and he grabbed for the rail to steady himself. At the bottom of the steps, the door stood ajar, as he had expected, and he went in.
He paused to catch his breath in the stairwell on Gomez’ floor. His ribs now ached without pause, but he forced himself to the door leading to the corridor and cracked it open. He could see two uniformed officers waiting outside of Gomez’ door, and he thought he could hear the low murmur of voices. One male voice rose now, and it was answered by two others, a man’s and a woman’s, speaking in Spanish.
The building was cool, but Seymour felt perspiration begin to trickle into his eyes. He swiped at it with the back of his hand and then pressed his ear closer to the opening. The voices were now fully raised, the men’s harsh, the woman’s a thin wail. Seymour peered down the hall just as a man hurled himself out of the apartment, knocking the two officers into each other. Gomez was dressed in pajamas and a robe. His feet were bare, and he was swinging his baseball bat at the officers. As one of them began to pull out his weapon, Gomez broke down the corridor toward the stairwell. Seymour flung open the door and stepped aside so that Gomez could run by. Seymour grabbed the bat and spun Gomez into the stairwell. He turned around to face the officers. Both of them had their weapons leveled at him. Gomez was frozen behind Seymour, his eyes wide, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth, his hands still clutching the bat.
Seymour fought an impulse to dive to the floor. Pain stabbed his chest. He thought he had been shot, and wondered why he had not heard the report. A man in a raincoat was now between the officers, a hand on each of the weapons, forcing them down. Out of the corner of his eye, Seymour saw Gomez launch himself down the stairs. Detective Rosenberg let the officers go and they charged Seymour. He could not will his legs to move, and they were on him in an instant. The first one to reach him was tall and powerfully built.
“Get the hell out of the way,” he yelled, but Seymour could still not move. “Fuck it,” the cop spat and shoved Seymour aside. Seymour reeled and fell against the door he was still holding open. He looked down the stairs. Gomez had stopped on the landing below. His chest was heaving and he twisted his head to look up and down the stairs. The officer raised his weapon in both hands and aimed it at Gomez. Seymour started to grab for it but somebody pushed him down onto the floor. He looked up into Rosenberg’s bloodshot eyes.
“Careful,” Rosenberg said to the officer. “He’s no use to us dead.”
The officer cocked the hammer. Seymour struggled to get up, but then the shot went off and Gomez clutched his shoulder, dropped the bat, and fled down the stairs.
Rosenberg relaxed his hold on Seymour.
“Very good Jablonski. There’s a commendation in this.”
Seymour stood up slowly.
“Mr. Lipp,” Rosenberg said, “you are awfully damned stubborn.”
“I suppose you’re going to say he resisted arrest,” Seymour said between clenched teeth.
Rosenberg smiled.
“You saw what happened.”
“I didn’t see what went on in the apartment.”
Rosenberg shrugged.
“It’s of no importance.”
“You have a warrant, of course,” Seymour said.
“That’s not important either, but yes, we do. Signed by the man himself.”
Seymour felt the laugh well in his throat, but he bit down on his lip.
“Of course,” he managed to say.
“You know,” Rosenberg said. “I could have let them kill you.”
“Why didn’t you, then?”
Rosenberg shrugged again.
“Not because you’re such a lovable guy, you can bet your ass on that. Let’s just say it wasn’t meant to be. And Mr. O’Riley, he don’t like surprises.”
* * * *
Rosalie offered her shoulder to Seymour.
“There’s no sense being proud,” she said. “Just lean on me. And talk to me. I heard the shots and I expected to find you lying in a pool of blood.”
“You weren’t far off,” Seymour said. He threw his arm over her shoulders and grabbed the iron banister with the other.
“What’s the hurry?” she demanded.
“Have to catch up with Gomez,” he wheezed. He was finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.
“It’s too late. As I was coming up, after I heard the shot, Gomez almost ran over me. As soon as I regained my balance, he was gone. Out the door. Into the waiting arms of the law. It was all very smooth.”
Seymour noticed a splash of blood on her sleeve. She followed his eyes.
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” She moistened her fingers and started to dab at it, but he stopped her.
“That’s what they were after. Evidence obtained in an arrest. Admissible,” he said, “no fuss, no bother. Blood for DNA testing. This way the lawyers can’t hold them up.”
“Seymour,” she said, her voice tinged with disgust, “don’t you realize it’s over. They’ve got their pigeon.”
He let himself slide down onto a step. It was cold and his hand slid over the grime.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I know that. But I can’t stop until I know the truth.”
“We can stop when Junior walks free,” Rosalie said. “And out of our lives.”
She sat down next to him.
“And then?” he asked.
“Then,” she said slowly, confronting the realization, “I’ll have to learn how to live with that.”
He embraced her.
“We’ll both have to live with that,” he whispered, “‘more than you can realize.”
Chapter Nine
This time the telephone worked, and Junior greeted Seymour warmly. He looked fit; his blue denim shirt, clean and starched, was stretched over his shoulders and biceps. Curly black hair poked through his shirt, which was unbuttoned to the breastbone, and in the hair there sparkled a thick gold chain. His smile radiated as though his body could not contain his energy. It looked to Seymour as though Junior could shatter the thick plate glass that separated them as easily as if it were a thin sheet of ice, and walk out shielded by the dense energy at the core of his being.
“Moving day, soon,” Junior said.
“You’ve heard, then, about Gomez.”
Junior’s face glowed. He had to place his hand over his mouth to restrain the laugh that would have brought a guard.
“Heard? You gotta be kiddin’? The man is now in the cell occupied by nobody else but Pedro, you know.” He ran his fingers of one hand over the knuckles of the other.
Seymour took a second to contemplate this intelligence, to admire its audacious simplicity.
“I suppose he’s sitting there with a notepad.”
“He’s wired, in case the poor bastard actually says something. But,” he shrugged, “it don’t make no difference what he says or if he don’t say nothin’, it all comes out the same way.”
“I know,” Seymour snapped. “Just a little bit more. To go with the blood sample they’ve matched with the skin under Emily’s fingernails.”
“Hey, the man blew it once, he ain’t takin’ no chances.”
The smile crept into the corners of Junior’s mouth again, and he began to hum the melody of “Summertime.” Then in a surprisingly clear tenor he added the words, “Movin’ day,” he sang, “and the livin’ is easy.” Disgusted, Seymour slammed the telephone down, but Junior motioned for him to pick it up. The amusement had drained from his face, replaced by a blackening scowl.
“You know I’m walkin, soon. What am I gonna find?”
Seymour deflected the question.
“The world’s pretty much like you left it. You’ll probably have to find another job, though. The day after you were arrested, I received the court papers releasin
g you and me from each other.”
“It ain’t that easy, counselor, and you know it. Who gives a good fuck what the court says. You see how they operate.” He paused, his neck muscles contracted and pulsing. “But they don’t know, and what’s more they don’t care.”
“Maybe they don’t. But I do. We’re even.”
Junior shook his head slowly from side to side as if he were a priest hearing some remarkable blasphemy.
“No, no, my friend,” he said, “not yet. There’s Rosalie.”
“What are you trying to hold onto?” Seymour demanded. “Your sister can make up her own mind, and I think she has. If there were any doubt, the theatrics with Jennifer did it.”
Junior shrugged, his face impassive and blank.
“You must know all this,” Seymour said, “but maybe hearing it will mean something to you. We tried to find Lois, but she has disappeared. We finally broke into your house and found a half-starved guard dog. When we didn’t find the baby, just the dog, and signs of an attack, we checked the hospitals. One of them confirmed that such an infant was brought to them. Only it wasn’t yours.”
Junior drew his face back as though he had been slapped.
“Why, you bastard?” Seymour demanded, as guards approached from both sides of the partition. “Why the goddamned charade? With your baby. Your sister was already mourning her niece.” A guard placed a hand on Seymour’s shoulder, but he shook it off. “We’re just about done,” Seymour said. “Just a couple of minutes more, and you can have him.”
Junior pressed closer to the glass, his eyes registering his anger.
“Hey, that was Lois’ idea. Believe me man, I didn’t know the details. She just said she would keep you busy. I didn’t ask how. She knows you, remember, and she knows my sister. And anyway you were getting too close, man. I couldn’t let you screw things up.”
“And now you’ve got each other.” He paused. “But you’ve lost your sister. And me.”
“But you got her, right?”
“Maybe not. You made her choose. And she couldn’t.”
“You two were fuckin’ with my life.” He banged his fist against the glass. “I did your time,” he snarled, “I saved your pretty ass.”
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