by Nancy Tesler
“He’s worse than that. He’s a liar, a cheat, and a fraud.”
Why did that keep hurting? “But not a killer.” I didn’t want my children’s father to be a killer.
“Not under ordinary circumstances, but maybe when push came to shove---”
I shook my head adamantly. “You don't live with a man for eighteen years and not know something like that.”
He actually groaned. “I’ve heard that so many times it’s gotten to be a joke. ‘John? I’ve known him forever. Wonderful guy, wouldn’t swat a mosquito.’ And I’m there when they find his baby with a pillow over its head because it wouldn’t stop crying. He was silent for a minute. Then he said softly. “You’d think you’d get used to it. You never do.”
We were on the parkway. My mind drifted back to another spring when I was in the car on the Palisades Parkway.
I was ready to give birth to Allie. We were racing into the city to New York University Hospital. I remember Rich’s reassuring voice when I panicked because the contractions were coming faster and harder than I had been led to believe in our Lamaze classes, and I was losing control of the breathing exercises. I remember his soothing hand rubbing my back, the gentle way he calmed my fears, got me back on track. I remember him sitting by my bed all night when things went wrong, and I had to have an emergency Cesarean. And I remember how he railed at the nurse who was late with my pain medication. Was this a man who could murder the woman he loved?
On the heels of that recollection came the memory of the morning Matt was born, a mere two years later. I saw Rich standing in the doorway of the operating room having refused my request to come in, ignoring me as he discussed his latest investment with my obstetrician. And I remember that he left for the office as soon as Matt was delivered. Still, that only meant there had been a change in his feelings for me, a change that the birth of a son had, for a time, obscured. It didn’t make him capable of murder.
Ted and I said little until we arrived at my office.
“I haven't got my car,” I murmured as I stood on the curb. “I should’ve had you drop me at home.”
“I’ll pick you up,” he replied. “What time do you finish?”
Suddenly I just wanted to be alone. “Six. But don’t bother. I have to do some shopping. I'll grab a cab.”
Again I had the feeling he’d read my mind.
“Right.” His voice was cool. “See you.”
THE FIRST MESSAGE on my answering machine was Ruth-Ann reminding me that Monday was Memorial Day and asking if we were still having overeaters group. Would I please call her and let her know? The second was Vickie wanting to tell me all about the interview. She’d call me back later at home. I put my head down on my desk and listened to Hamilton Grinch blast me because Jerry was refusing to come for training, did I know why? Yeah, I knew why. He was given everything he wanted, including enough money to buy recreational drugs. He had no reason to make the effort to change.
When a familiar voice said, “Carrie?” I thought it was coming from the machine. No message followed and I looked up. Rich was leaning against the doorframe, his left arm in a sling, his drawn face a patchwork of Band-Aids.
Strangely, I felt none of the old preprogrammed emotions—-not shock, not concern at his appearance—-only a mild curiosity as to the cause of the injuries, and anger for Matt and Allie's sakes.
“Where the hell’ve you been?”
“Lay off, will you?” He held up his hand as if warding off a blow, limped over to the leather recliner and dropped into it. “I was in a car wreck.”
He waited for my response-—a word of sympathy for his suffering, or at the very least relief that he was okay. I couldn't manage it.
“Whose car? Yours is in your lot.”
“A friend’s. What's the matter? Don’t you believe me?”
“The police’ve been looking for you. They checked the hospitals.”
“I didn't go to a hospital.”
“Who set your arm?”
“A doctor. Someone my friend sent me to.”
Lady or man, I wanted to ask. “What friend?”
“What's the difference?”
Half a story. Why couldn’t he ever tell a whole story?
“Why didn’t you call? You must’ve known the children would worry.”
“I was half out of it.”
“Sympathy pains in your other arm? Couldn’t pick up the phone?”
“They gave me stuff for the pain.” He fluttered his broken wing so I could see the cast. “Jesus, you’ve gotten hard.”
“I had a good teacher.”
“It’s not becoming.”
“Forgive me. We’ve had a little excitement of our own since you disappeared.”
I wondered why I’d never noticed how close-set his eyes are. If he’d been involved in what had happened to Erica and Dot, would I see it in those eyes?
He leaned back in the chair and closed them, barring my glimpse into his soul. “The cops told me about Dot. Man, what a nightmare!”
Dot's distorted dead face materialized. I struggled to exorcise her ghost.
“The police know you’re back?”
“I've been to the precinct.”
That surprised me. Had Ted Brodsky been there, I wondered if Rich would have walked out of that station so readily. The words popped out. “They didn't hold you?”
He sat up so quickly, the footrest flew back, striking his calf. “Ow! Damn!” and glared at me as though I'd somehow engineered it. “Hold me? Why?”
“Well, it didn’t look great, your disappearing when you did.”
“Had to get away,” he mumbled, rubbing his leg. “Going nuts, living in the house where it happened.”
“Where were you?”
“Connecticut.”
“Connecticut? What's in---”
“Cops told me you were the one found Dot.”
“Yes.”
“How was that? What were you doing in her apartment?”
Darned if I was going to let him put me on the defensive. “I went there looking for you.”
“Why would I be there?”
“Come off it, Rich. I know about you and Dot. I know about all of them or at least, most of them. I even know about you and Meg.”
That was blowing the lid off.
He had the gall to look injured. “Again, me and Meg? You’re hallucinating!”
I wanted to smack him across his lying mouth. I came around my desk and leaned over him. “I’m talking about when she modeled for you. Remember that? Because Brodsky knows all about it.”
“About what?”
“About you and her, and her husband who’s in jail, and Erica and the kickbacks---”
“Kickbacks!” He sprang out of the chair, grabbing my arm with his free one, hurting me. “What are you talking about?” His voice became menacing. “I’m warning you, Carrie, if you've tried to make trouble for me---”
“Don't you threaten me!” The anger exploded up from the pit of my stomach and flew out of my mouth, engulfing me, engulfing him. I jerked away and pushed him back into the chair. “You hear me? Don't you ever threaten me again!”
He was stunned. This wasn’t the old Carrie who had capitulated so easily under his killer lawyer’s attack. “You make trouble, you'll shoot yourself in the foot, lady. He's got the money, he's got the power”!
He backed off. “I didn't mean---”
“Yes, you did! You and that hatchetman you hired to do your dirty work. But it’s over. Finished. You don’t have power over me anymore.”
He staggered to his feet. “I can't deal with you when you get emotional.”
“When I stand up to you, you mean.”
“Jesus, I came here to talk.”
“There’s nothing to say. Now get out of my office. I’ve got a patient coming.”
As if to prove my point, there was a knock at the door.
“There she is. Good-bye, Rich.”
Our eyes locked, but he was
the first to drop his. With a shrug, he turned and opened the door and came face to face with Ted Brodsky.
“Mr. Burnham. I was hoping I'd find you here.”
“I was just leaving.”
“You won’t mind giving me a few minutes of your time before you go running off again, will you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Rich shifted his weight, darted a nervous glance out the window as if hoping he could magically sprout wings and fly away. “Look, I've had a rough couple of days, and I’m not feeling a hundred percent right now.”
“Yeah, sorry about your accident.”
“I was on my way home.”
“This won't take long.” He indicated the recliner. “Grab a seat.” I glanced nervously at the clock. Ten fifty-five. Phyllis Lutz was due any minute.
“Uh—-Detective, I have a patient at eleven.”
“Looks like we’ll have to do this at the station then, Mr. Burnham.”
“I was just there!”
“Sorry to put you out.”
“Christ almighty, how many times do I have to go over the same thing!”
Brodsky opened the door. “We’ve got two murders. Don’t know what the killer’s beef is, or if he or she might kill again. You knew both victims. From the looks of the Shea murder scene, it appears you might be in danger. Sorry, but you're an important link.”
From behind Rich’s back, he nodded at me. “Go right home after you finish here. I'll call you.”
I PONDERED THAT in the few minutes before Phyllis was due to arrive. Why instructions to go right home? Did Brodsky want to keep tabs on me? Was I moving up on the suspect list again? I didn’t think so. He must think I could be in danger. From whom? Rich? Erica and Dot were both connected to Rich, he'd made a point of saying that. Could that be the link? Rich had seemed shaken when I’d brought up the kickbacks and his relationship to Meg. But then, creating smokescreens had become an art form with him. Maybe Ted thought the danger might come from Meg. But why would Meg want to hurt me? I was no threat to her. Why hadn’t she told me about her husband? About knowing Rich? Were all these players intertwined somehow? I shook my head, hoping the jumble of facts inside would fall into place, hoping to shake off my growing fear.
Phyllis was a no-show, so at eleven-thirty I took a lunch break. Odd, I thought. Her message had said she would call if she couldn’t make it today, and Phyllis rarely misses an opportunity to bitch about her life, even if she has to pay for it.
From twelve to five I saw five more patients, doing my best to give them my best. I was inordinately grateful to Liz Brannigan who, when she picked up her son, Timmy, after his EEG training for his Attention Deficit Disorder, put her head around the door to tell me I was doing a terrific job.
I spent the next hour transcribing notes but quit when I noticed my hand trembling.
The skies were angry, and there were ominous rumblings in the distance as I left the office and dashed up Piermont Avenue to the market. Since the children wouldn’t be home for a couple of days, I decided to treat myself to a few gourmet items that weren’t on their list of favorites. Their plans had been made several weeks earlier, but the timing of the trips was God-sent. I was hoping the break would help restore their equilibrium and, as a bonus, their faith in their mother.
I was reaching for a can of pâté when I saw Phyllis Lutz, attired in golf uniform down the aisle at the spices.
“Hey, Phyllis,” I called out.
She turned, looked right through me, and pushed her cart in the opposite direction.
Maybe she hadn't seen me. I grabbed the pâté and hurried after her. “Phyllis, you missed your session. You okay?”
“Go away!” she hissed, not bothering to lower her voice. “Stop following me!”
My knees went weak. “What?”
“I should think I made myself clear when I blew you off today.”
“Have I missed something? What’s wrong?”
“What's wrong?” She reached into her cart and held up a copy of the Phoenix. “You're involved in a sordid murder case, for God’s sake! Your husband’s name’s all over the papers. Everyone’s talking about you, wondering if you did it!”
There was a buzzing in my ears that I wasn’t sure was coming from inside my own head or from the people who were beginning to stare. I should have answered her. I should have annihilated her with some scathing remark. But my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I dropped the pâté and fled. From behind me I felt a hundred eyes boring into my back, a hundred tongues whispering.
The cab driver complained about the impending storm all the way home, while I sat in the backseat shaking with humiliation. Even the exorbitant tip I gave him failed to pacify. The minute I'd closed the car door, he roared off, spewing noxious fumes in my face and blanketing my shoes with dirt. Then the sky erupted. I stood on my front lawn and, together with the wilted daffodils, raised my face and let the rain revive me. I was drenched through by the time I let myself in the front door.
Except for the animals, tonight I had the house to myself. Automatically I opened the back door for Horty and fed the cats while he did his business. Not as appreciative of the downpour as the daffodils, he was back nosing the cats away from their dinner before they'd had a chance to swallow. Placido and Lucie ran under the table, but José hissed and swatted him on the nose. He backed off. Small he may be, but José takes crap from nobody.
I opened a can for Horty, put his bowl on the floor, removed Lucie and Placido's dishes to the counter, watched as they leaped up and continued eating. The ritual used to drive Rich crazy, despite my scrubbing the counter afterward. One of the few advantages to divorce. You get to do your own thing.
I wandered to the fridge, hoping to find something to fill the hole in my stomach, settled on a semi-stale piece of Jarlsberg cheese and a couple of crackers. I poured a glass of wine, polished it off, poured another, went upstairs, and soaked in the bathtub while I gnawed at the cheese and drank the second glass of wine. Then I crawled out of the tub, wrapped myself in my old terrycloth robe, twisted a towel around my freshly washed hair, and lay down on my bed. I was just drifting off when the doorbell rang.
I jumped up, my heart pounding.
“Who is it?” I called from the top of the stairs.
“Ted Brodsky.”
My hand went to my turbaned head. Well, nothing I could do about the way I looked. I beat Horty to the door and opened it.
“Hi. Sorry to barge in on you like this.” He was clutching his jacket collar tightly to prevent the rivulets dripping off his hair from running down his neck. I found his soggy state strangely appealing.
A sudden gust of wind showered us both.
“Think I could come in before I drown?”
“Oh, sure. Sorry.” Embarrassed, I stepped back and watched as he carefully wiped his feet on the mat before stepping inside.
Horty gave a perfunctory sniff at the newcomer, then sat down and thumped his tail on the floor. Brodsky patted his head, was rewarded with a slurp on the hand. “Some watchdog.”
“He hasn’t lost faith in the human race yet.”
“Well, he’s one up on me.” He mopped his face with a handkerchief.
“Take off your jacket. I'll get you a towel.”
“How about I use the one you’re wearing?”
I pulled it loose, foolishly pleased that my hair tumbled from under it, thick and wavy. “It’s probably damp,” I said.
“It’ll do the job. Thanks.”
He held out his sopping jacket. He was wearing a
T-shirt, and jeans that fit. The damp jeans clung to his thighs, and I became acutely aware of his well-muscled legs, caught myself staring as he bent over to dry his hair, then, mortified, dragged my eyes away. Rattled, I hurried into the kitchen and spread the jacket carefully over the back of a chair.
Get hold of yourself! I scolded myself. This guy is not a potential lover. He’s a cop. Because you haven’t had sex in nearly two year
s is no reason to behave like a bitch in heat. Just offer him coffee and find out why he’s here. “Sergeant Brodsky,” I called out, my voice carefully casual.
“Ted. We agreed it’s Ted.”
“Ted, would you like some coffee?”
He was behind me before I’d taken the can from the cabinet. “Sounds great.”
I measured out the grains and plugged in the pot. When I turned around, he had hung the wet towel over the back of the doorknob and was sitting by the table with José on his lap. José normally has to fight for his share of affection. He purred like a motorboat.
“You’ve made a friend for life.”
“I see you have a set.”
“Three, actually. We only planned to get one, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to separate them.”
“Sounds like you. What’s his name?”
“José. After Carreras, You know, the tenor.”
“Ah, then the other two have to be---”
“Luciano and Placido.”
He smiled broadly. “What else.”
Neither of us said anything until the percolator started perking. Not anxious to bring up the murders, I searched my mind for an innocuous topic, found it.
“Speaking of names, is it Edward?”
He looked up, puzzled. “Edward?”
“Your name.”
“Oh.” He made a face. “Theodore. My dad was a great admirer of a couple of famous Theodores. Theodore Herzl, Theodore Roosevelt.”
“Not bad role models.”
He laughed. “I guess I can think of a worse philosophy for a cop than talking softly, and carrying a big stick. ’Course in today’s society it’d better be a thunder stick.”
“I was named for my father’s mother. Her name was Chaia. In Hebrew it means life.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“I am that greatest of all anomalies—-a Jewish cop. Son of Polish-Jewish immigrants. My parents met when they were kids-—in Auschwitz.”
I was stunned. “I’ll have to tell Ruth-Ann. If she knew that she wouldn‘t be so terrified of you. Are your parents still...”
“No.” His expression hardened. “They managed to survive the camps, but not Brooklyn’s muggers.”