by James Hayman
The call had come from a number he knew only too well in the 212 area code. New York City.
“What is it?” asked Maggie.
“It’s Bobby’s cell,” he said. “If he’s calling at this hour it can’t be good.”
Bobby was McCabe’s older brother. A highly successful personal injury attorney who lived and worked in Manhattan.
Maggie slid across the bed and sat next to McCabe, then leaned over and rested her chin on his shoulder as he tapped the voice-mail button and put it on speaker.
“Hi. It’s Mam,” his brother’s recorded voice informed them. “She’s in the hospital. Montefiore. The main building on 210th Street. I’m there now. It’s serious. Give me a call.”
McCabe rose from the bed and walked across the room. He sorted through the pile of clothes on the small easy chair in the corner. Found a pair of boxers and pulled them on, and tossed the rest of the pile onto the end of the bed. He sat, body still moist from lovemaking, and tapped call-back. His brother picked up on the first ring.
“Glad you check your messages.”
“What’s happening?” asked McCabe, leaving the phone on speaker for Maggie’s benefit.
“I think you’d better come on down to the city. Like I said, it’s Mam.”
McCabe frowned. “Is it the Alzheimer’s?” Rose McCabe had long been suffering from slowly progressing mental degeneration that had first been diagnosed twelve years earlier when she was seventy-one. For a long time, Bobby, the only sibling who could afford it, picked up the lion’s share of the tab for a live-in caretaker named Yvonne Martinez. Rose had been able to stay in her old house on Harper Avenue in the northeast corner of the Bronx. The same house she and Tom McCabe Sr. bought more than fifty years earlier when Tom, a lifelong NYPD cop, was still walking a beat. The same house where all four McCabe children had been born and brought up. The eldest, Tom Jr., a crooked narcotics detective who’d been on the take, was now dead. Killed in a shootout with a crack dealer named Two-Times who resented Tommy’s demands for even more money than he was already pocketing in return for not arresting him.
Rose, thanks to Yvonne’s help, had been able to stay in the house until three years ago, when she burned the place down while the caretaker slept. For reasons unknown, Rose had gotten out of bed at two in the morning and placed lit candles in every window in the house. Maybe she’d seen snow on the street and decided it must be Christmas. In any case, one of the candles had tipped over and set the curtains on fire. Within minutes the whole living room was ablaze. The howl of the smoke detector roused Yvonne and she managed to get herself and Rose out of the house before it was completely destroyed and, more importantly, before either of them suffered serious burns or smoke inhalation. With the house gone and Rose’s mental capacity clearly declining, other arrangements had to be made. The other arrangements turned out to be a memory care facility called The Willows just over the Westchester County line in Pelham. With Mike just getting by on a Portland cop’s salary and Fran having made a vow of poverty as a member of the Dominican order of nuns, Bobby once again had to foot most of the bill for their mother’s care. He did so without complaint, knowing his brother Mike was contributing as much as he could and Fran was paying her share with frequent visits, spending hours sitting with her mother and taking her out in good weather for walks or wheelchair rides through the Bronx Botanical Gardens, which Rose had always loved.
“How bad?” McCabe asked again.
“Very bad.”
“Is she going to make it?”
“Probably not.”
McCabe gave a long sigh. “Okay. Tell me exactly what happened?”
“Apparently Mam got up in the middle of the night . . .”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Jesus, she didn’t start another fire, did she?”
“No. But in spite of the number-coded lock on the door of her room she somehow managed to get out and wander into the hallway. One of the attendants saw her and called to her. Mam looked back at her, then went the other way. Before the woman could catch up, she’d gone through an exit door and tumbled down a flight of concrete stairs.”
“Oh Jesus,” said McCabe, thinking about his mother’s osteoporosis. “She must have broken every bone in her body.”
“Enough of them. One broken hip, a couple of ribs, broken bones in both arms, and she slammed her head pretty hard when she hit the landing.”
“Fractured skull?”
“No. But a bad concussion.”
“How in God’s name could anything like that happen?”
“I have no idea, but I intend to find out. And if I find her door wasn’t properly locked I may just hit The Willows with a lawsuit. We wouldn’t collect anything. Not for an eighty-three-year-old woman with advanced Alzheimer’s who didn’t have that long to live anyway, but it might serve as a warning to the people who run the place to pay closer attention to their guests, as they like to call them.”
“The door had to be unlocked. Otherwise she never could have gotten out.”
“The caretakers swear it was locked and she somehow managed to unlock it. I suppose it’s possible she watched the attendants press the same buttons on the door so many times over and over again that she somehow managed to mimic the pattern. Some kind of finger memory. For someone like her it might be sort of like playing the piano.”
Rose had loved her piano. In his youth McCabe remembered her playing almost every day. Everything from Chopin to Cole Porter. She’d tried teaching all her children to play, but the only one who’d shown any interest or ability was Bobby. He still played some pretty good jazz. No Marcus Roberts or Dave Brubeck, but Bobby wasn’t bad.
“Anyway, she was rushed to the hospital. Montefiore.”
“Is she conscious?”
“She’s opened her eyes once or twice but I wouldn’t exactly call it conscious. They’ve got her doped up with painkillers. I’m calling from outside in the corridor now. Frannie’s in the room with her. The docs aren’t real hopeful. They think she may hang in for a couple of days at most but not a whole lot more than that. Probably less. She seems to be fading pretty fast. She won’t know who you are, may not even wake up while you’re here, but I figured you’d want to come down and say good-bye before she passes.”
“Yes, of course I do.” McCabe’s mind was racing. “I’m just debating flying or driving. First flight’s not until five-thirty a.m. and I’d still have to get to the hospital from LaGuardia so maybe it’s better to drive. Get me there a couple of hours sooner.” He checked the time. Twelve-thirty. “If I leave within the next half hour there won’t be any traffic and I should be there by six or maybe even earlier.”
“Okay. I’ll be here all night. I’ll call you if anything develops. Like I said, even if she wakes up she probably won’t know who you are. At least she didn’t recognize me.”
“Well, maybe she’ll surprise us all and make it through this. She’s a tough old bird.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
The last time McCabe had visited his mother he thought it might really be the last time. It was four months earlier. She’d mostly recognized him then. Mostly, because the first time he’d gone into her room at The Willows she’d reached out a frail hand and introduced herself.
“I’m Rose.”
“Hi, Mam. It’s me, Michael.”
“Oh, Michael. You look so handsome.”
After that, recognition came and went during the two hours he spent with her.
He wondered briefly how much sense it actually made to haul himself down to the Bronx now, if she wasn’t going to know who he was even when he was in the room. Maybe it would be better to remember her the way she’d been that last time. Even better to remember her when she was younger and healthier. But as the thought flitted through his brain, he knew there was no way he could do that. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t say good-bye when he had the chance. The simple truth was the trip to New Yor
k would be more for his own peace of mind than for hers.
“Cathy with you now?” asked McCabe.
“Yeah. She’s in there with Frannie. But I’m getting her a car and sending her home. She’s been a rock through Mam’s whole decline. It hasn’t been easy for either of us.”
“How about Zoe?”
“I called her right after I called you. No answer. Left a message. Probably won’t get back to me until morning.”
“I’ll call Casey and let her know as soon as it’s daylight in the UK.” McCabe’s daughter, a junior at Brown, was doing a year abroad, studying at the University of London. “She’ll be pissed if I don’t. She was always very fond of Granny.”
“Give her my love when you speak to her.”
“I will.”
“There’s a garage near the hospital where you can park. And of course, you can stay at our place as long as you need to.”
Our place was a two-bedroom co-op in an elegant prewar building on 57th Street and Sutton Place South. Still had one of the same doormen who was there thirteen years before when Bobby bought the place after winning his first multimillion-dollar judgment. It had probably tripled in value since. Maybe quadrupled.
“I assume Zoe isn’t using the room?”
“Nope. Still in the same apartment.” McCabe’s niece had moved out of her parents’ place midway through Juilliard. Found a place on the Lower East Side. “It’s now up to three grand a month for an oversized closet in a building filled with other twenty-somethings. Place is like a college dorm.”
“Three K? Yikes. You subsidizing her?”
“No. But I may have to start. She just broke up with a major jerk from a rich family. He was paying two out of the three. Now, I don’t know. She makes some pretty good money doing commercials, but maybe not enough. We’ll see.”
“No new boyfriends in sight?”
“Not yet. But Zoe attracts guys like honey attracts flies and a lot of them seem to be applying for the position.”
“And she’s still going strong in Othello?”
“Last performance was tonight. Got some great reviews which I think she absolutely deserved.”
“Of course you’re not prejudiced.”
“Of course not. Anyway, you better get going.”
McCabe broke the connection and turned to Maggie. “Well, you heard it all. I’m gonna jump in the shower and then get out of here.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Maggie.
“To New York or to the shower?”
“I was talking about New York.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no need for you to do that. You’ve never met my mother.”
“I’ve got a need. I’d like to meet her at least once before she dies. I’ve never met your brother or his wife or your niece either. Or Sister Mary Frances. If I’m going to be part of your family, I want to meet them.”
“That sounds like the start of an important announcement.”
“Surely you remember tonight was the night you asked me to marry you? Or was that just a ploy to lure me into the sack?”
“No ploy. But you said you wanted to think about it.”
“Yeah, I did. Now I’ve thought about it.”
“Not for very long.”
“What?” Maggie said. “Now you’re having second thoughts?”
“No. I’m just surprised you made your decision so quickly. Must have been the sex, huh?”
She walked over, pulled him up from the chair, slid her arms around him and squeezed hard. “No. Not just the sex. Though that was pretty damned good. I just don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not ever. I love you, and I want to be part of your family, and I want you to be part of mine. And I especially want to be with you at a time like this when I know you’re going to be hurting. Is that okay?”
“Definitely okay,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Chapter 3
Tyler Bradshaw’s examination of the toads lining the wall was interrupted by a voice from behind the bar.
“Can I get you a drink?”
The bartender was young and drop-dead handsome in an androgynous male-model kind of way. His straight blond hair fell at a studied angle over one side of his forehead, and the smile he threw at Tyler suggested he thought Tyler was not only a good-looking hunk but a good-looking hunk who might just be interested. Which pissed Tyler off. He fucking hated it when fags came on to him, which, for reasons that escaped him, seemed to happen a lot. He ignored the smile. Just said, “Bourbon. Rocks. Make it a double.”
“Any particular brand?”
“Bulleit’s, if you have it.”
“We have it and you’ve got it.”
The kid went off and poured the drink, came back and put it in front of Tyler. “Want me to run a tab?”
“Nah. I’ll let you know if I want another. What do I owe you?”
“Twenty-two for the double.”
Tyler pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out a couple of twenties and tossed them onto the bar. He took a couple of long pulls on the drink while the bartender went off to make change. He left five bucks for the kid, slipped the rest of the change back into the wallet and got up to check on Zoe and Curly-Top. Had to make sure they hadn’t somehow escaped while he was admiring the toads.
Tyler slipped along the edge of the crowd and managed to catch sight of them. They were just getting up from the table and putting on their jackets. He took a few more quick slugs from his bourbon, returned the glass to the bar, slung his backpack over his shoulder. On sudden impulse, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, pushed his way back through the crowd toward the table where Zoe and Curly-Top had been sitting. Without missing a stride, with the handkerchief covering his hand, he picked up Curly-Top’s empty wineglass by its stem and seamlessly slipped it into his back pack. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. As far as he could tell, no one had. He headed toward the exit, arriving just in time to see the two of them going through the doors and turning left on Rivington. Were they heading toward her place? It was the right direction. Tyler put the bush hat on his head, waited a few seconds, and then went outside himself. The idea was to give Zoe a little time to put some distance between herself and him before he followed. That didn’t work. Just as he hit the sidewalk, he saw the two of them standing there, ten yards in front of him, yakking about some damned thing or other. Tyler turned the other way. Walked about ten yards to avoid standing directly in the lights from the restaurant. He stopped in the shadows of a closed antique shop, pulled his phone from his pocket and pretended to be talking while he watched. He wondered who the guy was. He knew it wasn’t her old boyfriend. He’d watched that guy carry his bags out of her apartment week before last, which was one of the things that made Tyler think he could pull this off without serious interference. Okay. So who was the guy? A casual date? Somebody applying for the position of new boyfriend? Must have been a dozen guys on the waiting list for that job. So that was possible. Even probable. Which meant he just might have to be dealt with before Tyler could proceed with his plan. On the other hand, maybe Curly-Top was just a friend she worked with in the show. Cassio? Roderigo? Or he could be a stagehand or a lighting guy? Who knew? It didn’t much matter unless he was planning on spending the night and she was planning on letting him.
Which would be a pain, but nothing Tyler couldn’t handle. Still, it offended him to think the woman he loved might be the kind of girl who’d hop in the sack with some random new guy ten lousy days after breaking up with the old one. And if she was . . . well, that might just change his opinion of her. Make him wonder whether she really was the right girl for him. Tyler didn’t go for slutty types. God knew there were enough of them around and they were just too damned easy. Tyler wanted more than that from a woman. Not just some casual affair with someone who’d pull down her panties for every big swinging dick who came along.
Tyler studied Zoe’s f
ace as she stood facing the guy on the sidewalk.
Her expression suggested a certain intimacy. Which bothered him. But not enough to walk away. And that meant he needed a Plan B. What to do if the guy walked her home? What to do if she invited him up? He’d invested too much time planning and preparing for his first date with Zoe just to drop the idea now. Truth be told, he lusted after this woman, wanted her far more than he’d ever wanted anyone. And he was sure she’d want him just as much if only she gave herself a chance to get to know him as he really was.
No, he decided, there was no damned way he was going to let some curly-headed jerk screw things up. Not now. Not when he’d gotten so close. Not when he could mentally feel the smoothness of Zoe’s skin lying against his body. He fingered the black folding knife that was tucked inside the pocket of his field jacket. When open, it boasted a deadly five-inch carbon steel blade. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but if it became necessary to take Curly-Top out to consummate his love for Zoe, so be it. That’s what he would do if it turned out the gods had declared it so.
Tyler’s muscles tensed and lines once again started streaking across his field of vision. His hold on the knife tightened when the guy put his arms around Zoe’s waist and pulled her to him. The lines grew even worse when the love of his life reached up and put her own arms around this other guy’s neck. First Carter, and now this dude. It took all the discipline Tyler could muster to restrain himself from screaming out loud and rushing at them with the knife while they kissed. Even though, once again, it was what Tyler called a street kiss. No heavy passion involved. Still, it was on the lips. And it lingered. Which pissed Tyler off enough that he had to apply a lot of self-control to keep from walking over and cutting the bastard’s throat right here in the middle of Rivington Street, and who the fuck cared who watched him do it.
Finally they pulled back and separated. The guy smiled. “Tomorrow,” he said. Tyler couldn’t actually hear the word, but from his vantage point he could see the shape of the word formed by the guy’s mouth.