‘What the flock,’ I cried aloud, trying not to swear at my solitude being violated. I put the sandwich down on the counter and went to the door. My appetite disappeared the moment I looked through the peephole and saw the two homicide detectives standing on the landing. Now what did they want? Given the option between talking to them and throwing myself out the window, I would have opted for the window, except that my apartment was only on the second floor, so it probably wouldn’t have done the job. I opened the door.
‘Good evening detectives,’ I said in a highly controlled attempt at cordiality. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Hope we’re not disturbing you,’ said O’Reilly. ‘But we learned some new information today that we want to run past you.’
‘Of course, come in.’ I held the door open, nearly deafened by the sound of my pulse in my ears, terrified that the new information might have something to do with the carpenter. ‘Shower gifts,’ I explained, moving a pile of boxes from the couch to make room for them to sit. My arms filled with boxes, I tripped over the area rug and Flynn’s mother’s gift flew from the pile, spilling the crotchless teddy onto the floor. O’Reilly barely seemed to notice, but Kozlowski’s ears glowed scarlet and he turned his head toward the kitchen. This time there were no shot glasses on the counter. Only a peanut butter sandwich missing three bites.
‘Like I said, shower gifts.’ I stuffed the wisp of lingerie back in the box and tossed it on top of some other boxes in the corner of the room. My space-clearing efforts turned out to be for naught as the detectives remained standing.
‘This should only take a minute,’ said O’Reilly. ‘We just have a quick question for you. You ever hear of an establishment called The Zone?’
His question was balm on a pulled muscle as I realized they hadn’t come to ask me about Steven Kaufman. They were asking about The Zone. The vise of fear loosened.
‘So you’ve spoken to Albert?’ I asked, assuming that Angie’s assistant manager had finally contacted them about seeing Angie before her murder.
‘Albert? Albert who?’ O’Reilly’s perplexed look told me my assumption was incorrect. Oh well, you know what they say about assuming. Now I was stuck.
‘Albert Evans. He worked with Angie.’
‘We don’t know anything about an Albert Evans.’ The right eyebrow shot up over the bloodshot eye. ‘Maybe you can enlighten us.’
Figuring Albert would have to accept my honest mistake, I told them of our conversation at the Lupino residence after the funeral, adding, ‘He was supposed to get in touch with you.’ O’Reilly was clearly pissed off, his face ruddier than usual. I hated being caught in a lie, even if it was only a lie of omission. Of course, there was a bigger lie of omission casting its ominous shadow across the room, my dalliance with the carpenter, but luckily it was only visible to me.
‘Well, he didn’t get in touch with us.’ O’Reilly suddenly looked inspired, the redness diminishing. ‘This Albert a big guy? Dark-haired?’
‘He’s the complete opposite,’ I replied, thinking of Albert’s narrow shoulders and pale coloring. ‘He’s got a slight build and light hair.’
‘Angie was seen talking to a big, dark-haired guy in The Zone. Harvey Wozniak ever frequent The Zone that you know of?’
I actually stifled a laugh. ‘Harvey in The Zone? No way. He’s a homophobe. You wouldn’t find him within ten miles of a gay bar. He used to dread Bloomingdale’s Christmas party because of all Angie’s gay co-workers. He spent the entire night with his back against the wall. I swear, if he dropped his wallet at that party, he would have kicked it home. Besides,’ I added, ‘it couldn’t have been Harvey. Albert knew Harvey. He would have recognized him.’
‘Hmmph,’ O’Reilly grunted. ‘Next time someone gives you some information, don’t assume they contacted us. You contact us. Got it.’
‘I will. I promise,’ I said, one eager hand on the knob. Having dodged yet another bullet, I was giddy for them to be gone. But before they could start down the stairs, Kozlowski stopped and uttered his first words of the evening.
‘Wait, Ron. I want to ask about the truck.’
The ball hit me from behind, and I fought not to stagger under the blow. There was no doubt in my mind which truck he was talking about. I cursed Kelly for betraying me. Clutching the doorknob tightly to steady my shaking hand, I stood there wondering if this was the end of life as I knew it.
‘Right.’ O’Reilly gave his partner a sideways glance that I was meant not to see. ‘You happen to know anyone from New Hampshire?’
Shit. I was caught. I was getting ready to come clean when I looked into O’Reilly’s face and saw a blank slate. Kozlowski wore a dumb look too. Were they playing me, or were they in the dark about my connection to Steven Kaufman? With my future hanging in the balance, I kept my face as opaque as theirs. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, somebody reported a suspicious white truck with New Hampshire plates near the Niebaum house last Friday,’ O’Reilly answered. His tone of voice told me he hated wasting his time.
‘No, I don’t recall ever meeting someone from New Hampshire,’ I volunteered. It was amazing how the lies just kept piling up.
The moment they left I ran into the bathroom and gave back the three bites of peanut butter sandwich. My torment was complete. What would happen if the police did connect Steven Kaufman to me that night? Could I be brought up on charges? Would it make the papers? I thought of Flynn and my parents and my total shame if that were to happen.
When my stomach had nothing left to give, I went into the bedroom. Clammy with sweat, I pulled the damp J.Crew dress over my head. As I wriggled out, I caught sight of my silhouette in the full-length mirror. After so many years of seeing the fat girl with mounds of swollen flesh, it was still hard to believe the slim figure with the concave stomach and lean legs belonged to me. An inexplicable impulse came over me, and I went back into the living room to retrieve the teddy Flynn’s mother had given me. I put it on and struck a slutty pose in front of the mirror. Seeing my nipples poking through the transparent material and the patch of curly auburn hair peeking from the cutaway bottom, made me feel incredibly sexy. I fantasized about being thrown onto the bed and being taken in wild, passionate love.
The problem was that in my fantasy, Flynn wasn’t doing the throwing. Or the love making.
My eyes travelled to the wicker wastebasket under my desk. It hadn’t been emptied for a week. I turned it over and started sorting through tissues and bits of paper until I found what I was looking for. A crumpled scrap with a number written on it. The number Steven Kaufman had written on my pad that morning. 708-925-1014. I picked up the phone and started to dial, stopping as I thought better of it. I waited a minute and dialed again, this time the entire number. The moment the phone started ringing I hung up. I had no idea why I placed the call and no idea what I would have said if we had connected.
I changed into some baggy sweats and called Flynn to cancel our dinner date, telling him that Natasha’s shower had left me exhausted. He sounded disappointed, but said he understood. I crawled into bed and fell fast asleep, sleeping soundly until a tremendous orgasm wakened me. I lay in the dark with my heart pounding wildly. I’d been dreaming and in my dream the carpenter had broken into my apartment and was standing over my bed.
‘Are you dangerous or are you here to make love to me?’ my dream-self demanded.
‘I’m dangerous,’ he said, tearing the covers from the bed and climbing on top of me.
It occurred to me that I was disappointed it had only been a dream. What in the hell is wrong with me, I asked my deeply conflicted self. I was split into three realities. One longed to see the carpenter again. One knew that to do so was not only wrong, it was rank stupidity. And then there was a disturbing third voice that told me I should be downright afraid of him.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Suzanne
The Sunday bells of Holy Name Cathedral carried forty floors to Suzanne’s apartment where she sa
t in her kitchen reading the Sunday New York Times. In a perfect world she would have already gone to the office, but an early morning call from Detective O’Reilly, asking if he and Detective Kozlowski could stop over, had temporarily derailed her plans. She’d phoned down to the weekend doorman to tell him that she was expecting visitors and returned to her newspaper. She was halfway through the Week in Review when the doorbell rang. She opened the door and was surprised to see Vince standing there instead of the cops. He was holding a hefty bouquet of tropical flowers in his right hand.
‘Vince, what are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I came downtown to check a job. You know, you should have the doorman call you before sending up your visitors, sweetheart. I could be some depraved maniac.’
‘He usually does. It’s just that I told him—’ Before she could say anything more, Vince silenced her by covering her mouth with his. He stepped into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. The flowers fell to the floor as he slipped a practiced hand beneath her cotton skirt and up her thigh, grabbing her by the right buttock.
She gasped aloud. ‘You are a depraved maniac.’
‘You turn me into one,’ he replied. He led her hand to the front of his trousers where his rigidness pushed madly against confinement, his excitement only serving to intensify hers. One minute earlier sex had been the furthest thing from her mind. Now it occupied it entirely.
Vince pulled sharply at her lacy bikini until it tore away. Moving slightly away from her to gain access to his zipper, he almost stumbled over the flowers. Kicking them aside, he freed himself from his pants and lifted her onto his erection with a groan, barely able to contain himself as he rocked her back and forth. ‘Oh, God,’ she uttered, holding onto him desperately, her feet stepping into empty air. He pulled up her blouse and then her bra, lowering his lips to her right nipple and circling it with his tongue. She moaned in contentment and pushed her body closer to his, trying to bring him in more deeply.
The world was only Vince and her and then it was just her and it was happening, that exquisite pleasure bordering pain, and she shrieked in ecstasy. He had reached that point too, and grunting like a rutting animal, he plunged even more deeply into her and emptied himself.
They remained motionless for seconds, both savoring the lingering pleasure, both gasping for air. Then he lowered her so her feet were once again touching the floor. His hands were resting on her butt, the two of them still trying to catch their breath, when her doorbell rang. Vince stared at her in astonishment.
‘You’re expecting someone?’
‘Oh, shit,’ she said, using language she seldom employed. ‘It’s the police. They want to talk about Angie.’ She quickly pulled her blouse down and straightened her skirt.
‘I’ll wait in the bedroom,’ Vince whispered, an impish smile on his face.
‘Here, take this with you.’ Suzanne picked up her torn bikini and tossed it at him. Vince held the delicate piece of material to his nose for a delicious moment and disappeared down the hall. The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time. Suzanne checked the peephole and saw O’Reilly and Kozlowski waiting in the hall. She smoothed her hair and opened the door.
‘Please forgive me. I was in the restroom,’ she said, hoping her clothes were all back in the right place.
‘Hope we’re not disturbing you,’ said O’Reilly.
‘I’ve said I’d do anything to be of help.’
She stepped aside to let them in. Kozlowski bent over and picked up the discarded bouquet from the floor. In her haste to make herself presentable, Suzanne had overlooked it. He handed it to her and she laid it on a table, offering no explanation of why it had been there. Was it her imagination, or did a knowing glance pass between the two men? She led them into the living room and they assumed the same seats as their previous visit, the men on the silk slipper chairs, Suzanne poised on the peach couch. The early morning light radiated through the Venetian glass vase, casting its colors onto the tabletop.
‘So you said on the phone, you’ve learned something new,’ said Suzanne.
‘That’s right,’ said O’Reilly. ‘For starters, we now know that after you dropped Angie off she went to a bar called The Zone and scored some coke.’
Suzanne pressed her eyes shut, plagued by the same doubts that had been tormenting her since the murder. If she’d gone into Angie’s house that night and put her in bed would she have stayed home? If she’d left Angie in The Overhang, would there have been a different outcome? There could never be a way of knowing. When she opened her eyes, both detectives were staring at her, O’Reilly with seeming impatience, Kozlowski in a more compassionate manner.
‘Angie was observed having a heated discussion with a man in The Zone, a tall man with dark curly hair,’ O’Reilly continued. ‘Do you have any idea who that might be?’
‘That could describe Harvey.’
‘We know it wasn’t Harvey. Could that description possibly fit Michael Niebaum?’
‘Michael Niebaum?’ Suzanne was stunned by the question. The notion that Carol Anne’s husband could be involved in Angie’s death was past impossible. ‘Michael is tall with dark hair, but there is no way he had anything to do with Angie’s death.’
‘It’s been suggested by one of your friends that Angie had a thing for other people’s husbands. Dr Niebaum was out that evening.’
‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Suzanne, wondering who could ever make such a suggestion. Then the image of Natasha flashed in her brain. She crossed her arms indignantly. ‘Angie never had an affair with anyone’s husband except her own. If anything, she was frigid. Furthermore, let me assure you, Michael Niebaum is a wonderful husband and father. There is no way he was having an affair with Angie. Not by a stretch.’
‘Hey, we’re just homicide cops, not the morality police. We’ve got to ask the tough questions.’
To Suzanne’s surprise, Kozlowski chimed in. The big man was so quiet, she sometimes doubted he had a voice. ‘Maybe you want to ask Ms Lundgren about the truck?’
O’Reilly was bugged by Kozlowski’s obsession with the white truck, but what the hell, Koz was his partner after all, and he realized it was in his best interest to humor the big guy. ‘You didn’t happen to notice any unusual vehicles parked on Mrs Niebaum’s street that night? Specifically a white truck with New Hampshire plates?’
‘No. I don’t recall a white truck. But why does New Hampshire ring a bell?’ She tweaked her memory, trying to remember where she had heard something about New Hampshire recently. It wasn’t like the state came up outside an election cycle. Then it dawned on her. ‘Oh, I know why New Hampshire rings a bell. There was a guy from New Hampshire in the Overhang that night.’
Ron O’Reilly sat back so hard he nearly tipped the chair over. Kozlowski moved in forward. ‘Could you describe him?’
Suzanne took an audible breath. ‘Now that you mention it, he was tall and he had dark curly hair. But as I recall he wore glasses.’
O’Reilly picked up the baton. ‘Gotta a name for him?’
‘I couldn’t tell you anything more about him. Maggie’s the one you should ask. She was the one talking to him. In fact, she was dancing with him when Angie and I left.’
O’Reilly’s face grew redder than ever as he digested this new information. He thought about the bride-to-be denying knowing anyone from New Hampshire just yesterday. He thought of how odd the blonde sitting across from him had been acting when they came in. He thought of the evasive manner in which Mrs Niebaum had answered some of their questions. Why did he feel like all these women were hiding something?
Suzanne saw them to the door, hoping they wouldn’t notice the wet spot on the back of her skirt or the cloudy white rivulet running down her leg. Then she went to join Vince in her room where he lay on the bed reading an article in Town and Country about the most romantic restaurants in Paris. He’d already made up his mind he was going to take Suzanne to the city of li
ght. First class. They would get a suite at the Ritz. He would order up some champagne and from there … well, he only hoped they got out to see the city a little bit.
‘Did they put your feet to the fire?’ he asked mockingly.
‘No, but I hope I haven’t made a lasting impression,’ she replied, taking off the damp skirt and tossing it onto the bathroom floor. She crawled onto the bed beside him, touching his cheek with her nose. ‘They asked a lot of odd questions though. About Carol Anne’s husband, for one. I think Natasha put it in their ear that Angie might have been having an affair with someone’s husband. But, aside from that being out of the question, I don’t know where they came up with Michael. Carol Anne and Michael have been joined at the hip since day one.’
Vince was barely listening to a word she was saying. The mere presence of a skirtless Suzanne next to him was enough to get him worked up again, the touch of her hand on his stomach electric. His appetite for her was relentless, like a bug bite that only stopped itching while it was being scratched. And when it wasn’t being scratched, it itched all the worse. More maddening was that he wanted more than her body. His feelings went deeper than mere animal desire. He wanted her in her entirety, body and soul, wanted to know that she would always be his.
‘And there was one other odd thing they asked about,’ she continued, her head resting on his chest in a way that she could hear the steady beating of his heart. ‘Supposedly there was a truck from New Hampshire parked on Carol Anne’s street the night of Maggie’s party. Crazy enough, Maggie was dancing with some guy from New Hampshire in the Overhang that night. Isn’t that a weird coincidence? I mean, how often do you meet someone from New Hampshire?’
Vince’s heart skipped a beat any a doctor would have noticed. Suzanne noticed it too, and she lifted her head and looked him in the face. He wore a pained expression, his lips drawn tightly together, his dark eyes fixed on her bedroom wall. ‘Vince, are you all right?’
The Last Night Out Page 17