by Lisa Unger
As Grady stepped further into the room, he heard glass crunching beneath his feet. He looked down to see a ruined photograph of Isabel and Marcus Raine. She had her arms wrapped around his neck, her head thrown back in laughter, while Marcus stared directly at the camera, his eyes serious, his smile just a slight turning up of the corners of his mouth. The frame had been stomped on, the glass directly over Isabel Raine’s face was smashed. But Marcus Raine’s face, somehow, was untouched.
Jesamyn came to stand beside him. “Wow,” she said, looking around the wreckage. “Someone’s angry.”
He gazed at Isabel’s smashed image. “Very,” he said. “Very angry.”
“So how’d they get in?”
They looked at each other.
“One of the doormen,” said Breslow, answering her own question, as they moved quickly from the apartment. Grady paused to lock the door behind him as Jez moved down the hall to call the elevator.
“The six P.M. to six A.M. guy hadn’t shown up yet when we arrived,” said Crowe as the doors shut and the elevator moved down the shaft. “That polish in the bathroom was still wet. They were here during Shane’s shift.”
“Twelve-hour shifts?” mused Breslow. “Is that legal?”
“I don’t know,” said Crowe. “I guess that’s the job. You do it or you don’t.”
“Who signs on for twelve hours of catering to rich people, letting in their maids, accepting packages, dry cleaning?”
“The doorman gig; it’s like a thing, you know. An identity. A history of service.”
“Service to the rich? No thanks.”
Crowe didn’t think their job was that different. Protect and serve. Not just the rich, no, but the rich always wound up getting the best service—the fastest response time, the most respect—didn’t they? Even from the cops. If your brother plays golf with the senator, then people care when your daughter gets raped or your wife mugged. In the projects, girls are raped, people robbed every day. It doesn’t make the news. Sometimes the uniforms don’t even show. When they do, their disdain, their apathy is apparent. Not always, but often enough. He worked the South Bronx for years; he knew how those guys felt about the perps, and the vics, too. Attitudes were very different in Midtown North, where the rich lived and worked.
Charlie Shane was gone when they arrived back in the lobby. His replacement was a skinny, disshelved-looking guy with a five o’clock shadow and an untended shrub of dirty-blond hair.
Crowe pulled out his notebook and flipped through a couple of pages to find the guy’s name. He wrote down everything in his notebook—details, thoughts, observations, questions. He figured it would come in handy one day when he wrote his novel. Until then it kept him sharp; writing down what people told him helped his recall. What he couldn’t recall was always there.
“Timothy Teaford?” he said as they approached.
“Yeah,” he said. He seemed even younger up close, and sleepier. Crowe noticed a tattoo snaking out of his cuff, looked like one of those tribal bands that were so popular these days. Crowe identified himself, explained the situation as Breslow made some more calls.
“That’s messed up,” Teaford said. “They’re nice people. Good tippers.”
“Late for work today?”
“I’ve been sick,” he said. “Missed my shift last night. Flu.”
Crowe felt Breslow shifting backward slightly. She was totally germphobic. “You don’t have kids,” she’d said when he first teased her about this. “Benjy gets a cold? That can trash two weeks—sleepless nights, ear infection if it doesn’t go away, trips to the doctor. A flu? Forget about it.”
“Can anyone confirm you were home last night?”
He shrugged. “My girlfriend brought me Taco Bell and we watched a movie. She spent the night.”
“So who covered your shift here?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I called in. I don’t know who he got to cover.”
“Who’s ‘he’?”
“Charlie Shane. He’s the supervisor.”
Grady looked back through his notes. Shane didn’t mention Teaford missing his shift, only that he’d been late this evening.
“Where is he now? Still in the building?”
“Actually, the weird thing is, he wasn’t here when I showed up. No one was. The door was locked and the desk was empty. One of the residents had to let me in.”
“Unusual behavior for him?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Teaford. “I swear that guy would put a cot in the office and live here if they’d let him.” He issued the sentence not with mockery but with a kind of youthful wonder, as if job dedication was something he just didn’t understand, something from another era, like dinosaurs. “Honestly, I can’t imagine him leaving the desk until someone showed up.”
“Did he leave a note?” Breslow asked. She’d ended her call with Dispatch and was poised to dial again.
Teaford shook his head. He really was a mess—his uniform wrinkled, some kind of old washed-in stain on his collar. Crowe could see a little yellow crust in his eye. But there was something sweet about him, something innocent and appealing.
“You got a way to reach him?” Crowe asked.
Teaford leaned down, squinted, and read a number that Crowe could see was taped on the desk. Jez dialed and waited. “Voice mail,” she said after a minute.
“Mr. Shane, this is NYPD Detective Jesamyn Breslow. You need to call us or return to the building immediately.” She left her number.
“All the time I been here, I never got voice mail on that number. He always answers,” Teaford said with a concerned frown. “You think he’s okay?”
Crowe wasn’t as worried about Shane’s well-being as he was about not having had an instinct about the guy, about one of them not staying down here while the other went up. Not that it would have been smart, or even protocol, for one of them to enter the apartment alone, especially considering what they found.
“I called for uniformed officers to go wait at Shane’s apartment in the unlikely event that he just went home,” said Jez. She was all action, no dwelling on mistakes or wasting time second-guessing. She just worked in the present tense. He’d read somewhere that this quality, the ability to operate in the framework of how things are, not how you wish they were or think they should be, was the factor that separated those who survived extreme circumstances from those who didn’t. He might have brooded for ten more minutes before doing what she’d already done.
She was at the elevator, clicking her pen vigorously on the palm of her hand, a very annoying nervous habit she had, as he finished getting Teaford’s girlfriend’s name, address, and phone number and telling him to stay put. Teaford looked scared when Crowe glanced back at him, but he didn’t look guilty, not to Crowe. But what did he know? He’d already made one mistake in judgment; it wasn’t so far-fetched that he’d make another.
“Stop fuming, Crowe,” Jez told him. “We couldn’t have known.” She’d stepped into the elevator and was holding the door.
“It’s our job to know.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s our job to find out”
He looked back at the doorman, who was now talking on his cell phone. “I’ll wait down here until the uniforms arrive.”
“Suit yourself.” She released the doors.
“Don’t touch anything until the techs get here,” he said. He saw her roll her eyes as the doors shut.
A minute later, he heard the approach of cruisers—this wasn’t an emergency call, but cops liked to turn on lights and sirens to get around fast, to have some fun in an otherwise slow precinct. He remembered the adrenaline rush of the car speeding through the city streets, especially at night. It was the coolest feeling in the world, as if everything else gave way while you raced into the fray. Sometimes they’d turn down their radios so they couldn’t hear when a chase had been called off, when they’d been ordered to let the perp—car thief, armed robber, whatever kind of scumbag—get away instead of ris
k civilian lives on the street with a car chase. They wanted to catch the skell they were pursuing; the adrenaline and testosterone racing through their systems demanded release, satisfaction. This was why so many car chases ended with the perp getting the crap kicked out of him. This was why the chases got called off.
His father frowned on this type of behavior. “The heroes are the guys that come home every night to their families,” he used to say, “who protect themselves and their partners so that they can live to be the men their wives and children need.”
Crowe heard the wisdom of this, but when you were doing eighty on Broadway, and the sirens were wailing, and some guy was bleeding out in a liquor store, shot by the punk trying to get away with it, you just forgot.
6
I woke up the next morning in my sister’s guest room. I wasn’t alone. Emily and the family dog, Brown, had both climbed into the queen-size bed and made themselves at home. Brown was on my feet, and Emily had spooned her narrow body up against me. I was glad for the company. Otherwise, the despair that swept over me in the moments after I opened my eyes might have washed me away entirely.
I had the dark thought that I wished that blow to the temple had killed me. It would have been easier than swimming the ocean of grief and fear and wonder that surely lay ahead. I squeezed Emily closer to me, drew in the scent of her shampoo.
The pain medication I took after the detective left the night before had successfully erased the questions he’d asked and their implications for the remainder of the evening. Now the physical pain had returned, and with it, his words. My agitation grew and, finally, I slipped from the bed. Emily didn’t stir but Brown lifted his sad Labrador eyes. He issued a grunt to let me know I’d disturbed him and then moved into the space I’d occupied before closing his eyes again. He was Emily’s dog; where she went, Brown followed.
I took off the pink flannel pajamas I was wearing—Linda’s “mommy pajamas”—unflatteringly baggy, ultra soft from a thousand washes, with some kind of indeterminate washed-in stain on the sleeve. I didn’t remember putting them on. I climbed into my clothes from yesterday, which were lying on the chair by the window, and quietly left the room. It was my plan to leave without waking anyone; otherwise, I knew they’d try to stop me and probably succeed. I needed to leave, get back to my own apartment, start trying to understand what was happening. But Erik was already up, drinking coffee at the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room.
Their home was a spacious loft, with high ceilings and tall windows. The morning sun, bright and warm, entered unabated by blinds. The room, decorated with simple, low furniture in bone and brown tones, large-format oils painted by my sister—a talented painter as well as a gifted photographer—on the walls, eclectic pieces of sculpture from their various travels, was once as clean and elegant as the interior of a museum. But they’d been invaded, their evolved sense of style sacked and pillaged by the smaller members of the family.
Trevor’s T-shirt was draped over the chaise. A tall pile of Emily’s books threatened to topple from the suede couch (which also sported a grape-juice stain that had never been successfully removed). There was a small stuffed chair shaped like a hippo and a video game system attached to the large flat screen, an unfinished game of Monopoly on the cocktail table. Brown’s doggy bed was covered with his hair. The stainless-steel refrigerator, visible from where I stood, was covered with drawings, magnets, pictures, and stickers.
I didn’t say anything to Erik, just moved over to my bag, which slouched by the door, checked to see if my keys and wallet were in there. It was then that I noticed my ring was gone. I stared at my naked hand, the indentation on my finger. How could I not have noticed it before? I looked up at my brother-in-law, who was watching me from the stool where he perched.
“Did you take it off at the hospital?”
He didn’t ask what I meant. “No,” he said gently. “It was gone when we first got to you. I’m sorry, Iz. Your sister realized right away. We just thought—why say anything until you noticed. Insult to injury.”
I saw her face again, the woman at Marc’s office—that pitying, disdainful expression. That bitch took my ring.
Erik had come over to me while he was talking. I let him put his arm around my shoulders and lead me over to the couch. As I sat down heavily, Emily’s pile of books softly tumbled to the floor. We let them lie. In the corner of the room a massive Christmas tree was a riot of ornaments and multicolored lights. Its manic twinkling was too much for my tired eyes.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to leave,” he said. I noticed purple circles under his eyes, an unfamiliar stiffness to his mouth.
“I have to go home, Erik,” I said. “I have to …” I let the sentence trail.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” I snapped. I wanted to rage but I managed to keep my voice low. I didn’t want to wake my sister; I didn’t want to look into her worried face. “Search the apartment? Look for clues? Find out what the hell happened to my husband?”
He nodded his understanding. “The police are working on that. You need to take care of yourself right now.” He tapped his temple, reminding me of the wound on my head. “Let us take care of you.”
I stood suddenly and moved back toward the door. He didn’t try to stop me; it wasn’t his style. He was the kind of guy who said his piece and then backed off, let people make their own decisions. He sank into the place where I had sat a moment earlier.
“There’s something, Izzy” he said as I was lifting my bag and reaching for the lock. He rubbed his eyes and released a breath. “I’ve been debating whether or not to tell you.”
I felt a thump of dread in my center. “What?”
He kept his head down for a second and then looked up, not at me but at a point above me. Something about his expression caused me to return to him, to sit kitty-corner from him in the chair. He’d been a brother to me since he fell in love with Linda. I loved him for that, for the father he was, and for the husband he was to my sister.
“I gave Marcus money. A lot of it.”
He was fair like Marcus, but with a boyish sweetness to him, a bright, open look to his face, where Marcus might seem stern. Marcus’s body was hard, no fat, sinewy. Erik’s body, while lean and toned, had a softness to it. His embrace was a comfort in a way that Marcus’s wasn’t. You could sink into Erik; he enfolded you. Marcus’s body held its boundaries, almost pushed you away. I noticed these things about my husband and my sister’s husband. Was I comparing them? Only in the way of the observer, defining things by their differences, seeking the telling details.
“I don’t understand,” I said. But I was starting to, slowly.
He cleared his throat and I noticed that his hands were shaking a little. “About a month ago, he came to me and said he needed investors. He had a new game in development and when it was finished it was going to revolutionize gaming, take things to a whole new level of realism.”
I shook my head slightly. I had no idea what he was talking about. Marcus had never mentioned anything like that to me.
“He showed me,” he said, pointing over to the flat screen mounted on the wall. “The graphics, they were … amazing. There’s no other word for it.” He kept his eyes on the screen as if he was still seeing the images there. “He said people in on the ground floor stood to double their investment, at least. He wanted Linda and me to benefit from that. I had no reason to doubt him, you know? He was family. His business was already a big success.”
“How much did you give him, Erik?” I said, reaching for his hand.
“A half a million,” he said, pulling his hand back and resting his head on it.
He knocked the wind out of me; I released a big rush of air. I thought about a recent conversation I’d had with my sister—about private-school tuition for Emily and Trevor, about building maintenance, taxes, health insurance, life insurance, car insurance, even the parking space for their car—how their cost of living
was so high it was painful, even though by most standards they were wealthy people. She said it was crushing her. That was the word she used: crushing.
“You guys don’t have that kind of money do you?” I asked. “Just five hundred K lying around?”
“Uh, no,” he said. “We don’t.” He swept his arm to indicate the space around us. “We do okay, but it’s not like that. I borrowed against the loft.”
My sister was not a financial risk taker. She’d paid off the loft years earlier, after her first major gallery show, and the property had steadily been growing in value ever since. My sister was more successful than most, but an artist’s income was unpredictable year to year. That loft was her security blanket, her “lifeboat,” she called it. It had appreciated wildly over the last decade and was worth a fortune. If everything went to hell financially, they could sell it and live off the money for a good long time. She needed that kind of security to be happy, to feel like a good mom. She needed to know that she’d always be able to provide for Trevor and Emily. I knew all the reasons why this was so critical to her mental well-being—and so did Erik.
“Linda would never agree to that,” I said.
The color had drained from his face and he’d pressed his mouth into a thin line. Then I understood.
“She doesn’t know?” I said.
“You know how Linda is,” he said, hanging his head. “She doesn’t like to talk about money.”
“You did this without talking to her?”
He lifted a hand. “It was supposed to be short term, Izzy” he said. He stood up and walked over to one of the tall windows. I glanced uneasily at the door to their bedroom, imagining that I saw Linda there, her hair tousled, her eyes bleary with sleep. What are you guys talking about? But the door was firmly closed. He went on, talking so softly that I could barely hear him.
“In two months, Marc said, they’d make the sale, the biggest in the history of Razor Tech. They’d had early interest from two of the big game companies; he expected a bidding war. I’d have my principal investment back plus five hundred thousand more, at least. I’d pay off the loan on the loft and put the rest in the bank. Then we’d have that; she’d have the security she needs. She’d never have to worry again. That’s what I was thinking.”