Forgotten City

by Carrie Smith

  Muñoz had ignored the comment, but then Blackstone leaned on the edge of his desk. “Are you giving me the silent treatment? Have I offended you?” His voice was dripping with mock sympathy. “Oh, you’re just so sensitive, Muñoz. What’s the matter? Is it that I’m not your type?”

  Muñoz parked his feelings about Blackstone when Codella arrived five minutes later. Those feelings, he knew, were a ball of hard hatred he would have to dissolve if he was ever going to feel immune to the taunts, but he couldn’t do it now. One of the waitresses Muñoz and Codella knew well took their order. Muñoz asked for an extra-thick vanilla shake, and Codella ordered tea and key lime pie. “He’s eating at least half of it,” she told the waitress.

  Blackstone was right about one thing, Muñoz thought. He’d do almost anything for Codella, including eating half of her key lime pie. She was a better cop than Blackstone would ever be, and she had helped him when no one else would make the effort. On the Sanchez case, she had given him the chance to prove himself—and he had. And, he supposed, Marty Blackstone couldn’t stand that.

  Now he pulled out a small spiral notebook. “Ready for the Thomas Merchant saga?”

  “Something tells me it’s an interesting one.” Codella leaned on the small marble-topped table.

  He flipped to a page filled with notes. “Forbes put his wealth at three to four billion last year. I’d be happy with one percent of that. How about you?”

  She shrugged. “I’d like to renovate my kitchen, but that’s not going to happen any time soon.”

  “He’s been chairman of BNA for eight years. Investors love him. But he’s not very popular with the populists. In fact, he was summoned to Washington on Monday to testify about his high compensation. His base salary is ten million, but that’s the tip of the iceberg. He gets a lot of stock options and bonuses. Apparently he makes four hundred times what the average BNA employee makes. The media is all over him right now.”

  “I know. It’s a big show for the masses,” Codella said. “But it won’t change anything and he knows it.”

  “I’d feel like a prick if that were me.”

  “Which is why you’re sitting here.” She smiled. “What about his personal life?”

  “Lucy Merchant is the third wife.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “The first one was Eleanor Cutliff. She was from a wealthy Chapel Hill family.”

  “Old tobacco money?”

  He nodded. “They married in 1980, and Merchant went to work for the father’s hedge fund. He was twenty-five at the time and she was thirty-three.”

  “So he liked older women back then.”

  “Or he just liked them rich,” suggested Muñoz. “Eleanor died two years later in a car crash. She left him a whopping inheritance. Her trust had matured when she was thirty-five.”

  “Sounds a little convenient.”

  Muñoz paused while the waitress set Codella’s tea and his vanilla shake on the small table.

  “I know,” Muñoz said when the waitress was gone, “except that Merchant wasn’t in the car when it happened. She was alone on a two-lane road, and the driver of the other car was grossly intoxicated.”

  The waitress returned and slid the key lime pie between them.

  “Who was the second wife?”

  “A popular Live at Five news anchor in the 1980s. Samantha Harris. They married four years after the first wife’s accident.” Muñoz checked his notes. “In 1987.”

  “Did she die, too?”

  “No, they divorced after just a year.”

  “I bet she’d have some interesting insights.”

  “She moved to Chicago. She runs a popular syndicated talk show there.”

  “And Merchant moved from the D-list to the A-list by marrying Lucy Martinelli.” Codella pushed a fork toward Muñoz. “Help me with this pie. I’m just going to have one bite.”

  He picked up his fork and speared the thickest part of the graham cracker crust. It occurred to him that he and Codella were like brother and sister; they didn’t think twice about swapping germs. “He’s been married to Lucy Merchant for almost twenty years.”

  “Happily, do you think?”

  Muñoz leaned in and speared more pie. “Interestingly, his name came up in a complaint filed three years ago at Midtown. A woman named Jackie Freimor claimed he sexually assaulted her.”

  Codella lowered her fork.

  “But the complaint was dropped the next day and there isn’t much information. The cop who took her complaint left the NYPD last year.”

  “I want the details,” said Codella. “Track down that woman.”

  Muñoz nodded.

  Codella lifted her fork for a second bite of pie. “What about his relationship to the daughter—Julia?”

  Muñoz flipped to another page in his notebook. “They had a big fight at the Four Seasons just after Lucy Merchant went to Park Manor. It was on Page Six.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I don’t know. But I can tell you this: The daughter’s a party girl. Goes to a lot of clubs. Vacations in Park City every winter. Last January she was out there and she wiped out on a slope and hit a tree. Fractured three vertebrae. Merchant hired a private jet to fly her back to New York for surgery at the Hospital for Special Surgery.”

  Codella sat back. “Only the best care for his little girl?”

  “I wish I had more for you. He’s had the same secretary for the past twenty-three years. She goes where he goes. Roberta Ruffalo. People call her his last line of defense.”

  “Well,” said Codella, “let’s see if I can get through her.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Merchant watched Baiba’s sleepy smile wither the instant she saw him. She started to shut the door, but he stopped it with his hand. “We need to talk. It’s important.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.” She pushed against the door.

  He exerted an equal and opposing force. Now was not the time to overpower her. “You don’t understand, Baiba. I—”

  “I understand perfectly. You put something into that drink. You took advantage of me. I don’t even know how I got home. And my neck—my body—now let go of my door.”

  He did not let go. He watched Baiba’s delicate hand touch the scarf she had coiled around her neck, and he remembered his fingers around her neck last night. Just thinking about it made him want to fuck her again. With his free hand, he held up the small robin’s-egg blue bag. “I brought you something.”

  “I don’t want any more of your gifts.”

  But he saw her study the bag. She would know that the small box inside the bag held a gift more expensive than any of his previous offerings, and she would want to know how much he had been willing to spend to secure her “forgiveness” for last night. He knew the rules of the game he played. If you took, you had to give in return. “Go on.” He smiled. “Open it. I think you’re going to like it.”

  Still Baiba did not budge. She was playing her part, he thought. She didn’t want to appear too willing to capitulate. She wanted his moment of submission to last a little longer. Right now, she would be relishing his supplication. Well, let her enjoy it, he thought. He wasn’t worried. Sooner or later she would look in the box. Women always opened the box. “I hope you like it,” he whispered.

  And true to his prediction, she took the bag from him. She reached inside, brought out the small, ribboned box, and then, in a fluid continuation of motion, she cocked her arm up and over her shoulder and pitched the box like a fastball. It narrowly missed his head and landed on the stairwell. “That’s how much I like it.”

  Merchant turned to look behind him. The dented Tiffany box lay on its side against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Her little outburst made him want to drag her to the bed right now and spank—no, throttle—her, but now was not the time to punish her. Instead, he smirked appreciatively. “You just threw away five and a half karats.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want you
r payoff.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “You’re paying me off. You don’t think I know what these gifts are all about?” She glared. “You want to keep me quiet. You think I don’t know that? Well, guess what? I sold the last one. I cashed it in on Forty-Seventh Street for three thousand dollars.”

  His anger coagulated into cold fury at himself. Not only had he overestimated Baiba’s sexual gameness, but he had underestimated her vindictiveness. He stared at the box and considered his next step. If he went to retrieve the box, she would probably slam her door on him. If, on the other hand, he entered her apartment, leaving the box where it was, someone might pocket a twenty-five thousand dollar pair of earrings. He shrugged. You didn’t close deals with hesitation. He counted to three and pressed his weight into the door so suddenly that Baiba lost balance. As she stepped back to regain her footing, he moved inside and bolted the door behind him. “Let’s talk. Just talk.” He spoke calmly.

  “I want you out.”

  “No you don’t.” He smiled. She liked his smile, he knew. He had felt her staring at his mouth that first night at the Four Seasons. She had wanted to kiss him even before they’d had wine. “But you’re very angry with me,” he added. “You probably want to hit me. Go ahead. I understand how you feel. I was wrong. I just wanted you so much, Baiba. It’s hard to control myself with you. I went a little too far.”

  “A little?”

  “I went too far.” He held her deep blue eyes. A rush of blood was making him stiff. He saw her notice his erection. “No other woman has ever made me feel like this, Baiba. No one. Ever.” Her arms were crossed, but he felt her resolve start to waver. “And I want to hear everything you have to say to me, Baiba.” Wooing her back after such an egregious violation was an irresistible challenge. He made his voice sound perfectly sincere and convincing. The words he spoke didn’t matter; it was all in the delivery. Baiba wanted to believe he cared about her. She was looking for the evidence. He just had to give it to her. He moved over to the small round table near her tiny pass-through kitchen, took off his gray suit jacket—no sense getting that wrinkled—and hung it on the back of a chair. “May I sit?” But he didn’t wait for her answer.

  She uncrossed her arms and moved them to her hips. “I have nothing to say to you.” But he could hear her inner thoughts. Make me feel better. Tell me I’m special to you. Be the daddy I never had.

  “You make me crazy when you’re angry,” he said. “I want you so much right now. I want you to sit on my lap.”

  She looked uncertain. “I think you should leave.”

  And then he called in the big guns. “I can’t leave you, Baiba. I’m in love with you.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Brandon punched in the five-digit Nostalgia Neighborhood code and went straight to the caregivers’ room. He stuffed his backpack into one of the small lockers and sat on the couch. His shift didn’t start for another hour. Should he go down to Ms. Hodges’s office, he wondered, and demand to know what was going on? But why bother? She’d tell him lies just like Baiba had.

  Maybelle entered the room and frowned. “What you doing here, Brandon?” She peeled out of her black wool coat.

  “Baiba was shorthanded,” he lied. “She asked me to come back—just until she finds a replacement.”

  “Hmmph. Well, I wouldn’t do it if I was you. Not after Queen Hodges treat you that way yesterday.” Maybelle plopped her substantial weight onto the next cushion. “I s’pose you hear the news?”

  “What news?”

  “A detective come today and look all around Lucy’s suite. Josie tell me just now. She got it from one of the day girls. Chanelle. You not hear about it?”

  Brandon shook his head. “What happened?”

  “Nobody know for sure.” Maybelle tugged off the shiny black Steve Madden boots she’d bought back in November. Sixty percent off at Kings Plaza, she had told him proudly the first time she’d worn them to work.

  Josie came into the room as Maybelle leaned forward to put the boots into her locker. Josie’s eyes met Brandon’s and she said, “I thought I seen the last of you.”

  Brandon felt his hatred for her rise in his throat, but he said nothing.

  Maybelle sat up and removed one of her big hoop earrings. “Brandon not hear about the police, Josie. Tell him what you know.”

  “I don’t know nothing much.” Josie snarled. “Only that some detective woman come here and look around. Supposedly she and Hodges go looking through the garbage.”

  “The garbage?” repeated Maybelle. “Why?”

  “Nobody know,” Josie answered.

  Brandon watched Maybelle remove her second earring and set the pair at the bottom of her locker. He looked discreetly away as she pulled off her tight sweater and swapped it for a loose-fitting Park Manor polo shirt. Unlike him, Maybelle would never be caught dead wearing her uniform on the street.

  Josie continued, “But I do know from Chanelle that the cop go into the dispensary and make Lorena answer all kind of questions.”

  “What questions?” asked Brandon.

  “She not tell me.” Josie opened a locker. Then she pointed toward the door and said, “Now get out of here. If you’re a man, as you say, then you can’t be watching me dress. Now go on.”

  Brandon stepped out of the caregivers’ room. In the parlor, Beauty and the Beast was playing on the large flat-screen television over the fireplace mantle. A puffed-up, hypermasculine Gaston filled the screen. Brandon turned away, walked to the kitchen, and got himself a glass of water. Then he leaned against the long granite counter and thought about Baiba’s words. Tell anybody who asks that you gave Lucy water in that cup. The memory triggered an electrical surge that traveled the length of his spine and made him slam down his glass. “Oh my God.”

  He rushed down the hall to Lucy’s suite. He stared at the locked door while he replayed the events of Sunday night. He had followed Cheryl O’Brien into Lucy’s bedroom at ten fifteen. They’d walked to the far side of her bed near the window and then Cheryl had handed him the medicine cup. He had lifted it to eye level—he was absolutely certain of this—and read Lucy’s name on the cup. It was her cup and it held the same yellowish liquid she drank every night.

  Lucy had been sitting on the edge of the bed, and he’d turned to her and smiled. “Okay, Lucy,” he remembered saying. “Let’s have a little drink.” Then he pretended to drink from the cup. “Mmmmm. It’s good. Have some, Lucy.”

  “Mmmmm.” Lucy echoed him. “Mmmmm.” It was a game they always played. And then, as he raised the cup to her mouth, her lips parted and she sipped agreeably. But after the first sip, she jerked her head back, squeezed her eyelids shut, and pressed her lips together in a sour expression. Then she slapped his hand so forcefully that a little of the diazepam spilled out.

  Now Brandon leaned one shoulder against the wall where Lucy’s nameplate had been removed. He punched his fist against the solid plaster and felt the pain throb in his knuckles as a hideous recognition dawned on him. Something bad was in that cup, and Lucy had tried to tell him about it. He had interpreted her nonverbal communication as an inconvenient symptom of her dementia, when in fact it had been the remnants of cognition. He closed his eyes and saw her sour face again. She might be alive right now if he’d paid more attention. He had let her down.

  Dr. Evelyn Bruce rounded the corner in her white lab coat and shook her index finger at him. “You’re needed in the ICU right now, Nurse!” Evelyn’s bushy eyebrows made her look wild and severe.

  “Yes, Dr. Bruce. I’m going now,” Brandon assured her gently. He wondered if Evelyn had used this same condescending tone with the nurses at Sloan Kettering decades ago when she was a pioneering female surgeon. If he had worked for her then, he might have been offended by her high-handedness, but now he just felt sorry for her. She was stuck in a surreal Grey’s Anatomy version of reality she would never get out of.

  He watched her disappear into Arthur Lane’s suite. Seconds l
ater, Melissa Posen, Baiba’s assistant care coordinator, followed her in, and Brandon heard Melissa gently saying, “You’ve already checked this patient’s vitals, Doctor. He needs his rest now.”

  Brandon closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into his temples to help him think more clearly. If something other than diazepam was in Lucy’s cup on Sunday night, how had it gotten there? Had Cheryl accidentally filled the cup with someone else’s medicine? Was it conceivable that she had purposefully poured in the wrong medication? When she’d handed him the cup, had she deliberately weaponized him without his knowledge?

  He shook his head. No. She wasn’t capable of that. She had no reason to do that. But if she hadn’t done it, who had? And then Brandon’s mind called up an image of Baiba asleep on her pullout bed.

  His heart pounded and he felt lightheaded. He returned to the caregivers’ room. Maybelle and Josie were no longer there, thank God, and he grabbed his backpack, punched the combination code to let himself out of Nostalgia, and left Park Manor.

  Madison Avenue was crowded with Upper East Siders returning home for the evening. Even after six inches of snow last night, the sidewalks in this zip code were perfectly clear. Brandon turned south. As he approached Seventy-Ninth Street, a woman with a newly groomed standard poodle charged directly at him, and he veered to avoid a collision. He turned to stare at the woman’s back as she continued uptown. In her eyes, he realized, he wasn’t even there.