Sid had explained that the room where he dissected the dead was cleaner than almost any four-star restaurant in the world. He could see disbelief, even when they said the obligatory and sophisticated “I know.” Sid didn’t explain much or often anymore.
Something itched, not physically, mentally. It was like trying to remember the name of a character in a favorite novel. There were several ways of dealing with it. Go back to the novel and find the name. Use some trick of the memory to locate the source of the itch and scratch it.
The microwave ticked behind him. Sid checked the oven timer. Perfect. Turbot in the oven. Chive and crushed cauliflower in the microwave. An inexpensive California white wine barely chilling in the refrigerator.
What was bothering him?
One of the bodies.
He stood over the sink holding the garlic press in his hand. Patricia Mycrant. It came to him suddenly. Not words, but a faint smell wafting in the alcoholic miasma of the autopsy room and then a vision.
Three minutes to go. He would wait, take the fish from the oven, put the chervil and garlic away, refrigerate the cauliflower and chives and have a late dinner, maybe a very late dinner.
The wine would be too cold. He removed it from the refrigerator and placed it on the counter.
Twenty minutes later he was back among the dead.
Flack knocked at her door.
Less than an hour ago he had been lying on his sofa, shoes off, fully clothed watching a Rockies/ Cubs game. He wasn’t much interested in either team, but it was better than no game and it distracted him from the discomfort in his chest. He knew he couldn’t concentrate on a movie or a series or read a book. He was hurting. He admitted it to himself, but no one else. He had come back from the trauma and surgery with rehab and rest, but on long days like this one, the aching, particularly in his chest, jarred him into memory.
When his phone rang, he was lying motionlessly, right arm across his eyes. He should get up and eat, maybe take a shower or bath, get some sleep, probably on the floor rather than his bed after taking one of his pain pills. It felt better to be on his back on the floor, though getting up in the morning was a series of challenges and pain.
The phone call had gotten him up and moving. Distraction was almost as good as sleep.
He knocked at the door again.
“Who is there?” came the voice.
“Detective Flack,” he said.
“I’m not prepared for visitors,” she said. “I’ve just bathed.”
“Police business,” he said.
Gladys Mycrant opened the door. She was wearing a black silk robe with colorful red and yellow flowers. Her hair was down and she wore makeup. Flack wondered if the makeup might be the tattooed kind.
“Yes?” she said, examining him and making it clear from her look that he came up short in her estimation.
“May I come in?”
“If you must.”
She stepped back, hand holding her robe closed at the breast. He entered and she closed the door.
“When am I getting Patricia’s body?” she said. “I want to give her a decent burial. It’s awful to think of her, the way she is, in some cold police mausoleum.
“The medical examiner had to complete another examination and run some tests.”
“Tests?”
She sat in an armchair, legs crossed, bouncing impatiently.
“According to the medical examiner, your daughter’s body is slightly yellow.”
“Jaundice. Patricia drank. I told her what it would do to her liver, what it had done to her father’s liver. Detective, I have a vivid imagination that helps me in my business but hampers me in my thoughts. I’d rather not think of my daughter as she is now.”
“She was being poisoned,” said Flack, looking down at her.
He didn’t want to sit. His back told him not to. She was watching him. He knew she would see him wince, even if it were slight, when he tried to get out of a chair.
“Poisoned?”
“Arsenic,” said Flack. “The ME found it in her nails, skin.”
“ME?”
“Medical examiner.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “Something in the water? The walls? Am I poisoned too?”
“I doubt it, but we can check. She was dying from chronic arsenic poisoning,” he said. “Slow.”
She was silent now, biting her lower lip, thinking.
“You have plants?”
“Plants? In the house? No.”
“You do on the roof.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll check the soil for arsenic.”
“She spent too much time with those plants, tending them. I shouldn’t have—”
“You told me she didn’t like to go on the roof, remember?”
“Did I? Yes, that’s true, but she did enjoy the plants.”
“We’ll check your supplies for prints. You have arsenic?”
“No,” she said indignantly. “Why would I have arsenic?”
“It’s used for plant care,” he said. “Mind if we look at your supplies?”
“I don’t—”
“Gladys,” he said gently. “Enough.”
Her head was down. She wept into her silk robe.
“Patricia didn’t die from arsenic poisoning,” she said. “She was murdered by that maniac.”
“But you were killing her slowly.”
She nodded.
“She hadn’t changed, wasn’t changing. That group was doing nothing for her. I could tell by what she said, watched, listened to, the way she looked at children on the street. Bad genes. I’ve always attributed it to bad genes from her father’s side. Nothing you can do to help someone with bad genes.”
“So you were killing her.”
“Softly,” she said looking up. “Very softly. She was my daughter. But I didn’t kill her, did I?”
“No.”
“So you can’t arrest me.”
“The district attorney’s office says that I can. I’m calling it attempted murder for the record, but they can straighten it out when you get there.”
He read her her rights and told her he would wait while she dressed and called a lawyer. Gladys got out of the chair slowly and looked at him.
“You understand, don’t you? You understand why I had to do it?”
“Doesn’t matter what I understand,” he said, but that was a lie. It mattered to Flack. It mattered very much.
17
Three Days Later
DEXTER THE UMBRELLA MAN was now Dexter the Sunblock and Sunglasses Man. It hadn’t rained in three days. He was a man who moved with the tides and the weather. He set up his table on Sixth Avenue, a block from Rockefeller Center in front of a McDonald’s. Well, not right in front, but a few feet to the side.
The table folded with two quick moves and became a box with a handle. The box was filled with #45 Sol Ray Lotion whose label said it was made in Brazil, and with Protecto-Vision Sun Glasses, dark wrap-arounds with little stickers on the side that also read “Made in Brazil.”
Both products, Dexter knew, were made in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Business wasn’t bad.
He kept watching the sky. No clouds. If it rained, he was prepared to fold up his box and go into McDonald’s and eat dollar burgers and Cokes till it passed. Dexter was not going to duck under any awnings, not again, not ever. You never knew what might come through an awning.
Waclaw Havel finished packing.
He had made it through his son’s funeral, held the hands of his grandchildren, comforted his daughter-in-law and grieved with them and the friends who had shown up at the church and the grave site.
The night before they buried Alvin, Waclaw had worried that the ground would be too wet, that they would be up to their ankles in mud and water and that the coffin would be lowered into a pond.
But it had been reasonably dry. No one had mentioned what had happened to Alvin. No one would mention what Alvin had done to bring it on himself.
The children would grow up. They would find out, but maybe not until they were adults or nearly so.
Anne was going to move as soon as she sold the house, move back to Milwaukee where her parents and family lived and where she had grown up. No one from Anne’s family had come to New York for the funeral. No one in Milwaukee wanted any connection to the man who had married Anne and brought shame and headlines in the New York Post.
Waclaw pushed the latch of his one suitcase and checked to see that it wasn’t loose. Anne and the children were driving him to JFK. He would be back in Poland the next day. In Poland they would know nothing of Alvin’s death and he planned to tell them a lie about that. Alvin will have met a terrible fate at the hands of a thwarted thief on the streets of the mythical and dangerous city.
“Ready?” asked Anne, standing in the doorway.
Waclaw nodded.
“You can stay. You don’t have to leave. You understand?”
He understood. There was nowhere to stay. He would be part of the past for her, for the children. He could not go with them to Milwaukee. He didn’t want to go there.
He shook his head. He was ready.
Anne had given him photographs for his wallet, photographs of the children, herself and Alvin. He smiled. He smiled because he knew what he would remember, knew the tale he would tell to his family. He would tell them of the rain. He would tell them how he had floated on his back on a river. He would tell them how he had been rescued by a wild man wearing a plastic garbage bag.
They might even believe him.
Ellen Janecek was grateful. She really was. They had stopped Keith Yunkin. They had rescued Jeffrey. The sun was shining. She was grateful, but she wasn’t happy. They wouldn’t let her see Jeffrey. They didn’t understand. Paul Sunderland had understood. It was simple, but every time she explained it to almost anyone she was met with patient or exasperated looks that made it clear they thought she was either a criminal or a crackpot.
Mac Taylor had told her that Jeffrey and his family were moving out of New York and that there was a court order for her to stay away from them. They had given Ellen court orders before. She had ignored them. They didn’t understand. She was hurting no one. There was no victim. She would find him.
Jeffrey’s mother had a younger sister who headed maid services at a big hotel in St. Louis. The sister offered Jeffrey’s mother a job at almost twice the pay she was now getting. An apartment was also available at half of what she was now paying. St. Louis sounded good to her.
It didn’t sound good to Jeffrey. He would be half a continent away from Ellen. He would move with his mother. He would enroll in school. He would do whatever he was supposed to do, even get an after-school job. He would do it till he had enough money saved and whatever he could steal from his mother’s purse to get back to New York.
The law was stupid, but Jeffrey had learned that he could not argue with a law that said he should not be with a beautiful, smart woman who wanted him.
Ellen looked out of her apartment window, a cup of coffee in her hand. She smiled, cupping the coffee in two hands, looking at the flower shop across the street.
Stella almost didn’t recognize him.
The bar was crowded, noisy. Devlin had again volunteered to pick her up at her apartment. Stella had again said she would meet him. No men in her apartment. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She had more than bad memories of the last man who had been with her in that apartment. He had attacked her, tried to rape and kill her, but it was she who had killed him. She should have moved, but Stella was determined not to be driven out by memories. However, no men in or near the apartment.
He was sitting at a very tiny round table in the rear of the crowded bar. She saw him looking at her. He cleaned up remarkably well. She had thought he was handsome in his uniform and soot-covered face. Across the room, smiling at her, he had calendar looks.
She made her way through the crowd, avoiding hands holding glasses, bodies leaning over to whisper and listen. She was wearing one of her two all-purpose black dresses. No come on. No keep your distance. This would be drinks, talk, that’s it.
“Right on time,” Devlin said, standing to greet her.
She smiled and sat down across from him. He motioned for a waitress who, in spite of the crowd, responded immediately and started for the table. Devlin was, Stella could see, the kind of man to whom waitresses paid attention.
The waitress stood next to the table. Devlin looked at Stella, who said, “Amstel Light.”
The waitress looked at Devlin, who held up his empty glass. She nodded, smiled and began to navigate her way back to the bar.
“You look great,” he said, having to lean forward to be heard.
“You too. We both look great. Now to the hard part,” Stella said. “What, if anything, do we have in common?”
“I save lives,” he said. “You find people who take lives.”
“That’s a start,” she said. “What do you know about me besides that I look good in a black dress?”
“You’re smart.”
“And?”
“You’ve seen some bad things.”
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“I see the same look in my eyes when I stand in front of the mirror at night and in the morning. What do you know about me?” Devlin asked.
“You don’t want me to know how you hurt your wrist.”
“You can’t see my wrist,” he said, tugging self-consciously at his right sleeve.
“I can see how you’re holding your hand and I saw your wrist when you lifted your glass.”
“Fire last night,” he said. “A woman bit my wrist when I pulled her out of a burning room. Teeth marks still show. What else?”
“You don’t usually dress like this, jacket, tie. The jacket has a white powder residue on the left shoulder. You’ve had it in a storage bag for a long time. And the tie is either the only one you own, your favorite tie or your lucky tie, or all three. It doesn’t match the jacket and slacks and you’d be especially careful to make it match tonight if you could.”
“So?”
“You want to impress me,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“So am I. You always do this Sherlock Holmes business with men on a first date?”
“It’s what I do all day long,” she said. “Can’t help it. Comes with the job.”
The waitress delivered the beer for Stella and a fresh mug for Devlin.
“Anything else?” the waitress asked, looking at Devlin.
“Not now,” he said. “Thanks.”
The waitress left. Devlin held up his glass. Stella did the same with her Amstel. Glass and bottle clinked and Devlin looked up and shook his head.
“You all right?” asked Stella.
He reached into his pocket and came up with a cell phone. He cupped his left ear and held the phone up to his right ear.
“Yeah? What about Walt? No. It’s okay.” He looked at Stella. “I’ll be there. Just roll.”
He put the phone back in his pocket.
“Fire at St. Andrew’s Church,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be on tonight, but the other senior is sick. Sorry.”
“I understand,” said Stella.
And she did. The cell phone in the purse slung over her shoulder was set on vibrate. It had been pulsing for the past minute.
He stood.
“Go on,” she said. “We’ll give tonight a rain check.”
“No more rain,” he said. “A heat check maybe.”
He leaned over, touched her hand and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“I’ll call,” he said.
“I’ll answer,” she said with a smile.
He left and Stella took out her own cell phone and saw that it was Hawkes who had called. She punched the right button and he answered.
“Hawkes, what’s up?”
“Cheswith, the actor. He hanged himself. I was going to wait till tomorrow to tell you but—”
“No,” sh
e said. “That’s fine.”
“I liked the guy,” admitted Hawkes.
“I know,” she said. “So did I. Crime scene?”
“Holding cell. I’m on it.”
“You want me to meet you there?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll take it. I just thought you’d want to know.”
He hung up. So did she. The waitress came with the check. Stella paid it.
Danny missed a layup. He missed because he had been fouled by someone named Jorge who hit Danny in the face, knocking off his sports glasses. Danny got up and said, “Foul.” It was a pickup game, five on five at St. Paul’s gym. You called your own fouls. Your team held the court as long as it kept winning the eleven-basket game.
“Bullshit,” said Jorge.
They were in each other’s faces now. Jorge’s team was afraid of Jorge, who had a temper. Danny had seen the temper explode before. He didn’t like playing against or with Jorge.
“No fuckin’ foul, pussy,” said Jorge.
Danny’s teammates, including his friend Vince, who played like a lunatic, moved in to back Danny.
Danny was in a very dark mood. He had arrested Karen Reynolds. No, he and Lindsay had arrested her. The tall, blond young woman with great strong legs and an air of confidence had suddenly turned into a frightened girl. She had started to fall. Lindsay had caught her.
Karen Reynolds had looked up at both of them, tears streaming, face red.
“I didn’t mean…He touched me…. Really, I tried to tell him…. I knew Bill was in the closet…. I tried to tell Mr. Havel, tell him to leave me alone…. He said he’d think about it…. Think about it…I…He grabbed me…. There in the classroom…I just…I did it. Please…my mother…”
Danny had wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t his job to help people who committed murder. He had done his job and done it well, but he still felt frustrated, darkened. And now Jorge was in his face, Jorge, under whose fingernails were small but clear traces of cocaine. Jorge was bigger than Danny. Jorge had a weight-lifter’s body. Jorge was angry with the world and ready for battle.
“Back off or get busted,” said Danny.
Deluge (CSI: NY) Page 20