Over My Live Body

by Susan Israel

  I’m more awake all of a sudden, and it enters my mind that this is the last thing I want.

  “I came over tonight. Your buttinsky neighbor said you weren’t home.”

  “That’s right,” I mumble, “I wasn’t.”

  “I saw someone following you back to the school this afternoon,” Ivan says. “He came out of the park after you finished talking to that cop and followed you practically right up to the front door.”

  “Did he go in?”

  “No.”

  “And where were you all this time?”

  “Following you,” he confesses. “He looked like a bouncer. Big hulk of a guy, he was wearing a baseball cap…”

  I hoist myself up on my elbows. “Blue baseball cap.”

  “This the same guy who came in the school and left you the note?” Ivan pauses. “I brushed by him, bumped into him. I thought maybe he’d say something and I’d recognize his voice from the phone calls.”

  “Did he? Did you?”

  “No. Delilah, this guy’s stalking you.”

  “So are you.”

  “I’m worried about you. This guy thinks he’s got a grasp on you. He’s crazy.”

  “You had a good grasp on me earlier today. I have bruises on my arm where you grabbed me…”

  “You’re pretty thin-skinned. I wasn’t holding you that hard.”

  “The cop you saw me talking to seemed to think you were when I showed him.” I look down at my unblemished arms wondering if, like Pinocchio, telling a lie will alter me and make an indelible bruise materialize.

  “What was the point of that? You’ve got this guy chasing after you, calling at all hours, leaving you notes…”

  “Like you’re not?”

  “…who’s nuttier than a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and you’re complaining to the cops about me?”

  “You’re the one whose imprint I’ve got under my skin. Damn it, Ivan,” I’m trying hard to keep the tears out of my voice, “you’re the one I’m getting a protective order against.”

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It’s just a piece of paper, Delilah. If I did mean to do you harm, which I don’t, a piece of paper wouldn’t keep me away or anyone else who wanted to hurt you. A loaded gun might, but I’m not saying that’s the way to go either. Not in this city. Remember that subway vigilante guy,” he pauses. “And remember if you do go out and get an order of protection against me and you have me picked up if I violate it, I won’t be around to keep an eye on you if this other guy comes after you. What are you going to do about that? Get another protective order? You know how that’s going to look, Delilah? Flaky, very flaky.”

  “I didn’t ask you to keep a constant vigil over me. I didn’t ask for this. You’re not my bodyguard.”

  “If you’re going to go down to Centre Street, make it worth your while is what I’m saying. Get an order against this other guy who’s following you. You don’t know whathe’s capable of.”

  “But I thought you just said it’s just a piece of paper. How’s it going to keep him away,” I gulp, “when I don’t even really know who it is?”

  “Okay, so make police complaints every time he establishes contact. That should come as second nature to you. Save all the tapes with his messages, notify the cops if he shows up in person, have something to show for it. But don’t screw up your credibility by going down there and whining to the prosecutor about me.”

  “That wouldn’t look good down on Wall Street, would it?”

  “Delilah, ever hear of the boy who cried wolf?”

  “Yes,” I say wearily, “And as I see it, it’s just a question of which wolf has the sharper fangs.”

  Or of staying out of the forest, I think as I press the disconnect button like I’m squashing a bug.

  13

  It’s a beautiful Marathon Sunday. The first voice I hear is that of the weather guy on the all-news radio station, extolling the couldn’t-be-more-perfect-for-a-Marathon weather, like he deserves all the credit. I turn on the TV instead. Shot from above, the people cramming the Verrazano Narrows Bridge look like a swarm of ants. “It’s a beautiful Marathon Sunday,” one commentator after the other says. I turn down the sound and watch as the throng pushes forward, seeming to move slower than ants until the ground-level camera takes over and focuses on thousands of muscular legs pounding the pavement as they begin to cross into Brooklyn. The part I want to see, the runners crossing into Manhattan, won’t be for a while yet. Last night Morgan told me he and Vittorio were going and asked if I wanted to join them, but I declined. I thought maybe I’d get a glimpse of them cheering the runners on along First Avenue, but that’s clearly not going to be for a while and I want to get an early start on my work today. If you can call ten forty-five early. It’s going to be even later than that by the time I get to the studio.

  It’s a beautiful Marathon Sunday. Nobody is lying in wait for me as I leave the building and head east, stopping for a cup of coffee on the way. Even more beautiful is the fact that the clay room is empty when I get there. I have it all to myself. I unbag and unwrap the head I was working on yesterday and shoot water at it and start working the clay with my hands and my paddle and my sculpting tools. I lose track of time as the head takes shape. My fingers gouge into the clay, making deep eye sockets. Muffled voices behind the closed doors suddenly make me glance at my watch. Hours have passed. Nothing could be more beautiful.

  Morgan sticks his head in the door. “Hey, you’re back.” I’m still smiling at the molded clay. “How was the Marathon?”

  “All right, what I could see of it.”

  Morgan doesn’t look like the happy camper he was last night. He must be hung over. He and Vittorio probably celebrated long after all the guests left. I back further away from the head I’ve been working on and take a better look at Morgan. He looks like his head needs to be worked on. His eyes are red-rimmed and glazed. His jaw is tight. “Morgan, what’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head and mutters, “Vittorio.” He picks up one of my sculpting tools from the work table and turns it over and over in his hand. “Everything was so perfect last night. Today he turned on me. He was testy even before we left to go to the Marathon and wouldn’t let on what was wrong. Once we found a place on First Avenue, he said he was cold and didn’t want to stay, so he took off on me.”

  “Oh, Morgan, I’m sorry,” I hug him.

  “He’s never acted this way before.”

  “Maybe he was just hung over and didn’t feel so good,” I suggest. Allowances have to be made for bad behavior in the course of any relationship, at least once in a while. Morgan and Vittorio have just had it too good. They’ve been cruising down the avenue of love without hitting any potholes. They’re both spoiled.

  “Maybe.” He sounds less than convinced.

  “Or maybe it has something to do with that business at work. ”

  “Somebody called again late last night. He said it was a wrong number. But he was okay then. I mean, really okay.” I know what he means. I’m not going to push it; he feels and looks bad enough already. I give him a last perfunctory squeeze and let go. He’s not ready to let go. “But I wonder if…”

  “What?”

  “If there’s somebody else. No, that’s crazy of me, forget I ever said that. You saw how we were last night. Anyway, I don’t want to distract you,” he says. “It looks like you’re on a roll here.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s beautiful.” He hands me my sculpting tool and manages a forced smile. “I dropped off some leftovers for you earlier. They’re in the refrigerator whenever you feel like eating. Now get back to work.”

  The next time I look at my watch, it’s midnight and there’s a knock on the door; the night guard is kicking everyone out of the building. I finish draping the head with damp cheesecloth and bag it and wheel the stand against the wall. I’ve done a marathon and it feels be
autiful.

  There’s another more impatient knock on the door. I open it a crack. The night guard scowls. “You Delilah Price?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got a phone call,” he points to the front desk. “You don’t need to go back in there for anything, do you? I’m going to lock up.”

  I steel myself for this. Curt or Ivan? Ivan or Curt? Who’s it going to be this time?

  I lean against the front desk for support, calculating how many blocks I’ve got to go to get home. It’s not that far from here. I managed okay last night. Better a phone call than to have whoever it is waiting for me outside. Whoever is making this call could be waiting for me outside, right down the street on the corner of Fifth Avenue. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I feel like I’ve got lockjaw. I clear my throat and say, “Hello?” It sounds like the death rattle coming from the throat of someone being strangled.

  “Delilah, you’re still there, thank God.”

  “Morgan!” What a relief. “That food you left me was out of this world. Mmmm. Even cold.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d still be there. I tried calling your cell, but there was no answer.”

  “I’ve been here since late this morning,” I remind him, not adding that I turned off my phone. “I told you I was going to stay.” I did tell him, didn’t I? I’ve been so absorbed in my work that I only vaguely remember his brief visit this afternoon. There’s something funny about this call. Usually Morgan works in his studio almost as late as I do, and he knows me well enough to know my work habits. Something’s not quite right. Morgan has never called me this late or sounded so desperate to talk to me before. Or has he? He sounds like he’s choking on something. “Morgan, what is it?” I ask him. “Did Vittorio not come back?” There’s a long pause and I hear male voices in the background talking to and over each other. I wonder if he’s in a bar. Sunday isn’t a night for cruising bars and I’ve never known Morgan to cruise, but then again I don’t know how Morgan acts when his heart’s been torn out of him. “Morgan?”

  I wonder if someone’s snatched the phone away from him. I can’t even hear him breathing on the other end. Just those other male voices, deep authoritative voices, more of them than before. And they’re not in a bar. I don’t hear clinking glasses. Something’s terribly wrong.

  “Vittorio’s dead,” Morgan sounds like he’s been anesthetized. “He’s been murdered.”

  “What?”

  “I’m calling from the First Precinct. The police brought me here. They greeted me when I came home tonight and brought me here and now they’re about to question me.”

  “Oh my God, what happened?” I lean against the edge of the reception desk. “Who did it? Do they know? How…”

  “I don’t know who would do this and you don’t want to know what they did.” It sounds like he’s already been asked and told a few things. His voice is beginning to break. “It wasn’t me. I couldn’t…”

  “I know you couldn’t. I’m coming down there. Is there anyone else you want me to call?”

  “I can’t think.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I reassure him. I look at my watch and calculate how soon I can get there. 12:10. If my timing is good and a train is rolling into the station when I get there, I can get downtown in ten minutes.

  “Delilah,” he warns, “be careful.”

  14

  The irony is that Morgan lives so close to the precinct house. So safe. Practically around the corner. He‘d always tell me that he and Vittorio felt like they could practically leave the doors open. Nothing could happen, what with all those blue-and-whites cruising around at all hours.

  He was talking about burglary. Not this.

  Nothing was taken that I know of except a life.

  I shift my weight on the hard wooden chair that I was gruffly told to sit in a half hour ago by a cop in uniform who ushered me upstairs and told me to wait. I wonder where they’ve got Morgan. The desk next to me is littered with pink forms. I stand up to stretch. The minute I do, I hear a voice out of nowhere saying, “Someone will be with you shortly.” I wonder if the chair is rigged to some kind of silent alarm. The pressure of the hard wood made my butt fall asleep like it does during a tough pose, and I remain standing in defiance of the law.

  I squint across the room at the map of the city on the wall and take a few steps closer to make out what the shaded divisions mean. As I do, a low voice stops me in my tracks. “Miss Price?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why don’t you have a seat here…” He indicates the killer chair I just abandoned. “I’m Detective Quick. Mr. Merritt told us you’re a friend of his.”

  “I want to see him,” I insist. “Is he all right?”

  “You’ll be able to see him. We’re just getting some background from him.” He sits at the desk beside me and stares into me. This detective won’t ever need bright lights to force a confession. His eyes will do fine.

  “When can I see Morgan?”

  “Soon. Right now I want to ask you a few questions.” He rolls back the cuffs of his gray pinstriped shirt just past his wrists and takes a sip of black coffee from a Rangers mug, then sets it down between us. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee? Soda?”

  I shake my head. “How is he?”

  “Very shaken up. Mr. Merritt told us that you also knew the victim, Mr. Vittorio Scaccia.”

  “Yes. Not very well. I knew him through Morgan. He was Morgan’s friend. I was just at their place last night. They seemed so happy.”

  “Did you see either Mr. Merritt…Morgan or Mr. Scaccia since last night?”

  “I saw Morgan this afternoon. Around three. He’d just gotten back from the Marathon.”

  “Mr. Scaccia wasn’t with him?”

  “Morgan’s an artist. He came to his studio to work. Vittorio is…was a gourmet chef. His was a different sort of art. He never came to the school with Morgan. At least not that I know of, and we’re both there a lot.”

  “When you saw Morgan around three, he was alone?”

  “He came in my studio to tell me he’d left some food for me in the fridge before he left to go to the Marathon. He was going to his studio…” I realize I don’t remember him saying he was going to his studio. “And the next thing I know, he’s calling me from here. What happened?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Miss Price. It would really help us if you could tell me if you have any idea what time Morgan left the school tonight.”

  “He usually stays late, almost as late as I do, unless Vittorio has the night off; then he leaves earlier.”

  “How much earlier?”

  I shrug. “It depends. Usually eight or nine.”

  “You didn’t see him after three?”

  I shake my head. A lot of the shaking is involuntary. “Maybe the guard did,” I suggest.

  “Is there any kind of register? Some place where you sign in and out?”

  I shake my head. “People come and go at all hours. We get officially kicked out at midnight, but Morgan’s usually never there that late.”

  “When you did see Morgan, how would you describe him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he still seem happy, Miss Price?”

  Those eyes are unrelenting, boring into me from over the brim of his coffee mug as he raises it to his mouth again. I start to squirm in the chair. “I…I don’t know. I guess I was too absorbed in my own work, my own troubles to notice. Would you please tell me what happened? Why are you asking me these questions about Morgan? He’s the gentlest person I know. Particularly compared to some of the others I know.” I grab the detective’s coffee mug off the desk and sip nervously before either of us realizes what I’ve done. “Is he a suspect?”

  “We’re trying to get to the bottom of this, Miss Price, and right now we’re just scraping the surface. Because of the nature of the crime, there are questions that have to be answered before we can rule out or zero in on anybody.
”

  This man’s use of the word we is driving me nuts. I have to keep looking around to verify that there are only two of us in this room. “Does he need a lawyer?”

  Detective Quick leans back in his chair. “He hasn’t asked for one.”

  “You’re not going to arrest him or anything?”

  “Morgan’s been very cooperative so far. We’re not giving him the third degree, Miss Price. It’s just that certain questions need to be answered.”

  I lick my lips. “I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  He frowns. “Go ahead.”

  My eyes waver toward his shoulder holster and then I take a deep breath and meet his stare head-on. “What happened?”

  All at once this man’s fine features look pained, like he’s the one sitting in the hot seat, or hard seat, as it were. He looks like he’s been up all day and all night and he has seen way too much and wants to put an end to all the suffering in the city now. His dark brown hair looks uncombed, like it was blown around a bit when he arrived at the crime scene, or maybe it was mussed up earlier by some admiring woman’s roving fingers. I look down at my own clay-stained fingers now. I’m bending and unbending them. I can’t look at those eyes any more. It’s been a long night and it’s no longer beautiful.

  “Mr. Scaccia’s body was discovered shortly after ten on a loading dock in front of the building in which he occupied a loft with Morgan Merritt. He’d been stabbed numerous times and suffered other injuries.”

  “Oh my God, did Morgan…was he the one who found him like that?”

  “The 911 operator received the call shortly after twenty-two hundred hours.” Detective Quick glances down at a pad on the cluttered desk. “Twenty-two seventeen to be exact. It was phoned in anonymously. According to the scenario we’ve established so far, Morgan arrived after the Crime Scene Unit was already in place. The part that’s a little fuzzy is why it took him as long as it did to get there when he supposedly left West Eighth Street before nine. How long did it take you to get here?”