Over My Live Body

by Susan Israel

  I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t. But it’s written the same way. On the same kind of paper too.”

  “Hold on to this stuff. We may need it later.” He crosses his arms on the desk and looks at me with hungry hound-dog eyes. “This isn’t a whole lot to go on, Miss Price. The most we could get this guy on now, even if we knew who he is—which we don’t—is harassment in the second degree, which is a violation punishable by up to fifteen days in jail.” I wince, and my reaction isn’t lost on him. “Yeah, I know, but what you’ve got to have to get a tougher charge is proof of intent to harm, and you don’t have it. What you do have here is a complaint form,” he flutters it in my face, “and if this guy continues to harass you, you come in here and refer to the case number I’m going to give you and we fill out a follow-up and maybe we come up with more info and enough on him to get him out of your hair. You did the right thing coming here,” he reassures me. “There just isn’t a whole lot to go on.”

  “Can’t I get a court order?”

  “You don’t know who to cite as the person the court is supposed to protect you from,” he says. “You have to give them more to go on. Once the guy gets IDed, if it turns out he’s been in trouble before, we can get him on repeat offender status. Meanwhile, keep the notes, keep the tapes, and if you hear from him again,” he hands me a piece of paper with a row of digits written across it, “keep in touch. Ask to speak to me and refer to this number.”

  “Just who do I ask for?”

  He stands up to follow me out and pushes his chair back with a screech that makes my teeth hurt. “Rubenstein.”

  Quick and Rubenstein. Makes me think of a Park Avenue law firm.

  I walk back up West 10th, turning around every time I hear someone following me. Just past the laundromat, I hear psst! psst! I clench my fists. Psst! Some guy who thinks he’s a real cobra. I turn around tentatively, afraid I’ll see Curtis behind me, wary that Ivan has tracked me down. The only male I see is short and has a face riddled with pock marks. Like snakeskin. “Hey, I seen you come out of the police station,” he says. “You seen a woman named Constanza in there? She’s about my height, dark hair, built like this.” He exaggerates her endowments wildly with his hands, like some of the artists I’ve worked for do with their charcoal pencils.

  “I didn’t see anyone in there,” I mumble as I back away. “Just police.”

  “I’ll bet.” I see the sparkle of a gold tooth. “So, baby, what’d you get busted for?”

  I walk faster. Busting loose is what I’m doing. Trying to get away from everything. The sight of yet another blue-and-white speeding southbound down Seventh Avenue, its siren screaming, makes me cringe. What is it this time? At least it quickly dispatches my pursuer in the other direction.

  I look to my left down Waverly Place and instantly see Mrs. Davidoff.

  She’s standing at the top of the stairs wearing a too-big-for-her blue floral house dress, her head bowed sadly over the empty flowerpot. She doesn’t see me.

  I turn right.

  18

  There’s a message for me from Morgan when I get to West Eighth Street.

  He’s at a friend’s place, just got up, nothing added on the memo about how he can be reached, just that he’ll call me later. Nothing from Sachi. A terse I CALLED—WILL CALL BACK from Ivan.

  And somebody called and wanted to know HOW DID YOU LIKE THE FLOWERS?

  Not Ivan, Louise the receptionist scrawled in addendum.

  He won’t leave his name.

  “Is that all he said?” I ask. As if that’s not enough. I wave the pink memo in Louise’s face just as she hungrily tears off a piece of croissant and stuffs it in her mouth. “Someone…whoever left this message…just picked all the flowers from the pot on the stoop of my apartment house and left them at my door.”

  Her eyes widen and she holds up a finger as she quickly chews and swallows. “That is some weird shit, Delilah,” she says, reaching for her coffee mug.

  “When did he call?”

  She looks at her watch and frowns. “About an hour ago? I’m not sure. I’ve been swamped. Calls about the lecture Wednesday night.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about the call?” All the time I’ve been spending in police stations is rubbing off on me.

  Louise licks the confectionery sugar off her lips. “I’d say the call is pretty unusual in itself.”

  “I mean, background noise, static, stuff like that?”

  “Can’t say,” Louise tears off another piece of croissant. “Want some?”

  I shake my head. “Can I use the phone?”

  She nods and chews luxuriantly, making disgusting yummy sounds. I dig in my fanny pack for Detective Quick’s card and call the number he circled there, only to be told he’s in court.

  “When can I reach him?”

  The woman on the other end sighs a non-committal, “Later.” Like, any time between five p.m. and midnight when I’m not here to deal with this. She sounds like she could be eating a croissant too.

  Calling the Sixth Precinct would be redundant. It’s after four. Detective Rubenstein is probably still out on that case he was headed to when I left, or gone for the day, period. And I have nothing substantial to follow up on, no leads, nothing in handwriting, no voice to trace through the phone company, just a sinister message relayed through Louise, whose biggest concern is who the Bachelorette is going to pick for an all-too-short engagement tonight. And I’m not convinced that anyone else is going to read this as being ‘overtly threatening.’

  “Any more messages?”

  Louise looks up at me as she brushes her hands together, scattering buttery crumbs on a pile of unopened manila envelopes. “Gee, Delilah, I should think those were more than enough.”

  She’s got a point.

  I turn to go to the sculpture studio when the phone rings again. I hear Louise snap, “Hello?” Then she calls me back. “Morgan,” she whispers, her hand over the mouthpiece.

  I grab the receiver. “I tried calling before. Where’ve you been?” he asks, big brotherly as always, but today he sounds programmed. There is a deadness in his voice, and anyway, he’s the one whose whereabouts are unknown; he’s the one who’s in trouble. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I can’t give you my number here,” he says. “I don’t even know how long I’ll be here. But you’ll be hearing from me; I’ll stay in touch.”

  “But what if the police should ask me?”

  “I should think they got what they wanted from me last night. Assurance that I wasn’t their man,” he says acidly. “But if something else occurs to them, you’re not lying to them if you say you don’t know where I am or how I can be reached.” I hear clinking glasses in the background. I can guess where he is.

  I hate to have to ask him the next question. “Are you hiding from the police, Morgan?” But better that than, have you done something you can’t tell anyone about? Detective Quick or one of his partners against crime will be sure to get around to asking me more questions about why Morgan hasn’t been in touch, why he can’t be reached. I can’t let him, any of them, think that I doubt Morgan’s innocence. I can’t believe that I doubt Morgan’s innocence.

  “I’m hiding from myself, Delilah,” he says. “I can’t think about what’s happened. I want to be in oblivion, Delilah.”

  He’s just understandably upset over what happened. He needs to feel cloistered, as in a cocoon; wherever it is that he is, he needs to feel nothing more can get to him, to hurt him. I feel embarrassed for having asked. As long as I’ve known Morgan, I’ve never known him to do anything impulsive or violent.

  When I started going out with Ivan, he was a perfect gentleman. Then I let him move in with me. Then he changed. He raised his voice at me, began belittling me. He accused me of cheating on him with everyone. Then he shoved me into a wall.

  How can I know what I don’t see? Maybe anyone is capable of violence under certain circumstances.

  Morgan hiccups. I wonder how many d
rinks he’s had already, and it’s just turning dark. I wonder if he’s commiserating alone or if he’s seeking solace with a stranger. I wonder if he routinely carries condoms on him, if he’ll be sober enough to remember to use one if he needs it. Big sisterly. “Be careful,” I implore him. You know what I mean. Then I shudder at the thought. He loved Vittorio. How could he just let some stranger ram it in him before Vittorio’s body was cold? Unless there’s something I don’t know. I don’t want to know.

  Morgan chuckles dully. “Yeah,” he says, like it’s the last thing on his mind. “Gotta run, Delilah. Someone else wants to use the phone. I’ll call you later. I’m not sure when.” He clears his throat. “It’ll have to be at random. Won’t be any use putting a tracer on it,” he hisses as a warning to whoever I might be forced to tell. Morgan’s call is not exactly top priority for tracing in my book, but he’s talking like he’s still a suspect. Is he?

  I don’t get a chance to ask; we’re disconnected.

  Louise looks up at me questioningly. “What do the police want with Morgan? Some detective called and wanted to know whether I’d seen Morgan yesterday or today and who was on the desk last night. I gave him Ed’s home number.”

  I don’t know if she even knows what happened to Vittorio last night; when she handed me the message from Morgan’s first call, she mentioned that she hadn’t seen him all day and I didn’t know what to say. There’s even less I want to say now. “Morgan’s lover was killed by someone last night. The police initially seemed to think he did it.” They might still think he did it. I’m not entirely sure any more that he didn’t do it.

  “Oh, my God,” Louise gasps, “Did they find out who did?”

  “No.”

  “But what happened? Where? When? How?”

  I shrug and turn to go in the sculpture studio. Let her read the who/what/where/when details in the paper. It’s sure to be tabloid news, because the crime was committed in a gentrified part of town and remains unsolved. Nightmares sell papers in this city. God only knows why.

  19

  “Why haven’t I been able to reach you?” Ivan demands. “Where’ve you been?” He’s keeping his voice on low simmer, but it could blow up the phone any second and I hold the phone a couple of inches away from my ear for my own protection. I can still hear him. “Your phone wasn’t on. Again. I thought something happened to you, that that guy who’s been following you…”

  My hero. Oh, puke. I hold the phone a little farther away, bracing myself for the Grand Finale.

  “…called the school and one of those other places where you work, on Twenty-Third Street, the emergency room at Downtown Hospital, Beth Israel.” He pauses. “Bellevue.”

  “Did you call the city morgue too, while you were at it?”

  “That’s at Bellevue, Delilah,”

  If someday someone has to run a tracer on Ivan, I’d suggest they start with Creedmoor Psychiatric Center. They won’t have to go much further than that. Someday he’s going to blow. Blow my brains out. Hearing his voice makes me feel like I’m on the Cyclone after one too many hot dogs at Nathan’s. I tell him why I haven’t been home and he sounds unconvinced, like I manufactured Vittorio’s murder to cover up for other, more lurid activities. It’s too pat, too convenient for him.

  “In any case,” I say, “I turned off my phone after the last time you called. Get the message?”

  “Our messages seem to be crossing, Delilah. You didn’t get mine. I care about you.” His voice isn’t oozing concern though, just anger that I would have the audacity to cut myself off from his grasp. “I worry, you know?” he continues. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Unless I’m the one making it happen.

  Ivan worries a lot about what he can’t control, whether it be the NYSE or me. I think that maybe when he gets over this rejection he should consider getting himself a pet to keep him company. Not a dog or cat; that would be too easy. A boa constrictor would be a good choice. He could probably even teach the snake a few things about how to squeeze the life out of people.

  “I’ll be okay,” I tell him, wishing I wholeheartedly believed it. “I’ve seen Curtis, remember? I know who to be on the lookout for now.”

  Him and you.

  “I filed a complaint. It’s being looked into. All he has to do is show up on my doorstep again and he gets hauled off,” I tell him. And that goes for you too.

  “What do you mean, again?”

  Shit. I suddenly rap on the wall loud enough for him to hear. “I’ve got to go,” I tell him, “There’s someone at the door.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, rapping harder. “Police. I think he said it’s the police. Guy’s holding up something so I can’t see his face. Looks like a shield. Yeah, gold shield. It’s a detective.” I hold the phone away from my ear and kick the door a couple of times. “Just a minute,” I call out, then lower my voice. “Look, I’ve got to go, Ivan. If I don’t let him in, he’ll kick the door down. I think he thinks Morgan’s hiding out here.”

  “Is he?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll call back later.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother,” he says too sweetly.

  I push the disconnect key in hard and notice the voice mail message bar on my phone flashing red as if auguring a national emergency. I push the playback button. Two messages to hire me to model, one of them from Heidi Obermeyer. A message from Pearl Paint to remind me to pick up a special order. A message from Detective Quick asking me to call him at the precinct at my earliest convenience. I feel exonerated. See, Ivan, the police really do want to talk to me.

  I’m not so sure I want to talk to the police right now. Talking to Detective Quick on the phone will no doubt be easier than sitting across a desk from him, averting that stare that probably sears holes in the hearts of paper targets. I pull out his card, take a deep breath, and poke in his number. He picks up on the second ring. “Quick.” I can’t tell if he’s merely identifying himself or issuing a command. Probably both.

  “Delilah Price,” I say.

  “I need to get in touch with Morgan,” he says succinctly. “He hasn’t called us. Have you heard from him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Give me a number where he can be reached.”

  “I can’t.” I hear him take a deep breath. I have to be very careful with what I say and how I say it as I head him off at the pass. “I don’t know where he can be reached. He didn’t say where he was.”

  “Did you try asking?”

  “It sounded like a bar,” I tell him honestly. There are a lot of bars in this city. “What do you want him for now, anyway?” My question is spontaneous enough but the ensuing pause makes me wonder if Detective Quick assumes that Morgan put me up to asking that.

  “I’d like him to come to the loft with us to see if he notices anything as missing. Also, we need a recent photo of the deceased to use in the canvass. The first twenty-four hours after a homicide are crucial for gathering evidence that may lead to nabbing our killer, Miss Price. You might impress Morgan with that when and if he gets in touch with you again. I presume he said he would?”

  “Yes,” I swallow hard. “I’m not holding back any information. I just don’t know.”

  “But you’ll find out and then you’ll tell us, won’t you?”

  “You don’t want him to come in just so that you can arrest him?”

  “As long as he didn’t do anything wrong, he has nothing to worry about.” I close my eyes and say a silent prayer. “We figure that he knows a lot more about what’s supposed to be in the loft than we do; he lives there—at least he did—and we could use his help. He signed a statement last night giving us permission to go in the place. It’s about the only thing he did do for us. Last night he wasn’t much help at all.”

  “He doesn’t sound much better now.”

  “In a bar, you said?” Detective Quick raises his voice over sudden com
motion in the squad room.

  “There are a lot of bars in this city,” I remind him. If I mention the name of any one of the four or five places I surmise Morgan might have called me from, Quick would dispatch a blue-and-white there, very quickly too. But Morgan is probably long gone. “Look, Detective Quick, it might help if, when Morgan goes to the loft with you, he has a friend with him. He might go more willingly.”

  “You want to go?”

  The thought of it nauseates me almost as much as Ivan’s voice did. “Sure.”

  The truth is, I want this nightmare to be over for Morgan and I want my nightmares to stop and if I do this, if I help the police nab Vittorio’s killer, maybe then I’ll feel like they’ll be so grateful that they’ll bend over backwards to arrest my stalker while they’re at it. Both stalkers. As much as it undoes me, Quick’s dark intensity is at the same time reassuring to me. He’s not like any of the other cops I’ve met.

  “I’ve been in the apartment a few times, so maybe I can be of some help even if Morgan doesn’t…”

  “Why wouldn’t Morgan want to cooperate with us?”

  My mouth goes dry. “I think he thinks he’s being railroaded,” I cough. “Because of the gay angle.”

  “We’re not conducting a witch hunt; we’re trying to find out who killed his companion. We’re looking at the case from all angles.” Companion. The word has a nice PC tone to it. I can imagine how Quick’s partner last night referred to Morgan’s companion.

  “What about the staff in the restaurant? Haven’t you checked that out?”

  “Yes, we have checked that out and nobody we’ve talked to who works in that restaurant admits to having called Mr. Scaccia…”

  “And you’re taking their word for it.”

  “You’re taking Morgan’s word for it that someone did call.”

  “Someone called during the dinner party. I was there. Vittorio said it was a wrong number, but…”

  “We’re by no means finished with that aspect of the investigation, but there’s nothing to implicate anyone who works there.”