by Susan Israel
“Would you have him call me when he gets back? Please?”
“He may not be back until late,” Gary says. “I don’t know where he went. He may not be back tonight at all.”
“When he does come back…”
“I’ll tell him,” Gary says, and hangs up.
I turn up the volume and peek under the shade at the street below. I see a blue-and-white down there, cruising around to make sure I’m safe. I don’t see anyone else. I pull the covers over my head, muting the sounds of a soothing salsa beat and the sirens in the distance that always seem to be there, barely audible but there, like white noise. I consider calling Quick with an updated inventory of what’s been stolen as a pretext to hear some comforting words, but the only ones that I know would make me feel better are I’ll be right over.
30
“I’ll be right over,” Quick promises. This is the response I get when I start firing questions at him. I didn’t hear from either one of them last night, I tell him, Curtis or Ivan. Did you catch Curtis? Did you get in touch with Ivan? It’s nine thirty a.m. and I haven’t slept. I switch the phone from one sweaty hand to the other. I’m wearing a dress for a change, a blue jean dress with a white Peter Pan collar and pockets that are almost deeper than the dress is long, all the better to conceal my sculpting tools. I’m worried that he might withdraw his offer to take me to check the condition of the sculptures I’m working on for my show. Quick goes so silent on me that I can’t even hear him breathing any more. I wonder if we’ve been cut off, and then he says it, I’ll be right over, and hangs up.
Right over can mean anything from fifteen minutes to an hour depending on the volume of traffic he’s got to deal with on the way, so I kill time by calling Rubenstein at the Sixth to see if I can get anything out of him before Quick gets to him. “I’m sorry, he’s out.”
“He’s still sick?” I wonder if maybe the yogurt I pictured him eating non-stop got to him.
“No, he’s in, but he’s out in the field.” I picture him in the middle of Sheep Meadow playing catch. “Is there someone else who can help you?”
That someone else knocks on the door a half hour of pacing later. The only thing that’s changed about him is his clothes; he looks as stoical as he did last night, if not more, and I feel self-conscious about having fantasized about him again. He gives the apartment a cursory wide-angle once-over and then focuses on me. “Are you ready?” I expect him to add for what I have to tell you? I nod. He follows me to the door and waits while I lock up. I hear a soft click next door. “That’s Mrs. Davidoff, my neighbor,” I say to Quick too loudly, for her benefit. “She’s the one who keeps an eye on things.”
“But she didn’t see anything yesterday.”
“Right.”
I lead the way downstairs, conscious of him looming a couple of steps behind me, wondering if my dress is riding up my ass in back, if I should reach behind me and tug at it or if that would seem like a too-obvious ploy for attention. I’m not used to wearing dresses and being chauffeured about in police cars. There’s a whole lot going on in my life now that I’m not used to. Before he starts the motor, Quick reaches his long arm around the head rest and retrieves a brown paper bag from the back seat. “Bagel?” He unfurls it. “There’s cinnamon raisin, pumpernickel, and whole wheat.”
I reach in the grab bag and pull out a still-warm cinnamon raisin. He takes the whole wheat. “Did you want this one?”
He shakes his head and tears off a piece of his bagel before shifting into drive. “Sorry there’s nothing to put on it.”
“The bagel’s fine as is,” I mumble through chews. “Thanks.”
“There’s more I have to tell you,” he says. I drop the bagel in my lap. He turns onto West Eighth Street, almost hitting the curb in front of the bookstore, and keeps to the right, slowing to a standstill behind a blue-and-white. “Looks like we’ve got company,” he says, not seeming at all surprised when Rubenstein comes out the double doors and strolls over to the car. Quick hands him the brown bag. “They didn’t have onion. Hope you like pumpernickel,” he says.
Rubenstein fishes the bagel out of the bag and gives it a dead herring stare. “I can live with it,” he finally decides, taking a tentative bite. He notices me. “You were over at West Tenth a couple of days ago,” he says. “Boyfriend pushed you around or something like that, wasn’t it?”
“Something like that.” I rub my hand up and down my arm. Every mention of Ivan makes something hurt, even now.
“She wants to see if her work is okay.” Quick gestures us toward the building. My hands are shaking so much I can’t even find my keys. I have to buzz us in. Louise looks past me at Quick lagging behind and doesn’t stop looking. She licks her lips. Rubenstein turns to Quick. “What d’you have?” I hear him ask and I know he’s not talking about bagels. They remind me of two four-star generals contesting each other’s war strategy as they huddle closer and closer to the statuary at the top of the stairs and further away from me so that all I can make out is “task force.” Quick all at once turns and shoots a look at me that pierces like a bullet.
“Who’s Mr. G.Q. over there?” Louise purrs.
“That’s Detective P.Q.,” I say. “Patrick Quick, First Precinct.”
“Appropriately named. Wouldn’t mind a quickie with him.” Louise’s pupils are so dilated that I wonder if the two detectives will suspect her of being under the influence of something other than caffeine and hormones. “Or something more enduring. So is he here about the note too?”
“What note?”
“The note for you that was left behind where the armatures were, the ones that got stolen…”
“What armatures got stolen? Louise, what are you talking about?”
“A couple of armatures disappeared during the night. You know Hannah, that bleached blond who can’t go anywhere without her iPod? Well, she took her ear buds out long enough to complain to me about it when I got here this morning and I called in a complaint, but I didn’t expect anyone to take it seriously. I mean, armatures? Besides,” Louise lowers her voice so the two cops can’t hear her, “she was convinced it was an inside job. She specifically mentioned you as her chief suspect.”
I roll my eyes and Louise nods knowingly. “So what’s with the note? Where is it?”
“He’s got it,” she points to Rubenstein. “When I found it, I called back, and about ten minutes later he’s here asking for it. So I gave it to him.”
“What’d it say?”
“It was in an envelope. Heavy vellum, like the kind you’d put an invitation in. It looked like whoever left it had had an open cut; there was dried blood all over it and it had your name on the front of it, and considering what’s been happening…”
Something is definitely happening. Two detectives from two different precincts are here, evidence enough that they’ve got a lot more on their agendas than stolen art supplies unless the items in question are directly connected to what they happen to be investigating. “Yeah, I agree. Who’d want to take armatures,” I shout. “They’re nothing of value. Just display items.” Both Quick and Rubenstein turn and glower at me. “I’m going to check and see if my sculptures are all right,” I announce for everybody’s benefit, and walk straight to the back door and open it. The modeling stands are still lined up against the wall, sheathed in black plastic; they seem untouched. I walk up to one and pull a corner of the bag up gingerly, the way a coroner would to get an ID on a corpse. The featureless face of a Vestal Virgin greets me. I drop the plastic and move on to the next and then the next. I wheel around and see Quick in the doorway. “Everything seems okay here,” I say woodenly. Except for me. I am anything but okay. He gestures for me to come back in the lobby, and I back away from my bodybagged figures and walk right up to Quick, so close that I can see a nick just under his chin, I can practically sniff the antiseptic that he dabbed on it. “But everything’s not okay, is it? Or else both of you wouldn’t be here. Or even you. I mean, you’ve got mor
e important things to do than this, right?” I turn to Rubenstein. “This note. It’s an invitation,” I mumble, “to a private art opening.” I don’t have to be Karnac the Magnificent to divine that. “Can’t I at least see it?”
The look that Rubenstein gives Quick fills me with the same prescience of doom as the chime and flashing light alerting me that I have new voicemail messages has lately. There’s something I don’t want to hear here and I’ve just pushed the PLAY button. Quick takes my arm and leads me to the right, stopping in front of a reproduction of a Van Gogh. “Can’t let you do that, Delilah,” he says somberly. “It’s evidence. We’re sending it out to the lab to be analyzed. See if it is in fact blood, and if so, whose it is.”
“In the meantime,” Rubenstein says, “while we’re looking for the person who we think might be behind this, maybe it would be a good idea if you could get out of town for a few days…”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got a show opening. There’s a lot of work I’ve got to do.”
“That’s not for weeks,” Quick argues. “This wouldn’t be for long.”
“Long enough for me to fall behind. Do you think my work’s going to get done by itself? I can’t skip town and then just slap this stuff together. Rome wasn’t built in one day regardless of how this exhibit is billed. I can’t.”
Besides, there is absolutely nowhere I can go.
There’s a limit to how much protection we can provide if you stay at Waverly Place,” Quick says. “I might be able to arrange something temporary for you,” he adds sotto voce. “I should know by the end of the day. Have to make a few phone calls. I don’t like the idea of you staying at your place alone.”
“I don’t like the fact that you’re not telling me everything.”
“What I will tell you is it seems last night wasn’t the first time Curtis paid you a courtesy call when you weren’t home. He said so in the note. Among other things. We don’t know everything, Delilah. If we did, we’d crack this case in an hour and every other case we’ve caught and this city would have a near-zero crime rate, but that’s not the case. There’s a possibility that this person who you know as Curtis may be implicated in another…”
“The Majesty Moore investigation?”
“That’s being looked into,” Quick concedes. “We’re reviewing a few unsolved cases, not just Moore, to see if we like Curtis for any one of them. We already want him for questioning in regard to Vittorio’s death. I can’t tell you what I don’t know for sure. What I do know is I want you out of the neighborhood, at least for a couple of days.”
“I still have to go out to work,” I remind him.
Quick’s eyes cloud over like he’s been hit in the head by a brick. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he says and I know right away that the image he’s projected isn’t one of me modeling clay. He looks askance at Rubenstein. “I’m breaking protocol by doing this, Delilah,” he whispers. “This is the best I can do. I can’t promise twenty-four hour protection, but I think you’ll be reasonably safe. If you go traipsing from one part of town to the other, you may not be.”
“I’ve got to work on my sculptures. In there.” I jab my thumb in the direction of the clay studio. “And work for a drawing class tomorrow. Also here. I can’t afford to not work. But it’ll be here, in this building. That’s all the job assignments I have for the rest of the week. So far. But what if I get more in the future?” This is one f word I like the sound of. I want to feel like I have a future to think about here.
“If you have to go out, use your cell phone. I want you to keep it with you whenever you do have to go out, and don’t forget to have it charged. If you see Curtis, you hit 911 immediately and give your location. Don’t forget to give your location, you got that, Delilah?” He’s talking to me like he would to a child again. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“I was planning to stay here for a few hours. In there.” I point toward the clay studio again.
Quick nods and walks over to the reception desk. Louise parts her M.A.C.ed-up Russian Red lips, but it’s the phone that he’s interested in. He helps himself to it and stretches the cord to the limit so no one can overhear a word, his brow furrowing like the fate of the free world is resting on this call. Or at least mine. Rubenstein pokes my shoulder and signals me back to the ersatz Van Gogh. “You want to lay low for a couple of days,” he says. I nod. No shit, Sherlock! Quick rejoins us. “Okay, it’s all set. I’ll come by here later to take you where you’re going to be staying. In the meantime you stay here. I don’t want you going anyplace, got that?”
“Not even to eat?”
Quick turns toward Louise, whose lips pucker in readiness to say “Yes” to anything he might suggest. “Does someone relieve you here when you get a lunch break?” he asks her. She nods, but before she has a chance to salivate, he adds, “Good. When you go out, can you pick up a sandwich for Miss Price so she can eat it in her studio?”
“No problem,” Louise acquiesces.
“And make sure whoever relieves you is informed about the situation. Nobody who doesn’t belong here gets in without credentials, and that includes security personnel. If anyone tries, call the Sixth.” Quick turns to me. “I don’t want you going anyplace until I get back.” He follows Rubenstein down the stairs.
“I sure wouldn’t,” Louise sighs, not too subtly rising out of her seat to get a last look, “if he were coming back for me.”
I cross my arms in front of me. “I don’t even know where he’s taking me.”
“With a guy who looks like that, I wouldn’t think it would make much difference if it were Heaven or Hoboken.”
I’m tempted to ask how about if he said he was taking you to Riker’s Island? but the look on her face tells me she’d still be willing to pack for the one-way trip. “So what do you want for lunch, Delilah?” Louise asks me, putting on a Mona Lisa smile, and I realize I must have that prisoner-of-lust look on my face too.
“I’m not hungry,” I say as I saunter off to the clay studio. I pause in front of the door, then spin around and add huskily, “At least not yet.” I don’t stick around to see Louise’s reaction.
My reaction to Louise’s predatory moves on Quick surprises me. This is a potential threat to my life that he was here about, and here I am carrying on like a woman warding off a rival from my man. My hand clutches a fettling knife. I rip away at black plastic until the Vestal Virgin is once again exposed, the one that I asked Louise to pose for, and I start to whittle away clay and give her a face, one that I notice after an hour of nonstop carving looks nothing at all like Louise and very much like me. As is always the case, when I get into my work, really get into it, I lose track of time and space. The only thing palpable to me is the cool clay that I’m modeling with mold knives and spatulas and fingertips. When the door suddenly slams behind me, I nick my thumb with the serrated edge of a sabre saw. Before I have a chance to squeal in pain, I look up and see Quick. How many hours have passed since he left, anyway? At least four, according to my watch, and maybe more since the hands aren’t moving. I need a new battery if I’m going to get anywhere on time. I turn back to Quick. The expression on his face is enough to make time stop. I can feel my heartbeat vibrate like a souped-up V-8 engine and put down my tools before I can do further damage to myself. “Are you ready?” he asks me, not moving from the door.
For what? is what I’m wondering. I don’t know what the right answer is, yes or no. “I need to wrap my sculpture first.”
“It looks like it’s coming along good.”
“Thanks.” A compliment from him under any other circumstances would be enough to give me wet dreams. Right now all I feel is wet, but in a mucky clothes-stuck-to-me way. “I won’t be long.”
He stands erect against the threshold, unmoving, like the statue of a sentry gracing some public park, minus the requisite bayonet. What he’s got instead is his semi-automatic tucked in
his shoulder holster. I feel self-conscious picking up my neon-green water pistol to wet down the clay and look over my shoulder at him, expecting the sight of the plastic gun to draw a laugh, but his expression remains sober. The muscles in his jaw twitch, but not in good humor. What am I getting ready for here? My finger nervously pumps the white plastic trigger, shooting more water before I’ve fully turned back to my sculpture, spraying the work table, barely missing the front of Quick’s blue pinstriped oxford shirt. He doesn’t flinch. I do. “Did I get you? I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Done?”
“Almost.” I put the water pistol down on the work table, gather the torn black plastic sheathing, wrap it around the sculpture from top to bottom and knot it. “Now I’m done.”
“Okay,” he holds the door open for me. “Let’s go.”
As we walk past the reception desk, Louise’s eyes follow Quick as he leads the way. He turns back to make sure I’m the one who’s trailing behind him. Louise clears her throat. “If anyone wants to know how to reach you, what do I tell them?”
“The same thing you would have told them yesterday,” Quick snaps.
“I’ll call in for my messages,” I promise. “Tell Morgan…”
Quick spins me around and propels me to the stairwell before I can say another word. “She’ll be in touch,” Quick says succinctly, this time following me to make sure I don’t turn around again. I stop at the door and tilt my head up until I see him looming over me as he opens it, signaling that it’s time we ride off together into the sunset.