by Susan Israel
Well done. I thrust my weight against it until I hear a reassuring click, like the snap of a camera. I don’t know how much time I have left or what kind of sound is going to follow. I lumber up the stairs, leaving sticky white footprints, tripping on the uneven steps, scraping my knees, stubbing my toes. I hear desperate thuds echo from the gallery of horrors, Curtis pounding his fists on the steel door. Someone will be back to see him when he’s done, but it won’t be me. My feet skim across the damp floorboards. I stop in front of the glass-paned door and thrust it open as the floor rumbles under me. The force of the aftershock catapults me outside. I look around me, dazed. There are blue-and-whites and unmarked cars and fire emergency vans parked from corner-to-corner and wall-to-wall cops looking in doorways and windows. They suddenly stop what they’re doing, turn in my direction, and stare as if they’ve just seen a ghost.
Which is what I must look like to them.
I take a few tentative steps toward them before they break position. My legs wobble. I fold my arms over me, a useless shield against the cold and all those eyes looking in my direction. I’m suddenly conscious of my nakedness under the wet plaster suit I’m wearing, aware of how aware they must be as they come closer. I spot Quick in the crowd. He intercepts me before anyone else can lay their hands on me. “Get a blanket over here,” he barks, easing me down to the ground. “Is he still in there?”
I nod. “Downstairs,” I murmur, trying to wipe some of the guck off my lips, only making matters worse. “The door’s locked. He set something to go off. I think it already has gone off…” I watch as a contingent of cops approach the building, guns drawn. Quick waves them back and radios for the bomb squad. I overhear one of the uniforms say, “Thought she was Venus when she came out of there.”
“She got arms, though.”
“She got all her working parts. Lucky for her.”
“Yeah, just needs to be treated for overexposure.”
An EMS paramedic in an FDNY jacket brings over a blanket. Quick nods and backs off, giving the paramedic room to crouch next to me. He covers me while another hauls a stretcher out of the van. I keep staring up at Quick. His laserlike eyes burn right through me, diverting my attention from the paramedics busily poking around at my arm. I have no idea what they’re doing to me until the sharp sting of an IV needle tips me off. Quick’s stare doesn’t give anything away. He exchanges a few words with the EMS crew out of my hearing range and nods. My heavy-with-plaster eyelids feel even heavier. I hear Quick promise “I’ll be by to see you later,” before the ambulance door slams shut and my lights go out.
35
The glaringly white walls in the room I wake up in make me have to shield my eyes, adjust to the light slowly. As I draw my hand away, I see that it’s flesh tone, marred only by the bulls-eye of a bruise where the IV needle stuck me. I don’t remember any of the deplastering and wonder if and how it all came off. I remember everything that came before.
A nurse sticks her head in the door. “How are we doin’ in here?” she coos in a soothing Jamaican accent. I nod, but before I can say anything, she ducks back out. I hear voices in the corridor, her soft voice lilting like a song, interrupted by a male voice that makes my heart beat so fast that its defibrillations would soar off the top of a cardiac monitor if I were hooked up to one. Quick steps into the room and gives the white curtain a yank even though the bed next to mine is unoccupied. The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises. He looks like he could use some emergency care. “You doing okay?”
I nod. “Was he…Curtis…”
“His name was actually Curtiz, Curtiz Szabo, and yes, he’s dead,” Quick affirms. “He planted a pipe bomb under the floorboards. When it blew, it took him down with it. Him and a whole lot of meat. That’s how we traced his whereabouts, the lab tests we ran on some of our blood evidence was IDed as nonhuman, specifically beef blood. He gave it up to us some more the last time he left a voice mail message by calling you a piece of meat. But none of this should have happened, at least not the way it did, and I’m sorry about that.” He clears his throat. “The Ten-Thirteen, it caught us off-guard.”
“What was…oh, the injured officer?”
He nods. “Someone was supposed to stay in the building no matter what, but in the rush to get him to Bellevue while we thought he still had a chance…”
“How is he?”
Quick looks away from me, toward the drawn curtain. “He didn’t make it.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry.”
Quick’s left hand squeezes the side rail of the bed. When his knuckles stop showing white, I look up at him again. “The antigen testing wasn’t the only thing that led us to his door. You left some clues for us,” he says, his hand dipping into his pocket. He pulls out the pencil I picked up from the floor in the drawing studio and my zig zag saw and my cut-out tool. No fettling knife, no sabre saw; they must be lost forever. He holds them out to me.
“They must have fallen out when he lifted me out of the trunk,” I say.
“This helped us close in on his location. This and some guys working in the meat plant down the street who said they thought they saw someone take a hooker into one of these buildings.” Thank God I did decide to wear a dress. Never mind what they thought I was. The corners of Quick’s eyes start twitching. “That didn’t jibe. They were talking good-looking female hooker, and this isn’t an area known for hookers any more and when it was, they were males in drag. You came out before we even had a chance to come in after you.” He gazes at me in such a way that I feel I’m still that plaster goddess. “How’d you manage to get away from him?”
I feel blood rush to my cheeks and look down at the rumpled bedclothes piled high on my chest. “Things came to a head. The opportunity just presented itself. I…I don’t remember exactly…”
“You did good. You’re alive.”
I nod. “Oh, uh, by the way, how’s your sister?”
His jaw tightens, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. “Holding her own. I’m getting her checked into an inpatient facility,” he says. “Right here in Manhattan. Better supervision and it’ll be easy for me to stop by and see her. She’ll be okay.” I can tell by looking at him that he might as well add, I hope. “I’m sorry about how that worked out too.”
“I guess it could have been worse.”
“Yes, it could have.” He turns to go, then stops. “Delilah,” he says, wheeling around to face me, holding my sculpting tools up in front of me like he would if they were going to be Exhibit A and B in some criminal trial, “what the hell did you think you were going to be able to do with these anyway?”
I shrug. It’s a safe bet I’m not getting them back from him. I don’t need them any more. “It’s a good thing you didn’t decide to get a gun to defend yourself with,” he says. “You would have been in big trouble.” As if I weren’t in trouble enough as it is. I flush, recalling Heidi Obermeyer’s after-hours target lessons. I could have shot Curtis; he wasn’t a work of art. I would have done anything to survive.
“You can’t be upsetting her.” The Jamaican nurse’s sing-song voice hits an off key as she brushes by Quick, carrying a draped tray. “I was just leaving,” Quick says, backing away from my bed. He gives the side rail a pat. “Take good care of her.” He watches as the nurse strips the towel from the tray with an abracadabra smoothness and swabs at the crook of my elbow with an alcohol pad. Watching his retreating back upsets me more than anything he said or could have said to me, hurts more than the prick of the needle piercing my skin. I don’t need him any more either. I wonder if he’s thinking this too.
36
“I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault,” Morgan blurts out while we’re waiting in line in the West Broadway café he suggested we go to for a quick fix. In the week I’ve been out of the hospital, every minute of my life has been spent finishing up work on my sculptures and moving the pieces to the Soho loft in time for the exhibit. I don’t know what I would have done withou
t Morgan’s help, and I’ve felt guilty because what happened to Morgan’s life happened because of me. I’m relieved he brought it up first. “I didn’t want to upset you with it,” he says, “because you’ve been doing so good getting your shit together for the exhibit. I figured the last thing you needed was to be reminded of what you went through.”
“I was afraid after what happened to Vittorio…”
“Curtiz killed Vittorio, you didn’t. He would have killed you too, if you hadn’t got away. I’m glad you got away.”
“Thanks.” I give his arm a squeeze. “I’m glad I got away too.” I take a few tentative steps as the line moves. “Anyway, I certainly wasn’t the first and I wouldn’t have been the last. You read the stories in the Daily News. I saw them in your studio. Front page, two days running, nothing bigger bumped it. They found the name of his next intended with his remains, a runway grunge model and the names and addresses of all those near and dear to her.”
“Snooping in my studio,” Morgan tsk-tsks. “Shame on you.” He frowns at the menu board behind the counter and decides on a latte and a heart-shaped shortbread cookie. “They didn’t tell you everything?”
I know who they refers to, someone tall and dark and good-looking and close-mouthed.
I shrug. “Trying to protect me after the fact, I guess.”
“To compensate for the half-assed job they did when it counted. What’re you going to have?”
I order a triple cappuccino. Morgan does a double take. “Whew, you’re going to be flying.”
“I’ve got to get this work done,” I sigh. “We’re having an opening tomorrow.” I take a slug of cappuccino the minute it’s served to me. “And I got all this unexpected advance publicity…I’m not sure what to expect.”
“I’ll be there for you, bella.” We sit at the counter facing the street within the frame of the triangular design featuring a roasting globe decaled on the window. “You don’t have to worry about that.” Morgan clears his throat between sips of his latte, “Okay if I bring somebody?”
I frown. “Somebody as in…”
“We’re just friends. For now. I’m just lonely. I was living pretty dangerously for a few days there. Raoul and others…anyway, I’m going to get tested, Delilah. This afternoon. I’m going to be tested and retested until I know there’s nothing wrong with me.” The latte makes a foamy mustache on Morgan’s lip, makes him look rabid. “I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
I put my hand over his. “I’ll be there for you too. Whatever happens.”
“You’ll never guess who called me to see how you were.” Morgan breaks off a piece of cookie and hands it to me. “Sachi.”
I frown. “Let’s see…hmmm, do I know someone named Sachi? Name rings a bell, but I can’t remember the face.” I stuff the morsel of cookie in my mouth. “Either one of them.”
Morgan laps up the last of his latte and waits for me to finish my cappuccino. “You going back to work now? I’ll be there to help you soon as I…”
“I’ll manage.” I squeeze his arm again before we head off in different directions. The chill makes me pull my anorak closer. It feels like winter already. If I manage to sell some pieces of sculpture, I’m going to invest in a heavier coat. I look to my left and right and behind me. Force of habit. At least there’s no one out here in the street responsible for giving me these chills. A dark car suddenly stops short at the corner of West Broadway and Prince Street, the tires grazing against the curb with a loud rasp. I stand on the corner like a statue.
The driver shouts “Delilah!” through the passenger window. I walk over to the car tentatively, recognizing its bad paint job, its stained, cracked upholstery, the driver’s voice. “I stopped by Lafayette,” Quick says. “They told me you went for coffee and where.”
I smile nervously. Detective Quick, are you stalking me? “I was just on my way back.”
“I have to swing back that way. I’ll drop you off. Get in.”
I settle in the seat next to him, avoiding the damp spot next to an empty coffee cup. “Royko,” he grumbles, tossing the cup in the back seat. The interior of the car is nice and warm and I feel even warmer. “How’re you doing?”
“Better than I was the last time you saw me.”
“The people over at Downtown Hospital, are they doing a follow up on you for post-traumatic stress?”
“They talked to me about it and gave me some referrals.”
“Use them.”
“If I need to…”
“You will,” he says adamantly. No ifs, buts, or maybes. He hangs a left on Spring Street. “When all the excitement of the exhibit blows over. When you stop being so busy.”
I nod.
“It looks good,” he says. “Your exhibit. What I saw of it.”
“Thanks. Want to come up and see the rest?”
“I can’t now. I’m on the job,” he pats the steering wheel as if I need a reminder that this clunker doesn’t belong to him. “Tomorrow,” he says softly.
“You coming to the opening?”
“Tomorrow’s my RDO,” he says. I frown. “My day off. I should be able to make it.” He pulls up to the curb, sparing the tires this time. “Before you go up, I’ve been meaning to warn you. I may call you if we need you to do a drawing for us some time.”
I nod as I open the car door. “I could do that.”
He smiles then, a rare top-hat-and-tuxedo smile that he dusted off just for this occasion. “I may call you even if we don’t.”
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed reading Over My Live Body as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s the first in a series of crime novels involving sculptor Delilah Price and Detective Patrick Quick as well as a motley crew of artist friends (and frenemies) and police personnel. At the beginning of my second novel, Student Bodies, Delilah has a lot on her mind; in order to survive as an artist in New York City, she applied for a job as a substitute teacher, which will leave her with less time to sculpt. Her first assignment is as a substitute for a substitute at a middle school in Brooklyn. The previous substitute failed to show up and is soon declared a missing person. On her way to the school the morning of her first day on the job, Delilah witnesses a teenage girl falling to her death from a subway platform. Several witnesses claim she was pushed. The girl turns out to be a student at the school where Delilah has been hired to teach. The environment there is anything but conducive to a positive learning experience. Delilah increasingly notices that female students seem intimidated by a tenured faculty member who seems to have a way with the ladies or at least acts like he thinks he does.
Her romantic interest, Detective Patrick Quick, is distracted. He’s busy working a case, tracking down a serial rapist who had been attacking transient women on the Lower East Side and Alphabet City. The most recent attacks, however, have been on young women in Greenwich Village and SoHo, and one of the victims is Delilah’s fair weather friend Sachi. Quick and other detectives working the serial rapist case had been convinced that the suspect was a recidivist who was released from Riker’s Island not long before the attacks began, but while there have been other cases matching the same M.O., some of the evidence in the Greenwich Village/SoHo incidents doesn’t match and Quick considers the possibility of a second rapist. That second rapist may be too close to Delilah for comfort.
I welcome comments from my readers, which can be sent to me at [email protected] as well as on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Susan-Israel-books/1422085928004817.
Be safe out there,
Susan
About the Author
Susan Israel lives in Connecticut with her beloved dog, but New York City lives in her heart and mind. A graduate of Yale College, her fiction has been published in Other Voices, Hawaii Review and Vignette and she has written for magazines, websites and newspapers, including Glamour, Girls Life, Ladies Home Journal and The Washington Post. She’s currently at work on the second book in the Delilah Price series, Student Bodies.<
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Here's a chapter from Susan Israel's upcoming novel, STUDENT BODIES
“You want to know what the problem is with these goils? They want it and they can’t get it any other way, so they wear their blouses down to here so their tits are hanging out and wear their skirts up to their ass. Then they scream ‘Rape.’”
“You want to know what your problem is? You’re a sexist pig!” I bellow at the radio. Dr. Judy tells the guy virtually the same thing and hangs up on him. The next caller wants to know how to protect herself. Everybody on radio talk shows is talking sexual assault these days, in response to the ABC rapist, so named because his first victims lived on the streets of Alphabet City. He didn’t have to bang down doors to get to them and nobody paid much attention until he did start breaking in past a few doors, entering through a few open windows, and moving west to First, then Second Avenue.
“I live on Third Avenue,” the caller says, her voice shaky, “I’m a student at Tisch. I come home late at night. The security in my building is lousy. I think I’ve even been followed a couple of times.”