“I know, but she was naked and I—well—I just couldn’t leave her lying there like that.”
“But you didn’t move anything?”
“No. That’s all I did. I didn’t even touch her. I didn’t even see if she was still alive. I knew she was dead.”
“We’d better get someone out here,” Colon said.
“Let’s have a look first, Norman.” Better nudged the back door open with his foot, and Colon and Novakovich followed him.
Wetzon stayed where she was. She’d seen enough. Izz whimpered and licked her hand with a dry tongue, and Wetzon hugged her, burying her face in the soft fur, as Susan had a scant week earlier.
Novakovich pushed past her and stood leaning, panting, his palms on the wall near the elevator, head down. His face was the color of paper, hands grimy, the nails uneven, one grossly discolored. The crusty scab of a half-healed cut ran jagged across the back of his left hand. Sweat beaded the nape of his bent neck.
“All right.” Colon’s manner was brisk. “Let’s get down to the lobby. I want a statement from both of you. Mr. Nova—”
“Novakovich.” He raised his head and wiped the sweat on his face with his forearm.
“Please see that no one in the building goes out on that landing,” Colon told him. “We’re going to block it off now.”
“How’m I gonna do that?” The smell of him was corrupting, especially in the closed elevator. “I got a strike going on.”
“Use your intercom. No one will be allowed in or out of this building unless you can identify them.”
A small pain, like a bruise, began to throb behind Wetzon’s ear, joining the throb from the bump on her forehead. “Are you from the Nineteenth?” she asked.
“Yes,” Better said.
“Please tell Ed O’Melvany—”
“You know O’Melvany?”
Wetzon nodded. She was breathing through her mouth so she wouldn’t have to smell Novakovich’s fear.
In the lobby, Colon looked around, then led them to where Rhoda was sitting on the sofa, her head bowed, mumbling. She held a small black Bible to her breast. The uniformed security guard watched their procession, openly curious.
“Ma’am, would you kindly—”
“She’s Susan’s housekeeper, Rhoda. I don’t know her last name,” Wetzon said. “I guess you’ll want to talk to her.”
Colon looked carefully at Rhoda. “Yes. Was she in the apartment when it happened?”
“No. I met her on the street. She’d picked up Izz—Susan’s dog—” Wetzon said, nodding to the dog in her arms, “—at the vet’s and gave her to me to bring up to Susan while she did the marketing.”
Colon turned his back while he and Better had a brief conference. Better took out his radio from his back pocket. He was already talking into it as he walked up the steps to the street, and an EMS siren made its presence known with its urgent waaa-waaa-waaa-waaa.
“And Mr. N—” Colon didn’t even attempt it this time. “I want everyone who comes in identified. No deliveries till the detectives get here.”
“Everybody must sign in anyway—because of the strike.”
“Good. I think we’d better have a look at the sign-ins for the last two days.”
“The mountain,” Rhoda muttered.
Better came through carrying a couple of sawhorse barricades and a roll of yellow crime-scene tape, walking straight to the elevator. Two EMS attendants followed him.
Novakovich wrung his hands. “Do Djavola! What if there’s a fire? The fire department will fine me because the back stairs are blocked.” He was standing in the middle of the lobby howling.
Funny what you zero in on, Wetzon thought, feeling oddly detached.
“Do you hear me, Lord?” Rhoda said.
“Mr. Novakovich,” Wetzon called, “let the police handle it and it’ll be over faster.” She seemed to know just the right thing to say.
“Thank you, Ms.—” Colon gave her a tiny, careful smile.
“Wetzon.”
“I’d like to get a short statement from you, er, Rhoda, if you’ll come with me.
Rhoda cringed, fear in her eyes. “Be with me, Lord.”
“It’s okay, Rhoda,” Wetzon assured her. “You’ll be wanting to go home. This will get you there faster.” There. She’d done it again.
“I just want to ask you a few questions and the detectives will be here any minute. Then we’ll send you home in a car.”
Colon helped the frightened woman up and took her, still hanging on to her purse and her bag of groceries with one hand and her Bible with the other, to what Wetzon figured must be the mail or package room. They were probably going to use it for the command post as soon as the detectives arrived. Novakovich was standing near the guard talking to a woman in a mink-lined raincoat over sweats, with twins in a double stroller, their eyes round with excitement over the blue uniforms of New York’s Finest. One was trying to wriggle out of his seat belt and had almost done it.
“An accident, Mrs. Murphy. You do not have to worry. It is not on your side of the building.” The super shuffled through the papers on the marble- topped table and pulled two sheets. “Start a new sign-in,” he told the guard, then walked Mrs. Murphy to the elevator, continuing to assure her that everything was fine in such a nervous, almost frantic manner that Mrs. Murphy’s face had taken on an uneasy expression. Or maybe it was just his pungent odor. She made a distinct effort to get between him and her twins to block out his agitation. “Kevin, stay right where you are,” she admonished the child, who had at last managed to climb out of the stroller.
It was only when Colon came out of the mail room and approached Novakovich that the super paused and drew back. Mrs. Murphy gave the stroller a brisk push onto the elevator and followed. The door closed. Colon began to talk to the super, gesturing with his notebook.
In Wetzon’s arms Izz finally heaved a sigh and stopped trembling. Susan had written Smitty’s name in her date book. Did that mean he’d been here? She didn’t know what to make of it. Mark—as Smitty—had become as devious as Smith, in his own way. Had he murdered Susan? Had he clobbered her—Wetzon—his friend? Was he capable of murder?
Sure, we all are. Would he have done it? Wetzon couldn’t bring herself to think so.
She had not torn the page from the date book and she could have. Tamper with evidence? She couldn’t do it. Not so fast, Wetzon, she chided herself. Hadn’t she tampered with evidence by returning Carlos’s watch, which Walt said he’d found in Sam’s hand. What if Walt had killed Sam and planted the watch? No. Then there would be no reason to smuggle it to her. He would have left it there to be found. And the watch had blood on it.
What Walt had done was wrong. And she had compounded that wrong because she wanted to protect Carlos. But it was a bad decision and she knew it. She had too much respect for law enforcement. With Susan’s date book, she’d managed to obfuscate, make it a little harder to find. But they would find it. She was merely buying time.
Colon had finished with the super and was coming back to Wetzon when two more uniformed cops came in the front door, then behind them, detectives. No O’Melvany. Izz began trembling again. Wetzon stood and took a few steps across the marble floor. O’Melvany wasn’t there. Panic began to flutter in her breast.
“What’s going on?” one of the uniforms asked.
“Don’t you know? We’ve got a DCDS,” Colon said. “A Susan Orkin. What are you guys here for?”
“Christ,” the other said. “We’ve got a page of complaints from her, about her. Last night she calls us after midnight to get some crazy woman out of her apartment, and this morning her downstairs neighbor calls and says it sounded like someone was being killed up there.”
51.
“Not you again.” Eddie O’Melvany looked grim. “I couldn’t believe it when Better called it in.” Izz bared her teeth when O’Melvany reached out and patted her head. He had arrived on the scene only minutes after the others.
Wetz
on put her hand over her eyes, bit her lower lip, but couldn’t keep the tears from coming. “I’m sorry,” she said. It was maddening, maddening not to be able to control her emotions.
In the continuing moviola of her mind, quicksilver pictures spun by, things she hadn’t remembered. Susan running down George Street, the cuffs of her flannel PJs hanging from under her jeans, late for an eight o’clock class in English Comp. Susan admonishing her for not picketing Rutgers administration to protest some long-forgotten infringement of free speech.
“I’m sorry.” More tears. Izz sat up and licked Wetzon’s chin, sopping up the tears.
O’Melvany handed her a linen handkerchief and waited for her to dry her eyes and blow her nose. He took a roll of tropical Life Savers from his pocket, popped one in his mouth, then held the roll out to her. When she shook her head, he put it back in his pocket. “This your dog?”
“No. Susan’s.”
“I’m going up to have a look. When I get back, you can fill me in.”
“Okay.” She dried her eyes again. His handkerchief was real linen and had his initials on one corner, white on white. Her mascara had come off all over it.
He started for the elevator, where a technician carrying a load of camera paraphernalia slung over his shoulder was waiting, then stopped, turned back to her. “I left a message downtown for Silvestri.”
If Wetzon were a witch, O’Melvany would have been promptly reduced to ashes, Sonya or not. This would only increase Silvestri’s macho sense that he was always bailing her out of trouble when she could damn well bail herself out—if everybody would just leave her alone.
What the hell was she going to do about Mark? And who was the woman Susan had called the police to throw out? The police would know that.
A parade of Crime Scene Unit detectives and technicians began filing in, mixing with the curious tenants who were hanging around. Novakovich was huddled with one whose demeanor told Wetzon that in spite of the runner’s garb, he was probably the president of the co-op board and most likely a lawyer. New York was rancid with lawyers, and they clustered with their like on co-op boards all over the city.
Izz jumped off Wetzon’s lap and began making little circles. Uh-oh, what had she done with the leash? Too late. Izz was squatting, and the muted colors of the patterned carpet beneath her were slowly darkening.
Rhoda appeared again, escorted by a uniformed cop, no longer carrying the groceries, just her Bible and her purse. Her face was gray. Izz came to life and danced around the old woman. “You, girl,” Rhoda said, pointing a knobby finger at the dog, who shot up and licked it, “you behave yourself now.” Her teary eyes met Wetzon’s. “God rest their souls, they spoiled her. Imagine putting all that love on an animal when there are so many children—” She shrugged. “I got me a ride home.” She nodded to the uniform.
“What about Izz?”
“Oh, you’ll have to take her, Miss. They don’t let dogs in my project.”
Izz was looking up at them, tilting her head from one to the other, as if she knew they were talking about her.
“I don’t even have any dog food. I wasn’t going home ...” Oh, shit, Wetzon thought.
“She eats the dried stuff. There’s a big bag upstairs. Ask them officers to give it to you.”
Izz made a half-hearted attempt to follow Rhoda, stopped, looked back at Wetzon. She seemed to decide that Wetzon was the more perfect patsy.
The lobby was suddenly full of people. Cops. Tenants. Guns. All closing in on her.
Wetzon couldn’t breathe. She tore off her beret and stuffed it in her pocket. Her heart pounded with an urgency that scared her. Air. She had to get air. She picked up Izz and threaded her way out to the street. No one stopped her. A uniform was stationed in front of the building, impassively watching the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Subdued strikers with their placards were exchanging information with some of the people watching the activity.
Two blue-and-whites, their colored lights rolling, were among the cars double-parked, and there were a lot of those because Saturday was still an alternate-side parking day. Dispatchers’ disembodied voices crackled over police radios.
“I’m a hayseed, my hair is seaweed, and my ears are made of leather and they flop in rainy ...”She was lined up with four other freshman, each with a giant-size name tag hanging from her neck. They were being ordered to sing. “I’m a hayseed, my hair is seaweed ...”
The girl next to her hissed, “This is so stupid.” Her name tag said Susan Cohen.
“Sing,” the sophomore commanded. Susan Cohen and Leslie Wetzon grinned at each other and shrugged, and they sang, “I’m a hayseed, my hair is seaweed, and my ears are made of leather and they ...”
Wetzon stood on the sidewalk, gulping big chunks of moist air into her lungs. Izz began to squirm, and Wetzon set her down in the gutter between a white Acura and a black BMW. Her knees trembled violently. She sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, huddled in the narrow space between the two cars, shivering, pulling her fur coat around her. Near her boots a condom nestled next to a penny—head up for good luck—and a child’s grimy white sock. Izz tried to climb into her lap, but Wetzon was hugging her knees.
If she made herself small enough, maybe she wouldn’t die.
Somewhere in the logical half of her brain, Wetzon knew she was having a panic attack, but it was a downhill roller coaster ride. She couldn’t stop it.
Get out of here, a voice urged. Run! Run for your life!
She caught Izz up in her arms and stood, balancing herself for the moment against the Acura, then walked out into the street away from Susan’s building.
When she got to Fifth Avenue, she began to run.
52.
Wetzon came out of Central Park near the Museum of Natural History with no memory of how she’d gotten there. Central Park West was being repaved and only a single lane was open either way. She knew impatient drivers waiting their turn for the single lane had to be leaning on their horns, but her heart was pounding in her ears, blocking everything else out.
A voice screeched at her, “Whatsamatter, you deaf?”
She stopped. An old woman in a brown stormcoat that had seen better days said, “You better leash your dog, lady, or he’s going to get run over.”
Dog? She looked down and there was Izz trotting along beside her. They crossed Central Park West together, Wetzon wheezing badly, unable to get air, intent for the Beresford.
Alton was back. Alton wouldn’t let her die.
“Good afternoon, Miss.” A doorman she didn’t recognize was on the door, but he must have recognized her because he added, “Mr. Pinkus got in a couple of hours ago.”
Alton was waiting for her, saying her name, standing in his open door in blue jeans and a soft white buttoned-down shirt. She fell into his arms with a certainty that he would take care of everything. “Leslie, what is it?” Concern softened his voice as he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.
“Oh, God—Can’t breathe.” She propelled herself out of his arms, panicked. He had a fire going in the fireplace. She dropped to her knees, gasping. “I’m going to die ... Oh, God.” Her head sank to the carpet.
Alton lifted her, put his arm around her shoulders. “Breathe into this—” He held a paper bag to her lips. Izz whimpered.
She pushed the bag away. “Can’t, can’t—”
“Leslie, listen to me. You are not going to die. You’re hyperventilating. Breathe into the bag. It will help, I promise you.”
Don’t fight it, she told herself, obeying. Her asthmatic wheezing began to subside. She felt the tension draining from her body and she leaned back into him, intensely aware of his cleanshaven cheek, the fragrance of his aftershave, his damp hair. And his desire.
The fire snapped and stuttered. She had stopped shivering and her coat lay on the floor near them. Izz had made herself cozy on it.
Alton was sitting on the floor holding her, his back against a club chair. “I guess you really mi
ssed me.”
She touched his face. “It’s been a bad week.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” He caught her hand and held it.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start....”
“Start with your friend here.” He nodded at Izz. Izz’s shiny black nose twitched.
“That’s Izz. She belongs—belonged—to my friend Susan Orkin.”
“Gary’s ex-wife?”
“God, Alton, do you know everybody in the world?”
“Probably.” He grinned down at her.
He was such a lovely man. She looked around the elegant room. For months now, she’d spent almost every weekend here, but it wasn’t her. It was Alton. Older. Reserved. Well-balanced. And settled. None of which she was. Could she live here? She didn’t think so. She would always feel like a guest. “Oh, Alton, I don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
The ringing woke them. Izz jumped up, dancing around, barking. They were curled up against each other on the floor under a soft woolen throw.
“Don’t answer it,” Wetzon murmured.
“It’s not the phone. It’s the intercom,” he said, kissing her ear. He got up and went into the kitchen. “Yes?” He had the lean tight buns and the legs of a runner.
She closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to die. At least not yet. “Tell whoever it is to go away,” she said.
“Come back in half an hour.” Alton snapped off the intercom.
Wetzon sat up. “Tell who to come back?” He was putting on his jeans, zipping his fly. “Alton!”
“Your friend Silvestri.”
“Why didn’t you tell him to go away?” She didn’t even try to keep the wail out of her voice.
“He says you left the scene of a crime—”
The fire had subsided to embers. Wetzon shivered. “Alton, I’m sorry—”
“You’d better tell me what’s going on.” He sat down on the sofa, picked his shirt up from the floor and put it on.
Wetzon wrapped herself in the throw and sat down next to him. “A week ago Susan Orkin’s lover, Dilla Crosby, was beaten to death just before the gypsy runthrough. She was the production stage manager on Hotshot, Carlos’s show.”
Murder: The Musical Page 29