Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5)

by J. J. Henderson

  "Actually, I was headed down into your neighborhood. How about Faneli's?"

  She looked at the clock. "I gotta do a couple things. See you there in half an hour, OK?"

  "Don't go chasing Zane Smithson anywhere in the next thirty minutes, Luce. Promise?"

  "Actually, if I could find him I'd like to stab him in the heart. No, I'm not going anywhere. See you in a little while." She hung up.

  Rene Lavoisier. Wasn't that the name of some famous scientist in the 19th century? A bloody Frenchman. Who woulda thunk it? Where the hell was he?

  She put her jacket back on and the dog on a leash and headed downstairs, across Broadway, and into SoHo. She wandered over to West Broadway and turned north to get away from the Broome Street gridlock, and found herself awash in the neighborhood's warm late afternoon vibes. She felt a little premature nostalgia coming on. There, where that retro new wave accessories boutique now thrived, a breakfast deli used to sell bacon and eggs for a dollar twenty-nine weekdays till ten. That neon punkette hairdressing salon used to be a jazz club, and she'd seen Pharaoh Sanders play an unannounced gig there one night long ago. How long ago? She headed east on Prince, and tied Claud to a stop sign outside Faneli's. "Hang tight, Poodle," she said. "I'll be back. I always come back, pup." Inside, where she'd had a few hundred beers over the years, there were half-a-dozen local yokels sucked up to the bar. Even though it had been renovated and snazzed up in mood and manner and Faneli himself was long gone this place was a million miles from the SoHo show. Harry sat at the far end, by the entrance to the back dining room, nursing a club soda with lime. He looked morose. She walked up, put her hands on his shoulders, "Hey dude, how's it going south of the border?"

  "Mexico is basically out of control. Drug lords running half the army and the other half underpaid and pissed off. What happened to your eye?" he said. She looked in the bar back mirror. The bruise showed below her sunglasses. She took them off to give him a better look, then put them back on. "Jesus, Lucy, what the hell did you do this time?"

  "Ran into a bad-tempered Russian."

  "Does this have something to do with—"

  "Zany Rene? Yeah."

  "Christ, Lucy, why do you insist on getting into these crazy cases without—"

  "You're the one who told me I had to seek justice, Harry. Remember?"

  "Yeah, yeah. And then I left town. I know I basically suck, Lucy, but I can’t help it. Hey, sit down." He patted the barstool on his right. She sat. "David, my man, a—what'll it be, Luce?"

  "Draft's fine," she said to the bartender. "Whatever you've got. So, Harry—hey listen, I've got a friend who needs to check in to a recovery program ASAP. I think she might need to live-in. Got any ideas?"

  "Sure. Who is it? Can she pay?"

  "Woman named Katya. You don't know her. She probably has money, but I'm not sure."

  "Another Russian?"

  "Uh-huh. Anyway, she's a little strung out on smack, and her husband just got murdered, and she doesn't know anyone in New York except me and a couple of dope dealers. She’s part of the same story we’re telling each other here."

  "Sounds like a fun girl. I'll get on it tomorrow." He gave her a look. "So, um—"

  Her beer arrived. She took a gulp. "So I guess we need to talk about—the future," she said, putting the beer down.

  "I guess so."

  She got right to it. "Harry, I can't marry you. I'm just not ready to have kids. Or to get married. It’s not that I don't care for you." She took his hand. "Because I do."

  "OK. It's OK," he said. His voice sounded strained. "I guess I overplayed my hand with this one, huh?"

  "Harry, it was a noble gesture, and—I know you meant it."

  "With my whole heart, Lucy."

  "But I just don't know if I'm cut out for it. Marriage, kids, the whole package. I've been thinking about it, and—"

  "Lucy, the lone wolf." He grinned, a little bitter. "I can understand that. I hate to put it this way because it makes me sound like an old fart, but when I was your age, I felt the same way. Now, I don't know. It sounds pretty good to me. Plus you know, Lucy, you can't delay the baby thing forever—"

  "What baby thing? What if I don't want to have a baby? Is that a failing? A crime? Or what?" She was irked. This was not an easy matter to deal with. The last thing she needed was Harry giving glib advice.

  "Hey, hey, sorry," he said placatingly. "I'm just trying to offer a little perspective from the far side of forty. No offense meant. You don't want to have a baby, that's your business. It's a mean old world out there, and it ain't necessarily getting any better. For kids, I mean."

  "I don't know, Harry. I just don't know," she said, and took a swig of beer. "So anyways, I guess—if it's OK with you, I'd still like to—you know—be friends.”

  "Yeah, sure. Friends. All right, all right," he said. He looked at his watch. "I've got to run. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Luce. Stay away from that guy!" He kissed her on the cheek and headed out. An instant later, the door swung open and he stuck his head in and called down the length of the bar, "Luce, you would have made a great wife."

  She laughed, hoisting her mug to him, and then he left again. That could have been a lot worse. Harry was all right. She finished her beer and went out, snagged the poodle and headed west. She walked all the way to the river, and out onto one of the piers for a little communion with nature, Manhattan-style. Claud played with a boisterous young Dalmatian while Lucy watched the sun going down over the ancient factories of Weehawken, New Jersey. They headed home as night fell.

  Back at the loft, she decided to call Billy Ritz, tie up loose ends. "Ritz." That same voice.

  "Hi, is Billy around?"

  "Who's calling please?"

  "Lucy Ripken."

  A pause. "He know you?"

  "Yes. Tell him it's about the photograph I borrowed."

  Another pause, this time longer. "Hi, Lucy Ripken. This is Billy."

  "Hi, um—I don't know how to say this, but—"

  "They were here."

  "Who was?"

  "The cops. Isn't that why you're calling? They came and tried to get me to hand over all my data from that shoot, but naturally since I didn't know where it was I couldn't very well hand it over. Besides, I wasn't about to let the little shits in without a warrant. So—"

  "I lost the print you gave me."

  "Oh, that. Don't worry. After the cops came I had Carlos do a serious search, and he finally found the files. No problem, Lucy. But why did they come here? What's the big to-do about that guy, anyways?"

  "What did the cops look like?"

  "A little red-headed creep who chain-smoked, and a guy with a Russian accent. Both in plainclothes. They tried to get me to say I knew you. Don’t worry I didn’t."

  "Hey thanks. But this guy had a Russian accent? Are you sure?"

  "Hey, I know my former communists. I mean, I guess he could have been Ukrainian, but he was definitely from east of the border."

  "Right. Listen, when the air clears I'll tell you more about your photographic subject. He's a bad guy, worse than I ever imagined. So don't let him in your house again, should you happen to cross his path. The same goes for the cop and his Russian friend, who ain't no policeman. And I'm sorry about your print. By the way, I made some copies of it, and a friend of mine used one of them to figure the guy out. So you helped a lot."

  "You mean a picture I took actually served a purpose other than conveying the mystique of another worthless fashion product? That's great." They both laughed. "Hey, later, Lucy. Bye." He hung up.

  She put the phone down. So Riles was in it with the Russians—at least to the extent of helping cover the tracks she, Lucy, kept uncovering. Did that implicate Sanderson too? No way. He was too much a play-by-the-book kind of cop. Main thing was, this whole deal had gotten slightly out of control. She didn't really know where to go with it. It would not be to the cops. That much she did know.

  She ate a tuna sandwich and checked all her locks and w
ent to bed early, the day's events having worn her out. The last time she peered at the clock, it was ten-thirty-five.

  A ringing phone woke her, and the first thing she saw was the clock, which now read three-fifteen. "Damn," she said, ripped from deep sleep, a state she rarely attained. She threw on the light, found the phone and grabbed it. "Yeah, who is it? Who is this, calling me at three am?"

  "Hi, Lucy, its Timothy."

  "Timothy? I think you've got the wrong Lucy."

  "Tim Bob. Chain Saw to you, although I gave up that name."

  "Chain Saw! God, let me wake up a minute." She rubbed her eyes. "Ow, shit—sorry, forgot I had a sore spot. Hey, last time I saw you I was about three-quarters dead."

  "Listen, Lucy, I was nearly dead too. I just called because I—I checked into this de-tox place down near LA, and—anyways, I've been sober almost a week and one of the things I have to do is apologize to anyone I messed up with drugs. So I'm calling you."

  "At three o'clock in the morning?"

  "Sorry. I just had to get it done. Listen, Lucy I'm really sorry about what happened that night. I shouldn't have given you those drugs."

  "Hey, forget it. I knew what I was doing. Sort of. Of course if you'd had a gun that night I might have pointed it at myself and pulled the trigger, so I guess you might say I was a little out of control. But that wasn't your fault, or your problem."

  "Well, I just wanted to say I'm sorry, and to see how you're doing."

  "Hey, I'm OK. Listen, how's the band?"

  "Defunct. That's why I'm here, Lucy." He paused, then went on very softly. "Brad—the bass player—died of an overdose about a week ago. We—" he began to cry. Poor baby. "We gave up after that."

  "God, I'm sorry," she said.

  "Yeah, so am I. I—I saw him die." He sighed. "I gotta get clean and stay clean, or I'm a dead duck."

  "Sounds like you're on the right path, and that's a start," Lucy said softly.

  "I guess so. Listen, if you're ever out west again you know where to find me. I know our connection was pretty much no big deal, and kind of accidental, but—I felt like you were really tuned in to me, Lucy. So I would like to see you again, if you're out here."

  "Sure, Tim. I think I'll be in Seattle in a couple of months, actually. I'm thinking of moving out there. What do you think?"

  "Hey, it's a nice town. Lotta rain, but you're from Portland so you can handle that. It'd be great. Maybe by then I'll have a new band and you can, you know, write about it."

  "Yeah OK, Tim. Listen, it's the middle of the night. I need to get some sleep. I'll talk to you again. Write me a letter and tell me about getting straight. I'm sure it would be interesting to read."

  "Yeah, OK. I'll do that." He sounded like such a boy. "Bye Lucy."

  "Bye, Tim." She turned off the phone and the light and lay in the dark thinking about the men and the boys until she fell asleep.

  The next morning she headed back uptown, to make the visit she should have made days sooner, to Patty's apartment. She'd had the key since lunch with Patty's parents, yet she had resisted going there, until this day—a clear, cool one, winter looming in the air.

  She walked from the train station to the building on Lexington Avenue and entered. She explained herself to the doorman, and showed him her key, and he said the police hadn't been around in a few days and sent her up. She found the door and let herself in. Curious. She had only been in this apartment once in all the years she'd known Patty. She had always felt the taint of the Chinese Brazilian would be too strong here, and so she'd stayed away.

  She walked the entry hall and entered the living room. The sofa and chairs were still in place, nicely arranged around a glass coffee table, with elegant fifties-style lamps in the corners, but most everything personal had been removed—by the parents, Lucy guessed. She sat down on the white leather sofa, stared at a generic Miro reproduction on the wall, and contemplated Patricia Moody. What was it about her? Patty had been like Lucy’s shadow all these years—the woman who acted out Lucy's dark, self-destructive impulses. Under her sheen of glamor and jet set style and uptown gloss, Patty had considered herself worthless. A classically beautiful self-hating woman. "Damn, Patty," Lucy said out loud, and then burst into tears. "God damn you, why couldn't you ever wise up? What the hell was wrong with you?" Her voice echoed slightly in the half-stripped room. She pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes, gently rubbing her bruised cheek dry. This is what New York City did to people. Made them do whatever they had to, just to survive.

  Lucy went into the bedroom, where Patty had died. All the personal things had been removed, but the bed, stripped, was still there, as were nightstands and a pair of chairs. It was in one of these two simple white wooden chairs, with little blue flowers painted on the arms and back, that it had happened. Lucy forced herself to sit in the chair and close her eyes and imagine Patricia, that lovely, merry woman, bound and blindfolded, Rene Lavoisier injecting her with cocaine and heroin while she squirmed with—pleasure, terror, or both? Perhaps Nova sat in the other chair, watching, dick in hand, his hairy feet twitching with evil delight. Had Katya lolled on the bed, bound and gagged, watching too? God, how sick life could get in this town, she thought, jumping to her feet. She looked around. Nothing to see, really. All traces of Patricia were gone. Now that dirty old man from Brazil could move his next New York squeeze in here, and she could live happily ever after at least until the next pathological bastard came around to do his vile deeds.

  She hurried out, rode the elevator down, and hit the street feeling somewhat faint from the air in the apartment. Headed back to the subway, she considered the moral positions she had staked out in the world. She had experienced a moment of temptation when the Chinese Brazilian had made his offer. But she would have had to live in that place! Her morals were imperfect, they shifted on the shaky ground of Manhattan Island, but she understood that they were essentially solid, and that they shaped her view of the world and her place in it. For all his bitterness and the anger between them, it was her father who'd given her that moral sense. Rattling downtown on the Number 6 train, she thought of him, and silently thanked him. She got off the train at 33rd Street, went to the equestrian store on 35th, and spent several hundred dollars of Patricia Moody's father's money on a new pair of boots for Rosa.

  Lucy went home and called her agent, Clara Kellett. "Hi, it's Lucy."

  "Luce. I bet I know why you're calling."

  "You heard?"

  "About Foot & Wong? It's all over town. Don't worry, I'll place the book somewhere else if they hammer us. Hey, if they bail on the contract we don't have to give back the advance, so we can sell it twice. This might work out great."

  "If you can sell it again."

  "If it was bought once it makes it that much easier. You know, it's like, the decision has already been made for them if somebody else has accepted it."

  "I guess. I just wanted to—"

  "I know, I know, it takes so long. Look, it'll be a book next year. I promise. If it ain't Foot and Wong it'll be Woot and Fong, OK?"

  "You're the saleswoman."

  "You bet. And this is a good product. So don't worry."

  "Actually, I'm going to take my worried dog for a walk, and worry my way over to the bookstore and go in there and worry my way up and down the aisles for a while, looking over all the famous books by famous writers. Then I'll go get a coffee and worry over that, and then come home and sit, worrying, waiting for the phone to ring. Sound like fun?"

  "The freelance life. What a gas, eh?"

  "I'll let you know when I hear from Schallert."

  "Likewise."

  Lucy and Claud headed out. She decided to avoid the bookstore. Instead, she went over to the Park at Spring and Mulberry Streets, and found an old tennis ball to throw for Claud. He liked to run the ball down and snatch it up in his jaws, then make Lucy chase him to get it back. They wore each other out, playing for an hour, and then wandered home.

  Lucy slipped into he
r building and followed the poodle up the stairs. When she reached her landing she stuck the key in the lock, and discovered she'd left the door unlocked. She pushed it open and went in.

  Someone grabbed her from behind, clapped a hand over her mouth and eyes, and pushed her across the room. She was held so tightly she had no chance to struggle. Within seconds she was forced into her wheeled desk chair, tied up, gagged, and blindfolded. The man worked without saying a word. Lucy, in the dark, struggled to remain calm, to not struggle. As soon as he was done she gently tested the knots. Her hands, behind her seat back, were not too tightly bound, and the material felt soft. Silk. Her feet were tucked under and bound to the center post of the chair. The dog hadn't even barked.

  She heard him walk across the room and lock the door. Then he came back towards her, and stopped in front of her. He hadn't spoken. He unzipped her jacket and opened it. Then he began to unbutton her shirt. He stopped halfway, lazily ran his finger from her throat down between her breasts, pushing the shirt open a little. He undid another button. Then he abruptly pulled off the blindfold.

  Zane Smithson, of course. Lucy had figured him or the Russians, and the Russians didn't strike her as solo operators. She stared at him. "Promise not to scream, I'll take the gag off," he said. She nodded. He came over, untied it behind her head, and removed it. She spit in his face.

  "Motherfucker," she snarled as he raised an angry hand, then used it to wipe the spit off his face instead of hitting her. "Go ‘head, tough guy. Hit a defenseless woman."

  "Defenseless at the moment, but certainly resourceful, Lucy. I must say, you've done quite a job of sticking your lovely little snout into my affairs," he said. "But really, Lucy, leaving your front door unlocked is a little foolish in New York City, wouldn't you say?" he added. "I mean, there are bad people out there, Lucy.”

  "Lavoisier, what do you want? You want to do to me what you did to Patty? I mean, if you're here to—whatever you're here to do, don't waste my time yammering your bullshit at me. Just do it. And I suggest you hurry because my friend Harry—you've probably heard of Harold Ipswich—he works for the DEA, and he knows all about you, Rene fucking Smithson—and he is on his way over here at this moment."