Unleashed (Sydney Rye Series #1)

by Emily Kimelman

  "Said the man wearing the gold watch."

  Doyle laughed and smiled at me. "You're smart, too. The only difference is Mulberry's grandfather was a penniless immigrant, and mine was a multimillionaire who built a billion dollar business."

  "Oh," I said.

  "But it wasn't the extravagant lifestyle that concerned me. I was young enough to ignore it. The thing is he wanted to be as great as his Dad, and sometimes that drove him to 'create a break' in a case."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I don't want to go into details. It's just a fact that the guy can be really rough on suspects. Eventually he did something so fucked-up I demanded that they move me. And that's how I became a mounted police officer."

  "Was that a punishment?"

  He smiled. "No, a reward. For protecting him."

  "Jesus."

  The waitress arrived with another pitcher of sangria. She filled both our glasses. Declan looked up to say thank you and then looked right back to me. "When I complained to my superiors, they offered me my present situation, which is pretty awesome." He reached out for my hand again. "I get to meet lovely ladies like you. And Mulberry is under much closer supervision."

  "Oh, you meet a lot of ladies on the job?"

  He laughed. "You're the first witness I've ever asked out."

  "I bet."

  Declan wound his free hand into my hair and, leaning forward, placed his smooth, warm lips on mine. He backed off an inch and then pulled me toward him. I did not protest. His tongue darted out and wet our lips. I pulled away, my heart banging in my chest.

  He smiled at me. "Sorry, I just wanted to kiss you." He opened the space between us to pour some more sangria. As the waitress passed, he asked her for a charcuterie platter and two glasses of water.

  Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

  I'm a fan of Sundays. Usually there is not much to do, and I laze around in bed for at least an hour reading whatever happens to be on my side table. I was going through an old New York Magazine when Blue, sick of my Sunday style, started whining by the door.

  I ignored him at first, but I swear the dog pitched his whine to the exact note necessary to explode little pockets in my brain. I finally got out of bed with an exasperated, "Fine."

  I took Blue over to the coffee shop and ordered an iced latte, then we wandered the neighborhood. I looked in at store windows sipping my deliciously creamy beverage while Blue sniffed the cornucopia of scents littering the sidewalk. He managed to find an abandoned half slice of pizza and scarfed it down. I figured it was time for real breakfast.

  As I chewed a piece of toast and looked out my window, I thought about Declan. He was not like other guys I'd dated. First of all, he was a police officer and dedicated to his job. He ordered things for me, while I was very used to ordering my own drinks. There was a part of me that liked it though. Maybe I could be the kind of woman who enjoyed being taken care of. He certainly took care of me last night, I thought with a sly little smile.

  We went back to his place after dinner and enjoyed each other like only people who barely know each other can. I'm not saying I screw every stranger who crosses my path, but the fun thing about such quick sex is you can be whoever you want to be in bed. They have no idea who you really are. That first night with Doyle, I was a lamb to his tiger, and I liked it.

  I caught a cab home just as the bars were letting out. He wanted me to stay (or at least he said he did), but I needed to get back to Blue (or at least I said I did). I like catching a town car home late. I like sitting back in the leather and watching drunken people fill the streets after final call is announced. They are all looking for a fight or a fuck. And, Lord Jesus, they are not going home until they get it. If there is one thing I can give to the douche bags of the world, they know what they are living for.

  Sometimes I wish I had their clarity.

  The rush to find an outfit the night before left my bedroom in a state of disarray. I had not gone through my closet since moving into the apartment a year-and-a-half before. I decided this was the perfect Sunday to take it on.

  I put on NPR and listened to the news of the day while I pulled out all of my clothing and started dividing it into piles. I heard an interesting story about Trader Joe's. Apparently it's owned by a large private corporation that owns tons of supermarkets under all different brand names. That made me wonder what it would be like to come from a family of supermarket magnates. I was picturing myself on a large yacht with servants to clean out my closet (and bring me fresh produce from my very own supermarkets) when my attention was again drawn to the radio.

  "The mayor is hosting a party for the Biltmore Club tomorrow evening at Gracie Mansion. This is the second gala event the mayor has hosted since coming into office. It raises money for underprivileged New Yorkers. Joining me is Laura Piper, the events coordinator for Gracie Mansion since 1995. Thanks for joining us…"

  That was the second time this week I'd heard about the Biltmore Club. Weird I'd never heard of them before. I picked up the phone and called James. "Hey, you ever hear of the Biltmore Club?" I asked when he picked up.

  "No, but let me ask Hugh." I heard James calling out to Hugh but didn't hear his response. "Hold on, he's coming over."

  "Hey Joy," Hugh said.

  "What's up?"

  "I don't know a lot about them, but when I did that stint with that private chef agency a couple of years ago, I heard some rumors."

  "Rumors?"

  "Yeah, crazy shit."

  "Really?"

  "The only thing I know for sure is membership is coveted. All the major power brokers are into it."

  "Really?"

  "A shit-ton of the people who could afford our services were members of the society."

  "What? Seriously? How have I not heard of these people?"

  "They don't want you to hear about them."

  "Hugh, come on."

  "Joy, I'm serious. The world has little resemblance to what most people believe."

  "How can you say that?"

  Hugh laughed. "Come on Joy, you don't see things the way most people do. You know you can make yourself invisible. We all can."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Think about when you're on the subway. No one looks at you, right?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If you do something crazy like, I don't know, scream 'fuck' at the top of your lungs, does anyone look?"

  "No, but that's not me making myself invisible. That's those other passengers ignoring me. I'm sure they see me."

  "Really? How do you know they just plain never saw you?"

  "I see people on the subway do crazy shit, and I don't say anything."

  "Sure, but you turn your eyes to look at them. You have a reaction. I'm telling you Joy, there is all sorts of shit happening around you all the time that you don't want to see, so you don't. Here, try this tomorrow. When you get on the subway, sit down and really look at everyone in your car. I mean check out the creases of their skin, the sleep in their eyes. Do your best to make eye contact. See how much more becomes visible to you."

  "You're blowing my mind, Hugh."

  He laughed. "Just try it."

  "How do you know these Biltmore Club people are into crazy shit?"

  "I was single at the time, Joy."

  I laughed. "So?"

  "These people like to party. And I mean party."

  "Crazy?"

  "Seriously."

  I heard James in the background saying something. "Hey Joy, I've got to go. We're headed to the Farmers' market to pick up dinner."

  "OK, thanks."

  "Sure, we can talk more later."

  James got back on just to say his good-byes, and then I was alone in my bedroom surrounded by piles of clothing, no closer to a clean bedroom or a solution to the mystery before me.

  I spent another hour on my closet and managed to get almost everything I wanted to keep put away. That left two bags of donations. I hefted them a couple of blocks to the clo
thing drop-off box. It was a painfully hot day, and by the time I got back to my place, I was drenched with sweat.

  I took a shower and spent the rest of the day on my couch watching TV, doing my nails, and generally being a good-for-nothing. I ordered take-out Chinese. When the guy came to the door, he handed me my food, and I passed over a twenty. After he left, I realized that if you put that guy in a lineup, I wouldn't be able to point him out. I ordered food from the same two places most days of my life, and there was no way I could pick out the different men who brought it to my door. Maybe Hugh was right.

  I ate my food watching bad Sunday-night TV. There was a show about some vampires who lived in a gated community and were constantly pulling guns on each other. Why they needed the guns was the most burning question of the whole series, at least I thought.

  Julen Has a Meltdown

  Monday morning it felt like everyone in Yorkville was talking about the arrest. The name Jacquelyn Saperstein permeated the air. I passed a pair of women, hunched with age, wearing hats appropriate at church or a horse race, as one said, "I never liked her. You can't trust a woman that thin." The other nodded sagely.

  There was no one to hold the door for me at the Sapersteins' building. A worried-looking maintenance man stood behind the concierge desk. "What's going on?" I asked. He motioned with his head to a door behind him marked Employees Only. I could hear soft weeping inside. "Who's in there?" I asked.

  "Julen," he said.

  I tried the knob, but it was locked. "Julen," I called. "Open the door."

  "Go away!" he yelled, his voice thick with tears.

  "Julen, if a resident of the building walks through the lobby, you are going to be in some deep shit."

  "I have nothing left to live for," he cried back.

  "That's a little dramatic, don't you think?"

  Julen let out a highly dramatic wail. My friend of few words held up a key. "Skeleton," he said.

  "Sweet." Inside, I found Julen huddled in the corner of a very small employee lounge. When he saw me, he scrambled to his feet.

  "Leave me alone. I want to be alone," he said wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

  "Then you shouldn't have shown up for work. You need to pull yourself together and get back out there."

  "But they have accused my one true love. The only woman I have ever or will ever care for." He fell back against the wall and slid down it with a moan.

  "Julen, you are going to lose your job," I said. My skeleton-key-holding friend nodded behind me vigorously. Julen covered his face with his hands. "Locking yourself away in an employee lounge is not going to help her," I said.

  "You are right," Julen said looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I must help her." He paused and stared down at the floor. "I will confess," he said in a small voice. "Yes," he said louder. "I will go to the police and tell them." As he started to stand up, he said, "I'll tell them that it was me. I wanted him dead."

  "Julen, that is a really bad idea," I said. More vigorous nodding from the maintenance man. "The police will not believe you, and it will only make her look more guilty."

  Ignoring me, Julen started for the door. My new friend and I blocked his path. "Let me out," Julen demanded.

  "You are acting totally insane," I said.

  "Loco," added the other man.

  "First you tell me that I cannot stay in here, and now you tell me I cannot leave. What do you want from me?" He turned back into the lounge and threw his hands in the air.

  "Where was Jacquelyn when her husband was killed?"

  The question caught him off guard. "Why do you want to know that?"

  "Because I want to help her."

  "Why? Why do you want to help her?" I didn't have a ready answer. I hadn't even known that I wanted to help her until I said it. Why did I want to help a woman who very well could be guilty? Was, in fact, more than likely guilty?

  "I don't know, but I do. Do you know where she was?"

  "She was with me." He hung his head in either exhaustion or shame or maybe both.

  "Where?"

  "At my house, in Queens. I already told the police this. But, of course, they don't believe me."

  "Did anyone see you two together?"

  "No, we were very careful. Careful." He laughed a mirthless laugh and sat down, more like collapsed, onto a small, battered love seat. "Nothing matters now…now that I have lost her."

  "What do you mean, lost her?"

  "She ended it with me." His eyes filled with tears.

  "She dumped you?"

  "Yesterday was my day off, and I wanted to spend it with her. She told me--" A lump rose in his throat and cut off communication. "She told me that she didn't want to see me anymore, that she didn't love me, that she never had." A tear ran down his smooth cheek. I realized how young he was. No more than 20.

  "I'm sorry, Julen." He let his head fall into his hands again. Soft sobbing rocked his frame. "Why are you so desperate to help her if she has hurt you so much?"

  His head sprang up. "Just because she no longer loves me does not mean that I will abandon her." All of our heads turned at the sound of the revolving door.

  "Julen, get out there," I whispered sharply. He jumped up and hurried into the lobby, wiping his face with his sleeve. I closed the lounge door most of the way.

  "Hello, Julen." It was Detective Mulberry. All I could see was the back of Julen. "I just have a couple more things to clear up with you."

  "Of course, Detective, but I am working now. Could we talk later?"

  "I think we should talk now." The door revolved again. "I think you should come for a chat at the station."

  "Sir, I could lose my job."

  "Come on, let's go." I heard the sound of two men wearing hard-soled shoes walk toward Julen. A hand wrapped itself around Julen's arm and moved him. I was suddenly facing the Detective. Ducking behind the door, I hoped he hadn't seen me. I heard the door revolve several more times, then silence. The maintenance man sharing my hiding place shook his head and clucked his tongue against his teeth.

  I nodded. I waited a couple of seconds, holding my breath, listening. When I was sure the lobby was empty, I walked out of the lounge. Mulberry was waiting for me. He smiled, enjoying the mix of fear and surprise on my face.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "None of your business." It was his turn to be surprised. I walked past him toward the elevators.

  "I asked you a question." Mulberry ran a couple of steps to catch up.

  "And I gave you an answer." I pushed the up button and prayed for the doors to open.

  "I'll ask you again. What you are doing here?"

  The doors opened and I saw myself reflected in the mirrored walls of the elevator as I said,

  "None of your business."

  I stepped inside.

  "Don't push it, Miss Humbolt."

  I turned to face him, then pushed the button for the Sapersteins' floor. The detective didn't try to stop the doors from closing, nor did he take his eyes off mine.

  A Fight

  A short, plump, clean-faced woman opened Jacquelyn Saperstein's door.

  "Hi, I'm--"

  "Who is it?" came a voice from inside; it was strong with an accent born out of shit loads of money. The woman in front of me winced.

  "Hi, I'm Joy, the dog-walker." I held my hand out to the woman in front of me. Tentatively, she laid her soft hand in mine. I squeezed and shook. She watched. I let go and her hand slipped out of my grip and back down to her side.

  "I'm Cecelia."

  "Nice to meet you," I said. She didn't respond. "I know this is a difficult time and--" A rail-like woman, her face encased in cosmetics, brushed Cecelia aside and started talking over me.

  "You must be the dog-walker. Cecelia, why do you have her standing in the doorway? Please excuse my sister. She forgets herself," the woman said, looking at a point above my head. Cecelia melted away from the door and onto the couch in the living room
with her eyes downcast and her hands clasped in front of her.

  "That's alright. As I was saying to your sister, this is--"

  "Come inside," she said, cutting me off again. She closed the door behind me. "There is no reason for us all to be standing around like a bunch of idle ninnies," she said in the direction of her sister, who flinched.

  Snaffles was in the kitchen. He was awake, but he looked much older. His snout sported gray hairs, and he walked with the air of an animal that had lived too long, dragging his left back leg and wheezing with each labored step. "What happened to Snaffles?" I asked the thin sister.

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. You just have to walk him. I think just about anyone could handle that responsibility." She lit up a very long, white cigarette and looked down her sharp nose at me. "I mean, even a trained monkey can walk a dog." She laughed at her own joke, and gray smoke plumed past her perfectly white capped teeth and into the air.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

  "Mrs. Point."

  "I understand that this is a hard time for your family, but there is no reason to talk to me like that."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." She blew a long stream of smoke in my direction.

  "I just want to know if Snaffles is ill."

  "Just shut up and walk the dog." She started to leave the room.

  "Excuse me?" I said.

  She whirled around and glared at me. "Who do you think you are? You are my employee, and you will do as I say."

  "I'm not your employee, and I feel bad for anyone who is."

  "Then I guess you will find other employment."

  "I guess I already have it." I started to leave but couldn't help myself. "This was a young and healthy dog only days ago, and now he looks like he is in death's doorway. I asked what happened to him, because I care about the well-being of the animal-- something any person would do. Perhaps even a trained monkey would have the heart to find out what happened to a defenseless creature." Mrs. Point looked down at me, her cigarette gripped tightly between long, claw-like fingers.

  "How dare you speak to me this way," she sputtered. "Get out." She stamped out her cigarette into an ashtray and pointed to the door. Cecelia walked into the kitchen.