Icarus w-2, page 39
part #2 of Westwood Series
She didn't hang up immediately, felt she should say more, but didn't know what else to leave on the tape. So she tapped the phone against her arm, realized she was still recording, and pressed the "End Call" button.
And when she hung up the phone it was the first time in her professional life she'd ever felt a sense of pure and utter panic.
– "-"-"SURPRISES CAME IN threes.
Somebody said that, too, but there was no time to remember who. Whoever it was had definitely been right, though. First was the angry guy at the Morticians – the paper said he was her husband – barging in through the bedroom door. Then there was the way the old guy, Dom, had fought back at the meat market. Damn, he was ferocious. It was still impossible to believe. How could somebody that old be so strong? Then the Destination, she was expecting a cop, opened the door without even needing to hear a story. None of the surprises mattered, of course, not in the end. Everything had happened the way it was supposed to happen.
Everything was turning out beautifully…
– "-"-"BACK OUT ON West Ninth Street, McCoy sucked in some fresh air, hot and humid and not very refreshing. She decided she had to do something. She needed to move. She took the unmarked car – not a bad one this time; a little rust on the passenger door but, all in all, perfectly acceptable – and drove all the way up to East Seventy-seventh Street. To make everything seem a little more urgent, but mostly just to give herself a little needed pleasure, she put the rotating light on the roof and turned the siren on.
When she arrived at Jack's apartment building, McCoy flashed her badge at the doorman, but he'd had a lot of experience working the ritzy part of town. He couldn't just let her up, he said. A lot of tenants would have him fired if he let anyone into their apartments, even a cop. Mr. Keller wasn't like that, the doorman said, he was a nice guy, but still…
McCoy didn't argue. She just told him that it was a matter of life or death and that if he didn't let her go up, she'd make sure he was fired. Guaranteed, today would be his last day on the job. When he still wavered, she said, steely as she could be, which was pretty damn steely, "Congratulations, you're outta here." Then she started back out to the street, but he grabbed her by the arm and said, "Okay, look, you gotta make it clear that you said it was life or death." McCoy didn't bother to respond, just headed for the elevator as he called after her, "Press 'Penthouse.' I'll release it."
She made a quick search of the apartment. When she was done, she realized she'd been holding her breath in. She had thought she might find another body and when she didn't, she felt herself able to breathe again.
McCoy knew that she should just sit quietly and wait. If she got impatient, she could leave. But as she'd discovered, by the age of three, she was not the patient type, so what the hell, as long as she was here, she decided, she might as well poke around. She wasn't really violating any laws. Jack Keller wasn't a suspect and she wasn't looking for anything incriminating. She was just hoping that something might jar a thought. An action. Any kind of clue as to what was happening… and how to stop it.
She was there maybe forty-five minutes, sifting through papers, opening drawers, finding nothing of any import and feeling kind of silly, actually, knowing she was being a snoop, not a cop, when she heard the elevator.
It's about time, McCoy thought. Then she steeled herself to deliver the bad news.
– "-"-"SO MUCH FOR surprises coming in threes.
Here was surprise number four. Unbelievable. But not a real problem, not yet anyway.
Surprise number four would be dealt with, too.
This had to be the cop, the woman sergeant. That's the only thing that made sense. But what was she doing here? By the way she looked so startled, she was probably alone. That was good. But she also looked suspicious, and that was bad. She wouldn't have her guard down long. She would know what was happening before too long. So better to move now. Better to strike immediately and ask questions later. That way, maybe there wouldn't be any more surprises.
She was smart, this cop, that was obvious. The way her eyes narrowed, she sensed something was wrong. And she was quick, because as soon as their eyes met, she didn't even ask any questions, she just reached for her gun. Oh, yes, she was smart and quick.
But not smart and quick enough.
– "-"-"MCCOY KNEW SHE'D make it.
"Can I help you?" she asked. And when the answer came and all it was was "No," she knew. She'd been trained to know and to act simultaneously and that's what she did. So she wasn't even particularly worried because it all seemed so right: her coming to the apartment, sticking around on little more than a whim, being there now with the opportunity to end it all. So when she moved, she was nothing but confident.
But going for her gun, she missed. Not a big miss, but she didn't grab it cleanly; her fingers grazed the handle and she had to fumble for it. She understood immediately that those extra few seconds were fatal but she didn't stop trying.
She leaped back, hoping that would give her the time she needed, but like everything else in this goddamn case, nothing went as planned.
She realized that the knife that was slashing at her was the one that had been taken from Dominick Bertolini's market. She realized she was looking at the Entertainer's murderer. And Samsonite's and the Mortician's and the Destination's. And hers. She realized that, too, now.
Her final realization was that she could forget about retiring in Bucks County with her beloved Elmore. She was going to die right here in New York City.
– "-"-"THE COP WAS moving. Couldn't let her move.
No more surprises. That was even a better motto than better safe than sorry.
The blade ripped through the air one more time and once was all it took.
The red blood rushed out and spread thickly down chocolate-brown skin. She grabbed for her throat, dropping her gun, and for the first time there was someone who didn't look as if she couldn't believe she was going to die. She looked like she expected to die. But she sure was angry about it.
Even after the cop was dead, she looked really, really angry.
Hard to blame her, really. But not much to be done about it.
Except clean up.
Why did death have to be so messy?
FIFTY
The traffic was heavy and every driver on the road seemed to be driving for the very first time, inching slowly when they could have gone normal speed, weaving unsteadily when they should have been stable. It took Jack over five and a half hours to get back to the Lincoln Tunnel, where, of course, things were bumper-to-bumper and he was stuck even in the EZ Pass lane.
Fidgety, he picked up his cell phone and dialed his home number to collect his phone messages. He was hoping that Grace had called. He needed to talk to someone, to try to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and not just the disparate pieces connecting the murders but the complicated thoughts and emotions that were charging through him. He was surprised that he wanted that someone to be her.
As he punched the "Okay" button, the car in front of him lurched forward and miraculously the traffic was momentarily clear. Just as he heard his phone machine connect, he found himself in the tunnel and the connection was severed. He clicked off the power, shrugged, and figured he could wait twenty more minutes until he was home.
Driving uptown, he wondered if he should stop off at Dom's. Dom would sit and drink with him, would let him talk until he was all talked out. But suddenly he was too tired to even think about sitting or drinking or talking. All he wanted to do was go straight home and fall into bed. He wanted to sleep for the next twelve hours and, if possible, not think or even dream about everything that had happened.
He parked the car in his garage, put the key in the slot for the penthouse, then changed his mind and went to the lobby to pick up his mail. There had to be a magazine in there, there was always a magazine in his mail, and he decided all he'd do is read whatever dumb story he could find on whatever dumb star or starlet they were writing about, and then he'd pass out.
It's a plan, he thought.
But it was a plan interrupted. As he stepped out to walk through the lobby to the mailboxes, he saw someone waiting for him. Raoul, the doorman on duty, looked fidgety and the expression on his face said that the person had been waiting a long time.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Waiting to see you."
"I've been calling up every fifteen minutes, Mr. Keller," Raoul said. "In case you came in through the garage. Also, Frankie said a cop was here to see you; he let her into-"
"How long have you been here?" Jack asked, interrupting the doorman. He was focused only on his visitor.
"Two hours. Maybe more. I don't know. Do you want me to leave?"
"No, no." Jack realized he was flustered. But pleased. As tired and drained as he was, he was very pleased. There was no one he wanted to see more.
"Come on up," he said to Grace Childress. "We have a lot to talk about."
– "-"-"HE USHERED HER out of the elevator and as he did he cocked his head slightly to the left.
"What?" she asked.
"Ever since the break-in," he said. "I'm just skittish. I keep feeling like someone's here. Or has been here." He listened intently – she stayed absolutely quiet – and glanced around the entryway and living room. Then he shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he told her. "Just you and me."
"Could I get a drink?" she asked.
"Anything you want is in the bar in the living room. I'm just going to check my messages."
He walked to the den, unable to shake the feeling that something was different, but he couldn't pinpoint it. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing was broken. There was a strange odor, he thought, but he couldn't put his finger on it. And it was so faint, it could be coming from anywhere. Still…
He told himself he was being ridiculous. He saw the green light flashing on the phone machine, saw that he had three messages. He wondered if any were from McCoy. He'd been so consumed with his own search he hadn't even thought about the fact that she might have uncovered something new.
Jack went to press the "Play" button but as he did, he heard a noise from behind him. Grace was standing in the doorway, her hands empty, her shoulders hunched down.
"What happened to your drink?" he asked. But she didn't answer. And when she looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "Do you want to talk?" he said.
"No," she told him. "I don't want a drink and I don't want to talk."
"What do you want?" Jack Keller asked.
"I don't want you to ask me any questions till the morning. And I want to make love to you until then," Grace Childress said. And, as the tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, she said, "Please."
– "-"-"SHE INSISTED ON turning out the light. She didn't want him to see her.
"But you're so beautiful," he told her.
She kissed him then and held his hand tight, as if her strength alone could keep him from shining a light on her body. He broke away from her kiss, said nothing, didn't move for what seemed to him like hours, but he was only a second or two away from her as he thought of Caroline, felt longing for all that was past. Then he grabbed her and pulled her toward him, hugged her so it seemed their bodies might merge, and he kissed her again, a quick kiss, then another, and another, this one long and sweet and deep.
Their lovemaking was both tender and brutal. There were demons to exorcise. He knew what his were, and he was happy to unleash them. He did not know what was behind her passion but, as their bodies grazed, caressed, and rammed against each other, as he kissed her shoulder, licked her muscular back, heard her moan and even scream, felt her take him inside her and her legs squeeze around him, trapping him, draining him, exhilarating him, he did not care.
They lay quiet together in the dark. He could feel her soft, consistent breaths. He was aware now of his nakedness, and felt awkward until her hand brushed against his arm and all self-consciousness disappeared. He tried to talk once, to ask her why she was crying, but she held a finger up to his lips and hushed him. Then they fell asleep, her head buried in his chest, his arms covering her gently like a soft summer blanket.
– "-"-"JACK WOKE, THE sharp, wonderful odor of sex on his bed and in his skin, and he reached over to turn off the alarm. But the alarm was not set, he realized. Hadn't been set in quite some time. He was not getting up to go to work. There was no work. He did not have to worry about disturbing his wife. His wife could no longer be disturbed. Someone else had shared his bed last night, was about to share his morning. This was something new and while the world around him seemed to be collapsing, exploding, he couldn't help but allow a quick, contented sigh here in the world that was his bedroom.
He lifted his head, turned to see if Grace was beside him, but she was not. He heard a noise from the kitchen and luxuriated in the sudden, pungent smell of coffee that floated in. Jack swung himself out of bed, went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and took a quick, hot shower. When he emerged, he put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then heard Grace calling to him: "I know you're up. Get out here."
She was on the terrace, relaxed and comfortable in one of the two chairs around the cast-iron table. It was a glorious early morn; the chill had already disappeared. Jack saw that on the table was a wooden tray, set with two mugs of coffee and a plate that held a hunk of bread and a sharp, white Cheddar cheese. It was a scene he had lived many times with Caroline and he couldn't help but feel a tug at his heart. But the softness and vulnerability in Grace's eyes forced him into the present. And the sight of his blue-and-white silk robe, loose on her body, open to reveal one thigh and the curve of her breasts, made him smile and long for her yet again.
"I'm starving," she told him. "So I just foraged in the fridge."
He went to her and kissed her. She shifted in her seat and the robe loosened further; her right leg was bared almost to her hip now. He couldn't help but glance down. She quickly went to cover her leg but the silk billowed and, again, he saw a glimpse of what she'd been trying to hide.
"What is that?" he asked.
Grace flushed. He could see her biting her lower lip. She shook her head tightly.
"What happened to your leg?" Jack asked again.
Grace stood up from the table. She turned her back on him, walked to the edge of the terrace, put both hands on the brick retaining wall, and looked out over the park.
He felt his stomach tighten. She was too close to the edge. When he spoke, he could hear the words come out thickly. "It's morning," he told her. "I'm allowed to ask questions now."
She turned around to face him, said, "Yes," and nothing more, then started crying again, silent tears that ran down her face like rain streaking down a windowpane. Jack took a step toward her, felt his legs weaken as he got too close to the balcony's edge. He reached for her arm, touched her, but as he did, she jerked away from him, stepped back. He was left alone then, by the wall, and he found himself looking out, looking down. He was horrified to find that his stomach was in his throat and his legs were like iron anchors rooting him to the spot. He felt the dizziness coming on and couldn't move. He wanted to speak, to tell her to take his arm and lead him back to safety, but he couldn't. His throat was closing and the panic was setting in.
"I didn't call the police," she was saying. "When you went to Samsonite's apartment and didn't call me when you were supposed to, I didn't call the police. You must know that by now."
Jack tried to nod. Maybe he did. He couldn't tell.
"That's partly why I came here last night," she was saying. "I was worried about you. I thought maybe you were… I didn't know what happened and I was worried about you."
He tried to concentrate. Yes, concentrate on what she's saying, he told himself. Answer her. Distract yourself. Look at her, look away from the edge and think. Concentrate. "Why?" he managed to say now. "Why didn't you call?"
Grace was trembling. "I know he told you, Jack."
And now, here it came, like an unavoidable sledgehammer. It was upon him: the vision. His legs felt like they were nailed to the floor, but he could feel his body drifting toward the edge, could feel the inexorable force lifting him, throwing him over. He could feel that he was toppling over. He was Icarus, unable to fly, falling to his death… Concentrate. Talk to her. The sweat was pouring off him. Couldn't she see what was happening to him? Couldn't she help him?
"You figured everything else out, you should have figured this one out, too. I couldn't call the police."
What was she saying? Couldn't? Why not? He could feel the wall, as if it had hands that were reaching out and grabbing him, pulling him closer and closer. What was she talking about?
"It's stupid, I know, and if you'd gotten hurt I never would have forgiven myself, but I couldn't… I'm terrified of them. Terrified of going through all that again."
And suddenly, as the robe blew open again, fluttered in the slight breeze, even as his worst fear was gripping him and squeezing, cutting off his air and his clarity, he understood. "An accident," he breathed. "When you were young." She nodded and he could see her entire face tighten and her eyes go hard.
He could hear Kid, right here on the terrace, saying: There was an accident when she was a kid. That's all it was. At least that's all I'm gonna tell you.
Jack staggered forward, one small step, forcing his feet away from the pull of the edge. He forced himself to look down, decided to focus on the table. It was important to focus on something, important to concentrate on something safe, so he stared at the tray. First he took in all the accoutrements, then made himself take in the specifics. The deep-blue color of the plates. The roughness of the bread. The pale waxiness of the cheese. And then the knife. The beautiful knife with the finely honed blade and thick dark wood handle. The butcher knife that he knew so well.
Dom's knife.
