by Walter Marks
“It’s not a cold,” I said. “Those are side effects from your medication.”
“How soon you think I can get out of here? Nobody’s giving me a straight answer.”
“Hard to say.”
“I hope when my cold’s over...”
“It’s up to your doctor.”
“Please,” she said softly, “...Sit down.”
I pulled a chair over and sat next to her bed. She twirled a lock of blond hair. Her red nail polish was now chipping off.
“Could you hand me my water? My mouth’s dry all the time.” She stuck out her coated tongue.
I gave her the bedside container and she sipped from the bent straw.
“Doctor Rothberg,” she said. “I had...a realization. I know now Victor must’ve been insane when he killed my mother. So...he’s not responsible. And...I forgive him.”
“That’s...very good, Daisy.”
“An eye for an eye, that was all wrong. Vengeance is mine saith the Lord. Let God decide about Victor. Jesus teaches forgiveness.”
“I’d like to ask you something, Daisy.”
She put down her water and looked at me intently.
“Are you absolutely sure it was Victor who...did that to your mom?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“But, you were only two years old...”
“Almost three. It happened in March, my birthday’s in May.”
“You were still quite young...”
“Doctor, you of all people should know even little babies remember awful things that happen to them.”
“The lights were out in the apartment that night,” I said. “How can you be sure it was Victor Janko?”
“I just remember I could see him clearly. If the lights were out, I guess light was shining in through the window from the street.”
“What do you remember about how he looked?”
Her expression darkened. “Why are you asking me all these questions? I told you it was Victor. I thought you came here to help me, and now you’re...you’re cross-examining me like a cop or something.”
Pushing too hard.
“I’m sorry, Daisy,” I said. “Victor’s my patient, and if there’s a chance he’s innocent I need to know.”
“I...I understand.”
“Just one more question, and that’s it — I promise.”
She nodded.
“Do you remember what he was wearing?”
She shook her head no.
“No memory at all?”
“No. ...Wait, I remember — green. He was wearing something green.”
Shit. Victor said he was wearing...an army jacket.
I didn’t want to go further, but I had to.
“What color green?” I asked.
“I dunno.”
“...Khaki, olive drab? Anything like that?”
“You said just one more question.”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway,” she said after a moment, “All I remember is green. Now can we change the subject?”
“Sure.”
“Doctor...do you think, do you think you can get me out of here?”
“You’re not in my care.”
“But they’ll listen to you.”
She put her soft hand over mine.
“I have to get out. I want to visit Victor again...tell him I forgive him.”
Her fingers caressed me. “Please. I know you can help me.”
I pulled my hand away. She was doing her sexpot number again; the seductive eyes, the moist, parted lips — almost a parody of herself. It was like meeting an old girlfriend; someone you once had the hots for but now left you feeling nothing.
It made me very sad.
I got up to leave and she seized my hand desperately.
“Promise you’ll come back and see me?”
“It’s hard to get over here, Daisy,” I said. “And I’m very busy. But I’ve talked with Dr. Kapoor, and I’m sure she can help you if you work with her.
“Please, please, Doctor...”
I wrenched away. “Take care,” I said as I walked out the door.
On the drive back I thought about what Daisy’d told me.
She said Victor was wearing green. If green means khaki or olive drab — the color of an army jacket — I’m in trouble. Is she lying to me? If so why? One thing is certain — she needs to believe it was Victor she saw that night. Otherwise all her actions would have no meaning.
All right. Let’s assume for the moment her memory is correct.
If Victor did kill Agnes Rivera —
It would mean every session in Victor’s cell was a brilliant acting performance on his part, culminating in a totally convincing account of what happened the night of the murder.
It would suggest that Victor and Daisy were acting together — each with a distinct pathology and a different agenda, yet conjoined to form a synergy so powerful they could manipulate me with ease.
Maybe they pegged me as the perfect patsy, a shrink who’d keep an open mind about Victor; a well-trained psychiatrist who’d pick up on the clues they dropped — like their identical descriptions of Leo Hagopian as “huge”.
The NY Post picture of Agnes Rivera's ex-boyfriend, with the bandaged hand — that would be the clincher, convincing me to believe Victor's story. I remember how Daisy’d urged me to come and see Hagopian’s photo.
“If you come over to the library, I'll show it to you.”
And Victor:
“...if you've got a little time tomorrow, could you go over to the library where she works?”
What about the bandage in the photograph? Daisy could’ve doctored the microfilm — scratching out a small section, which would appear as a white strip when the light shone through it.
What if I didn’t go to the library? Easy. She’d print out the picture and show it to me.
That’s a very convoluted sequence of events; one that I could possibly cook up...but could Victor and Daisy? And could they pull it off?
I have to admit it’s possible — Victor and Daisy running a brilliant game on me, exploiting my pursuit of the truth to make me believe an absolute lie.
If Victor is a murderer, I’ll have to face the fact that my gut feeling was totally worthless.
Ben Caldwell was right.
The computer was right.
Father Toussenel was right.
Daisy was right.
Even Stevie Karp was right.
And I was wrong.
One thing is clear — if I allowed myself to fall for Victor and Daisy’s con job, I sure as hell don’t belong in this profession.
I stopped at Vanderkill on my way home, to check on Nigel Penrose. Kim told me he was resting comfortably.
“That’s good,” I said. “But he’s very unstable; he could wig out any time. Call me at my motel tonight if there’s a problem.”
“I will, Doctor.”
“Kim,” I said, “Enough already with the doctor stuff. Please call me David?”
“Okay, I will.”
“Oh, and listen,” I said. “I’m going into New York tomorrow night. So if something comes up while I’m gone, Doctor Caldwell will be on call.”
“I’m off tomorrow night, but I’ll tell Doreen,” she said. “Did you say you’re going to New York?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. I’m going in tomorrow too. There’s a race next morning in Central Park — it’ll be my first in the city. Twice around the park, 12.4 miles. It’s called the Maidenform Mini Marathon.”
“Sounds like I wouldn’t qualify.”
“No, but you could cheer me on.”
“I’d love to, but I have to go back the same night.”
Then I got an idea. “Hey. Would you like to ride in with me?”
“Well...sure. I was gonna take the train,” she said. “I’m staying with a girlfriend at the nurses’ residence at Roosevelt Hospital. You could drop me off.”
“Sure. I’ll pick you up tomorrow
at 6:00”
“I’ll be ready...David.”
Before I left I decided to go to look in on Victor. He was in pajamas, lying on his back with his arms straight, eyes closed He was covered by a sheet and looked like a corpse.
I listened to his slow breathing for a while, then spoke to him.
“Victor,” I said. “I want you to know I’m still working for you, trying to find a way to get you out of prison.”
No response.
“I want to ask you something. Do you remember the color of the killer’s sweatshirt? Y’know, the one that said Life is a Beach?”
Nothing.
“Try to remember for me. It’s important.
For God’s sake — please say green.
It was futile.
Suddenly Victor sat up and turned to me with a strange look in his eyes. It was different than his previous glazed stares, which were defensive, with pain and sadness in them. This look was what psychiatrists call the Reptilian Gaze — cold, expressionless, devoid of emotion. People who’ve come face to face with this stare describe it as like that of a snake, focused pitilessly, remorselessly on striking its victim. It was deeply unsettling.
Victor was now very, very ill. And I had no idea how to help him.
CHAPTER 40
When I picked up Kim, I introduced her to Ninja, who was in her vivarium on the back seat. I explained who Ninja was and where I was taking her.
“You took care of a little boy’s turtle for two years?” Kim said. “That’s really sweet.”
“I enjoyed it. Ninja’s got a lot of personality.”
“You know who she looks like?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Woody Allen.”
I cracked up laughing. She was right.
I guess I hogged the conversation for most of the drive. I filled Kim in on my failure to get Hagopian’s DNA, and how I was concerned about my instincts being wrong.
“Well, if your gut feeling is that Victor’s innocent,” she said. “I’m sure you’re right.”
She said it with a forthright simplicity that blew me away. I realized I’d had nobody to talk to about these issues, and how great it was to be with someone who was supportive.
“Listen,” I said to Kim. “Why don’t you come with me while I drop off Ninja, then we can get a bite to eat before I take you down to Roosevelt Hospital?”
“Okay,” she said. “As long as it doesn’t get too late. Remember, I have a race tomorrow morning.”
“Agreed.”
I parked on Riverside drive, and we entered the lobby of the large, aging apartment building. It had an iron and beveled glass Nouveau doorway flanked by limestone Corinthian columns.
“David. Going to Simpkins, 4B,” I said to the doorman. He looked at the big black plastic garbage bag I was cradling in my arms.
“Open the bag please. Gotta see what’s inside,” the doorman said. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
Scary times.
As Kim and I walked through the vast lobby, I admired its faded grandeur. The travertine marble floors were cracked, and the walls were hung with discolored, frayed tapestries — St. George slaying the dragon, and a shepherdess doing something or other with a rampant unicorn.
We took the elevator up to four and I stopped for a moment in front of 4B.
Dejection swept over me. True, I was only Ninja’s caretaker, but I didn’t think this day would ever come. Now here it was.
I rang the bell.
Lucille greeted me with a hug. She was a pale thirty-and-change widow with frizzy brown hair and a weary look. She wore a floral housecoat.
I introduced her to Kim.
Lucille took us down a long hallway into the living room. Henry was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV watching a “Nat Geo” video on giant pandas.
He’d grown in two years. Now six, his torso was longer and he’d lost the baby look. His eyes were the same; sad, with pupils dark as black olives. He rocked from side to side, but only slightly. He was much improved.
“Henry,” his mom said.
The boy looked up at us.
“Do you remember Dr. Rothberg?”
Henry shook his head no.
“He’s brought you a present.”
He came to full attention, like all kids hearing that magical phrase.
I kneeled down next to him and pulled off the black garbage bag. He looked down into the vivarium. For a moment he was shocked. Then a smile brightened his face like sunshine.
“Ninja,” he said softly.
He picked the turtle up by the shell and pressed her against the side of his face. He giggled as the little claws tickled him.
“Did you miss me?” he asked her. “I sure missed you. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. Gee, you look nice. Do you still like worms. I remember when they fed you worms at the hospital. Yuck...”
The little guy continued talking to his long lost pal, oblivious of me, Kim, and his mom. It was a good feeling, seeing the joy I’d brought to this sad-eyed kid.
Lucille walked us to the door, thanked me, and hugged me again. I said no problem and we left.
The loss hit me as we walked down Riverside Drive. That little turtle had become part of the fabric of my life; a creature to care about, worry about, even talk to. Now she was gone. I felt my heart thudding in my chest, a dull pain surrounding it. Heartache.
Kim picked it up. “You’re gonna miss her aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“You should call Mrs. Simpkins, and ask for visitation rights.”
“For a turtle?”
“No. For her son. Then, of course, if you want to look in on Ninja...”
“Great idea,” I said.
We walked a little way in silence. When we got back to the car, I told her my dinner plan.
“I know of a great place to eat,” I said. “It’s within walking distance, so we can leave the car here.”
“Is it one of those hot West Side restaurants they wrote up in New York Magazine?”
“It’s a surprise. It’ll be a better surprise if you don’t ask any questions. You up for that?”
“Lead on.”
We were at 87th Street, so we walked south on Riverside to 80th. There we turned the corner, crossed over to West End Avenue, then one block more to Broadway and Zabar’s.
In the glaringly lit food emporium I led Kim past the cheeses and the appetizers till we were in the smoked fish section. I took a number from the machine but it was so late there were no other customers. The Chinese lox cutter asked me what I wanted. His nametag said Bob.
“Half a pound of nova,” I answered. “And if you can, cut it from the shoulder.”
Bob gave me a knowing smile, then spoke to Kim in a Chinese accent.
“Boyfriend really know fish.”
He left us and went down to the other end of the counter.
“I have this friend, Wolfie,” I explained to Kim. “He’s a kosher butcher and all-around feinschmecker — uh, that’s Yiddish for Foodie. He says the flesh near the head of a salmon is the most tender, because it’s the least muscular.”
Bob returned with a salmon which had only the upper portion left. He cut tissue-thin slices of the pink fish, working with the precision of a neurosurgeon. Then he put it on the scale. “It’s a little over.”
I said that was fine.
“Y’know,” I said to Kim, “The owner of Zabar’s once said he made his fortune just by using four little words — It’s a little over.”
“That’s very interesting,” Kim said. “But enough already with the delicatessen trivia.”
Busted.
We went to the bakery counter and picked up four plain bagels. Then we completed our culinary prep by getting a container of scallion cream cheese and two Dr. Brown’s celery tonics.
It was a three-block walk to Riverside Park. There we followed the lamp lit asphalt path under the West Side Highway, then took the stone stairway curving arou
nd and down until it reached the Boat Basin Cafe. We heard the New Age music on the sound system. The restaurant was crowded, patrons dining al fresco around a circular fountain, which had been covered with a platform to provide additional seating. For some reason, New York’s master builder Robert Moses had decided the place should look like a medieval monastery, so it had sweeping round arches, groin vaults, and Romanesque columns.
“Wow,” Kim said. “This is beautiful.”
“We’re not eating here.”
“Oh. Then where...?”
“No questions, remember?”
We walked out to the flagstone terrace, then down the stairs leading to the Hudson River promenade. In front of us was the Boat Basin marina.
It was a hot summer night. The river walk was crowded with strollers, joggers, cyclists, inline skaters. Not so long ago the park at night was dangerous; now it vibrated with joyful energy.
At the southern end of the marina was the houseboat section. The entrance gate reminded me of Vanderkill — chain link topped by razor wire. I unlocked the gate and we walked along the wooden dock. It was good to hear the familiar sounds of lapping water, the groan of bowlines straining against their moorings.
I could see my boat down at the end. The rectangular white cabin gleamed in the moonlight. The only thing different was an American flag on the roof deck — Ed Sorenson must’ve raised it in a burst of patriotism.
“There’s my houseboat,” I said pointing to it. “That’s where we’re going to have dinner.”
“That’s yours?” Kim said, surprised.
“Yes. I lived there before I came up to Vanderkill.”
As we got closer she could read the name of the boat on the bow. “Go With The Flo?” she said.
“Yes. It’s named after my mom, Florence ‑ everybody called her Flo.”
When we reached the boat, I heard the Rachmaninoff Second Piano Concerto — my make-out music — and the sound of a woman laughing. There was dim light coming from the two portholes of the sleeping loft.
Damn. It’s Dr. Ed and his social worker/schtupee.
“Looks like you’ve got some boat guests,” Kim said.
“A friend of mine sometimes uses it for fun and games. I should’ve called first.”
“So...we’d be interrupting.”
“Exactly.”
