Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  “Great, great. You’ll call, right?”

  “If I can.”

  “Can I do anything in the meantime? To help.”

  I said no, but changed my mind before I reached the door. “Can you find out from Douglas who ordered Noreen’s cremation?”

  He looked startled. “He wouldn’t tell you?”

  “No. He just said a family member. I have to find out if he’s telling the truth. Call me if you find out.”

  I left him standing there open-mouthed, the blood of someone’s newborn splattered across his body.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lousy drainage, I thought, as I parked the Audi in a puddle of greenish mud. Noreen’s house was perched on a piece of land that sloped sharply down to the creek. The garage was discreetly located in the rear, at the end of a descending driveway that looked more like an overused bridle path. No wonder I had overlooked the garage earlier, I thought as I trudged through the mud, the sciatica again shooting pain up into my back. Nothing is as lovely as a walk in the woods after seven inches of snow have melted in a quick thaw.

  I scanned the garage door and groaned. A goddamn electric door. I scrambled over bulbous tree roots, searching for another entrance. Since most of the houses in Telham are built on rock ledges, few have finished basements. But Noreen’s house was perched high enough on the hill for the garage to be constructed on a lower level. I hoped that meant she also had a basement or usable crawl space.

  I found what I was looking for around the corner from the garage. It would have taken me less than a minute to break into the basement if the lock hadn’t already been broken. The rusted knob drooped in my hand as I pushed open the door, a rush of cold, dank air filling my nostrils. A string was looped into a metal clasp near the door. I tugged it once and a fluorescent light shuddered on. The basement was small and, not surprisingly, cluttered. Wooden skids circled the room and were stacked high with boxes, beach chairs, used appliances, and odd knickknacks that Noreen had probably picked up at garage sales.

  My heels made sucking noises as I crossed the room to the door that led to the garage. I swung it open and flipped on the light switch. The basement smelled like fresh-turned earth, warm and musty, and a little too intense. Right under the garage door switch were seven or eight sacks of top soil, the top slashed diagonally along the center, the dark soil bursting through the cut like a chicken’s innards. A shiny green tarp reared over the side of the sacks, odd lumps underneath sculpting the thick plastic so that it resembled the tail of a giant lizard.

  At last, I turned my gaze to the object in front me. The Bronco was parked at a rakish angle, as if someone had backed into the garage at sports-car speed, then jammed on the brakes right before slamming into the cinder block walls. I circled the car cautiously, noting the fresh scratches on the fender and one distinct dent that recalled too vividly the jolt that had sent me off the road. I reached to open the driver’s door. My hand paused mid-air. If there were fingerprints, I sure as hell didn’t want to smudge them. I pulled off my pantyhose, which were pretty much reduced to rags anyway, wrapped a bit of it around my fingers and gingerly pulled the door toward me. I eyeballed the cabin, then cocked my head as an object locked in my crosshairs.

  An envelope was stuck under the brake pedal. I grabbed it by the corner and shook the contents onto the driver’s seat.

  Then I just stared, confounded.

  Three one-way plane tickets to Puerto Rico. For Manny, her mother, and her brother. I flipped through them. They had been purchased the same day I flew to Atlanta, the same day someone tried to run me off the road in this Bronco, the same day someone beat me to the airport and to Maggie’s hotel.

  The family’s departure was scheduled for this Sunday.

  My eyebrows pinched together. Why were the tickets here and not in the house? The most logical explanation was that they had inadvertently fallen out of a coat pocket or handbag. Unless they had been planted under the brake on purpose. Unless someone was eager to focus suspicion on Manny.

  A rattle emanated from the direction of the basement. I flipped off the light-switch, darted to the far side of the Bronco and waited. The smell of the soil was heavy. I fingered the floor and found the edge of the tarp. A shiver ran through my limbs.What was hidden under that tarp anyway?

  Just then, the sound repeated, followed by a shuffle. No question, someone was in the basement, heading my way. I inspected the walls near me for another exit. The only way out was by activating the electric garage door — hardly inconspicuous but nonetheless effective. I edged my way toward the switch. I was almost there when my right foot slipped on the slimy tarp. I clambered for balance, knocking over a metal watering can in the process. The response from the basement was immediate. As the lights switched on, I dove for cover.

  Whoever had entered the room had crossed directly to the tool rack. As I draped the heavy green tarp over my head I glanced under the Bronco and saw the metallic head of a pick tapping against a jeaned ankle. I shimmied back and rammed into something that jiggled against the back of my thighs. If I just stayed where I was, huddling like a scared possum under the tarp, I was bound to be discovered. Peeking out, I located the single bulb hanging almost directly above the Bronco. I was a pretty mean pitcher when I was twelve, but over two decades had passed since I had sliced a ball under a batter’s nose. Still, remembering how hot Randi Ellovitz had looked when she swung at one of my balls, I decided to take a shot. There was a clay pot pressing into my hip. I hefted it in my right hand, scanned the room one final time, and hurled the pot just as the figure reached the front of the Bronco.

  The pot hit well enough, the bulb shattering instantly, the clay pot itself smashing onto the van’s hood. I bolted for the rear of the garage, colliding with countless unknown objects as I scrambled for the basement door. My hand was on the knob when I felt the sharp tip of the pick dig into the base of my neck. Immediately my hands went up in an “I give” gesture. Meanwhile I desperately tried to visualize a maneuver my tae kwon do teacher had demonstrated just last month.

  Behind me there was a deep intake of breath, and then a growl. “Open the door slowly and step through.”

  The voice was Manny’s.

  Shit.

  I kicked open the door with one mud-caked pump and spun around, my head barreling into Manny’s diaphragm with a sickening thump. She fell backwards and I smashed my heel into the wrist wielding the pick. The light from the open basement door spilled over us as I dropped onto her midsection, pinning her to the cold cement floor like a wrestler. She looked startled. And in more than a little pain. “You okay?” I asked, the question utterly insane, given the circumstances.

  “Robin? Dammit, get off me.”

  I considered her request, then decided against it. I could still feel the unfaltering edge of the pick against my neck. The lady knew how to take care of herself, no question about that. “I found the tickets, Manny. Why just one way — you sick of the States?”

  She flashed me the kind of look my cat Geeja does when I rub her hindquarters without first asking permission and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” then bucked under me. I braced myself and waited for her to wear herself out. When she spoke again, there was fire in her words. “This is my fucking house and you’re trespassing.” When I didn’t respond, she gritted her teeth and snarled, “Girl, I coulda killed you with that son-of-a-bitchin’ pick and it would have been justifiable self-defense.” Her eyes folded back into mean slits.

  She was really pissing me off now — especially since she was right. Even if I could prove she was Noreen’s murderer, my actions would still be construed as breaking and entering. The nerves in my upper thigh protested as I raised myself off her. She slithered away until her back was braced by the Bronco.

  I nodded at the van. “Noreen’s Bronco forced me off the road two days ago. You can see the paint chips from my car on the bumper. And then, there are these.” I flipped the tickets toward her.

&n
bsp; She stared at them blankly. “Where’d you get these?” She shook the tickets at me quizzically, but I noticed that her hold on them was so tight she was white-knuckled.

  I answered with a question of my own. “Why are you running away, Manny? Am I getting too close?”

  She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips like someone who had just sucked lemon. “Christ, you’re an idiot. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  The tickets disappeared into her jean pocket. Still, she sounded sincerely indignant. Manny Diaz was either a phenomenal liar or one fed-up woman. Unfortunately for me, I had no idea which characterization was accurate.

  She raised the bottom of her crew-neck sweater and said, “Man, what the hell did you do to me? My stomach feels like it’s collapsed on itself.”

  One palm vigorously rubbed her belly. She was lucky I had hit her that low. If I had followed my teacher’s instructions to the tee I would have broken at least three ribs.

  “Manny, I’m fed up with the lies. You can tell me what’s really going down or you can tell Crowell. It’s your call.”

  She raised herself with difficulty and shook her head in obvious disgust. “You are something,” she said, her tone clearly implying that the “something” was, at best, akin to scum. “I told you what I know. As for the Bronco, I can’t even drive the damn thing. It’s a stick shift. You ever stop to think someone might have ‘borrowed’ the van to make me look like shit?”

  “So someone broke in here and stole the van without your knowing it, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Real unlikely, huh, Sherlock? After all, this place is locked up like Fort Knox. Only a genius like you could figure out how to break in here, right?”

  I could feel my resolve weakening. Too often I’ve let my personal likes and dislikes sway my judgment in a case. I liked Manny, but I didn’t like the fact that so many roads ran to her door. I said, “I can’t ignore the Bronco, Manny. Whoever tried to kill me was in that car. There may be fingerprints, fiber traces, some conclusive evidence too valuable to pass by. And I can’t collect that by myself. I have to call in Crowell.”

  Manny’s face twisted with anger. “You know, you’re just like the rest of them. Have you even stopped to consider other suspects? I could do a better job of investigating this than you ever could.”

  I looked at her and said, “Where would you start, Manny?”

  She had my attention now and she knew it. Her smile shouted victory at me. “Noreen kept a file on almost everyone she ever met. I found one on the DeLucas a few months ago, right after the accident. Apparently, Mr. Naycha—”

  “Naycha?”

  “Yeah, isn’t that how they say it in Brooklyn? Naycha. As in big trees and green gardens. Fred was a car thief in his rednecked youth. So maybe he’s the one that took the Bronco for a joyride.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  My response disappointed her. “You knew about his record and you still suspected me? Christ.” She practically spat the words. “Well, don’t ask me how, but Noreen found out and threatened to spread the word around. She didn’t think it was in the interest of the community to hide the fact that he was an ex-con.”

  “She was blackmailing him?” I asked, suddenly remembering the three large bank withdrawals Jill had uncovered.

  “No. She just didn’t think his past should be kept a secret,” Manny answered offhandedly. “A week after she confronted him, Camilla smashed her Cutlass into Noreen’s old Beetle—that’s what she used to drive when she was running errands around town. After that, it was war. I think the lawsuit was one of Noreen’s greatest coups. The legal bills alone were draining the DeLucas’ savings. Noreen was real proud of that.” Her face tightened. “It wasn’t the side of Noreen I loved.”

  “Where are the rest of these files?”

  “Under your nose, detective.” She bobbed her head toward the left. The light from the adjoining basement dimly lit the garage. I stared at her blankly, then followed the direction of her gaze. Cement walls, garden tools. Bingo! The file cabinets.

  Without wasting another moment, I stormed toward the steel cases.

  Manny cut me off just as my fingers locked on the handle of the top drawer. “Wait a minute.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a key ring. “Noreen’s keys,” she said with a smirk.

  Irritated, I slammed my fist into the drawer. Both of us paused as it sputtered open on its own. The drawer was empty. “Is this a joke?” I snapped.

  “No,” Manny whispered, apparently dumbfounded. Could she really be that good an actress? Still fixated on the open drawer, she said, “Reen kept her files in here.” She bent to the second drawer. She jerked on the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. I eased the top drawer back, and the second one slid out so fast Manny stumbled backwards. It too was empty.

  My heart was racing. “Did she have personal files in here as well?”

  She looked at me openly. For the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes. “Her life was in here. Everything but her passport and her birth certificate.”

  “The stuff in the file under her bed?”

  Instead of the rage I expected to see, Manny looked on the verge of tears. “This place makes my mother’s apartment in Harlem look good. Did you find our vibrator, too? Or maybe you just wanted our love notes?”

  The barb struck home. Suddenly I felt as sleazy as a Forty-Second Street pimp. “Manny,” I started sheepishly, “did she keep her files on the adoption search in here?”

  She glared at me. “Don’t you already have everything you need?”

  My stomach churned. Only one of us was going to leave this room with her self-respect intact. And it wasn’t going to be me. In exchange, I planned to carry out at least one kernel of hard data.

  I repeated my question. It wasn’t even noon yet and I felt like collapsing.

  Finally she said, “I suppose so. I never looked. All I know is what Noreen told me.”

  “You know anything else about your neighbors?”

  “Look, I’ve told you enough.” She kicked the drawer shut and walked away.

  I yelled at her back. “You still haven’t explained the plane tickets.”

  “And I don’t plan to,” she retorted without glancing back.

  “Did you read the names?”

  “Yeah,” she snapped. “And the destination. Curious, ain’t it? Maybe they’re a parting gift from Noreen.” Now she turned to face me, hands on her hips.

  “One way?”

  “Noreen liked her space.”

  She was playing with me now, and the game was getting old fast. “What made you come down here?” I asked.

  “Dean Flynn’s car is in my driveway. When I didn’t find him upstairs, I thought he might be down here.”

  “So you decided to welcome him with a pickax?”

  “Honey, this is still private property, despite what you think. And there’s a murderer loose who seems to want to finger me. Remember where I come from—when in doubt, take the other guy out. That’s how I survived seventeen years in the ghetto. And that’s how I’ll get through this.”

  I was ramming my head into a dead end here and I had other leads to follow. I passed her and headed for the basement door. She scuffled toward me and I spun around, ready to kick her nose half way to Philadelphia if I had to.

  A finger wagged under my nose as she snarled, “Don’t break into my house again. Next time, if you’re lucky, I’ll call the police.”

  I stomped out, caked mud chafing the skin between my toes. My feet were burning by the time I reached Dean’s car. As I started it up, I noticed that my knuckles were turning blue from where I had hit the file cabinet. The motor turned over and I headed for the cabin.

  I didn’t fully realize how beat up I felt until I read my condition in K.T.’s eyes. She was sitting cross-legged by the fire, my laptop computer perched precariously on two couch pillows. A semicircle of recipe cards surrounded her. As soon as the door was flung open, she stood and cro
ssed to me. Her full, ever-moist mouth opened wide and her eyebrows pressed together in concern. Quietly she asked, “Were you attacked?”

  I groaned and stormed past her. How could I look into those eyes and explain that I had just broken into Manny’s home and then mowed her down, using my head as a battering ram?

  Upstairs I stripped and retreated to the shower. I was standing there, the hot water pounding on my head, when K.T. entered the bathroom. “Manny just called. She wants to know if you’re planning on paying for the damage to the Bronco’s hood. Do you know what she’s talking about?”

  I was angry with myself, angry enough to tell K.T. the truth. Scrubbing myself with soap that felt way too smooth on my skin, I blurted the details of my morning exploits.

  K.T. laughed. I snapped the curtain to the side and stared at her. “What a wildcat you are,” she said. “Good thing you have such a thick skull.”

  The woman amazed me. What would it take to chase her away? And did I really want her to go?

  As a glint entered her eyes, I knew the answer was an unequivocal no. At least for the moment.

  K.T. zeroed in on my breasts and playfully flicked an eyebrow up and down. “Mmmmm.”

  The sound was painfully arousing. I scanned the length of her, the way her full thighs and rounded butt pulled the fabric of her jeans taut, the way her loose T-shirt draped over her small, firm breasts. I wanted to pull her into the shower fully clothed and strip her with my teeth, pulling the damp layers away from that satin-soft skin. My hand lifted slightly and then halted.

  What if she felt I was being too aggressive? I had already unknowingly triggered nightmares from her past. Would this act have a similar effect? I smiled awkwardly and slid the curtain back into position. Despite the hot water rushing over me, I felt chilled.

  Less than a moment passed before the water turned off suddenly. I opened my eyes to find myself staring into K.T.’s face. Her cheeks were bright red. “What the hell was that about?”