Mercer and I exchanged looks, bringing a smile to my face for the first time since Schaeffer beeped me with the blood results. Mike was undoubtedly taking a fifteen-minute break in a bar somewhere between Mid-Manhattan and the station house, enjoying a beer while he matched wits with Alex Trebek.
“I’m getting out of here before he shows up, otherwise I’ll get stuck for the rest of the evening.
“I’ll be around home all weekend, Loo. Call if you need me for anything, will you?” I said, picking up my case folder and readying myself for the short trip to my apartment.
“Sure thing. Get some rest. I have a feeling we’ll be coasting the ups and downs of this thing ‘til we get back on track. Need a ride?”
“The sergeant on the desk will stick me in a patrol car. I’m just over the precinct line. G’night, Mercer. ‘Night, Loo. Speak to you guys tomorrow.”
I sat in the rear seat of an RMP with two young uniformed officers who dropped me in front of my building. The doorman told me I had packages in the back room so I waited until he returned with a bundle of mail and magazines and a load of clothes from the dry cleaner.
When I opened the door to my apartment, Prozac was splayed in the middle of the entryway on my needlepoint rug. Her stubby tail was wagging before she lifted her head and I was delighted to have her company for the weekend.
David Mitchell’s housekeeper had brought Zac into my apartment with a note she left on the table next to the lamp, underneath the dog’s leash. “I fed her dinner before I left at six o’clock. She just needs another walk before you go to bed.”
I put my things away, changed into leggings and an oversized man-tailored shirt, and splashed some Calèche behind my ears and on my pulse points. I’d been off my favored Chanel since my last romance had soured.
I walked into the kitchen to study the freezer contents. The bottom shelves held a few containers of ice cream-assorted flavors with the common denominator of chocolate as an ingredient-several stacks of Lean Cuisine above the desserts, and a plastic holder full of cubes from the automatic ice maker. More than enough supplies for a perfect evening at home.
I decided on a 143-calorie lasagna dinner, removed its cellophane wrap, and popped it into the microwave. While it started on its six-minute route from rock solid to well done, I filled a Baccarat glass with cubes. It always made me feel better to use crystal and china when I dined alone, as if I were having a real meal.
The Scotch decanter was in the den, and Zac followed my footsteps as I poured a drink. I set one place at the table, with a matching linen napkin and placemat, facing out my window toward the spectacular view of midtown. When I turned on the CD player and heard Smokey telling his girl how he lost her when his heart went out to play, I assisted the backup singers with some “Oooh, baby, baby”s ‘til the buzzer told me my entrée was ready.
TheTimes was too unwieldy for the dinner table, the tabloids were too full of crime stories to let me escape the events of the day, and the misfortunes of Trollope’s Lady Eustace were too convoluted to accompany my modest repast and were better left until bedtime. I plucked the April issue ofIn Style from the unread magazine stack in the den and hoped that the elegant spring fashions would uplift my spirits.
After dinner, I lounged in the den and called some of my friends. I didn’t expect to find many at home at this hour on a Friday night so I tried Nina Baum, figuring that the three-hour time difference to the Coast might make her available for a chat. The answering machine took my message, asking her to call back over the weekend.
At ten o’clock, when I could barely hold my eyes open, I pulled my ski jacket out of the closet and hooked Zac’s leash on to take her for a walk. I headed out the north end of the driveway and turned left. The wind had died down and the night air was comfortable, so I led her to Third Avenue, across Lexington, and squared the block on to Park.
I stopped in the bodega just off the corner of Lex to buy orange juice and some Colombian cinnamon beans for the morning.
The sidewalks were fairly empty, except for some other dog owners and a couple of joggers and bladers. Zac and I walked the last block, past town houses and a private school that was darkened and empty. I waited for the light to change on Third Avenue and stepped off the curb as the rectangular sign invited me toWALK.
A little man with a muffler wrapped around his neck and a Boston terrier heeling at his side was approaching from the middle of the next street. Zac pulled on the leash, straining to reach the sidewalk, while I was still on the blacktop of the roadway. “Easy, girl,” I said, trying to pull her back.
Over my right shoulder I could hear the sound of a car braking as though to make a sharp turn. My attention had been on the dog but my head whipped to the side to see what was happening. The car was coming toward me as it took the corner at a ridiculous speed, two wheels seeming to lift off the ground, racing directly at me.
Zac lurched forward to sniff at the terrier and I let go of her leash, throwing myself against the last car parked at the curb before the corner.
The terrier’s master grabbed Zac by the collar and called out to me from the sidewalk. “Are you all right? Did he hit you?”
I caught my breath and ran to embrace Zac, kneeling beside her as I held on to make sure she hadn’t been hurt. My hands were shaking uncontrollably.
“Don’t worry, Miss,” the man, who most resembled the nearsighted Mister Magoo, went on. “The dog wasn’t in any danger. It was onlyyou. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I answered, standing up and brushing myself off. “Whoever was driving must have been out of control, drinking or-”
“Whoever was driving looked like he was out to get you, if you ask me. Seemed deliberately to be heading for you.” He tugged at his dog to try to separate him from Zac, chuckling as he asked, “Want me to call the police? You got any enemies?”
“Too many to tell you about. Why? Did you notice the plate on the car?” I tried to tell myself that it was ridiculous to think someone had been aiming for me with that car; at the same time it struck me as a distinct possibility.
“No. Fool turned his headlights off as he went through the light. Couldn’t see anything except that it was large and dark colored.”
I thanked him for his concern and stroked Zac’s smooth cocoa coat, holding her close against me-on the side away from the street-as we walked the short distance to my apartment.
I took my weekend charge upstairs with me and I undressed, carrying a nightcap into the bedroom in an effort to calm my nerves before trying to sleep. I wanted to believe the speeding car had just been an accidental swipe yet couldn’t help but wonder who wanted me dead.
15
SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH MY BEDROOM window for the first time in days. Last night’s episode seemed like a bad dream. Surely my imagination had overtaken reality.
Zac and I walked around the block the opposite way from the night before, avoiding the avenue where the speeding car had given me such a fright. I kept her back from the street traffic and walked toward the direction from which cars were coming so I could see them as they approached.
Upstairs again, I changed into my leotard and tights, then went down to the garage to retrieve the Jeep and drive it to the West Side. I parked in front of the building that housed my ballet teacher’s studio.
Five or six of the regulars had already assembled and were doing stretches on the smooth wooden floor. William came in and we took our places at the barres that ringed three walls of the room.
The music was Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6 in B Minor. William seemed to adore thePathétique, and he held his shoulders back and his head majestically erect as he led us in a first position plié and relevé from the center of the room.
As always, it felt wonderful to lose myself in the music, straining to concentrate on the steps he called out to us over the crescendos of the rich orchestral arrangement. My mother had introduced me to ballet class when I was four years old and it still remained my favorite sort of exercis
e.
William danced with the American Ballet Theater for years before retiring to teach. The discipline and demands of the art form allowed me to escape whatever unpleasant matter I was working on for the hour that I remained under his spell.
He walked down the line of dancers, each of us holding our left hands on the lower barre, and studied our positions. “Tuck in your tummy, tuck in your tail, Judith,” he admonished the slender young woman behind me. “Shoulders back, Alex. Let’s see a nice line with those long legs, young lady.” I arched my foot and extended my toe as far as the soft white leather slipper would take me.
William paced us through second, fourth, and fifth positions, then we swept into a turn to repeat the same movements, holding on with our right hands. I glanced in the mirror as I shifted sides, picking out the professionals from among this troupe of frustrated ballerinas and fairy-tale princes. As a child, I used to get to the studio for the first class every Saturday morning with the girls my own age, then stay on through most of the sessions of the day watching the older ones perform the more complicated routines and mimicking their steps. I dreamed of the day that I could be Odette and Odile, Giselle or Coppelia, never expecting to make my stage in front of a jury box.
William directed us to the center of the floor, where we practiced pirouettes and fouettés until sweat dripped down the small of my back and ringlets formed at the base of my ponytail. I didn’t want the hour to end and be ejected from this fantasy world back to real life and time. But when theadagio lamentoso concluded, William bowed to the class and we returned the gesture, applauding lightly toward him in the tradition of students of the old-style masters.
I showered in the changing room and dressed in my weekend uniform of leggings and long shirt. Next stop was a parking garage on the East Side, as I hurried to Louis’ Salon on Fifty-seventh Street for a haircut and a few streaks to lighten the blond hair I had inherited through my mother’s Finnish genes. I hitched my beeper onto my waistband as I sat in Elsa’s chair while she wrapped the strands in tinfoil. “With any luck, this thing won’t go off ‘til my head’s out of the sink,” I said, patting the little black box that had become my lifeline to the police department.
“You’d give them quite a scare in the Homicide Squad if I let you out of here looking like this.”
I listened to Elsa’s recommendations of the latest movies and Broadway plays, which she somehow managed to see before I even knew they had opened. Like a conveyer belt, she passed me along to Louis, who cut an inch off my newly blonded locks while doing a skillful cross-examination about my love life. Ever the Frenchman, he despaired of my lack of a steady beau and was always trying to suggest ways for me to meet a man. Once he finished snipping, Nana styled me an elegant coif when I told her I was invited to a dinner party at a friend’s house for the evening.
Half the day was already shot. I drove home and deposited the Jeep back in the basement. The light on my answering machine was blinking when I got upstairs. Nina had returned my call and asked what was new on the case. Maureen was bored and just wanted to say hello. Chapman called to give me an update but had nothing serious to report.
I phoned Mid-Manhattan and asked for Mrs. Forester’s room. “Just a petit larceny so far,” she said after I told her about my morning. “I walked down to the solarium. Girl, it isthe place to be. Everybody’s whispering about whattheir doctor thought of Gemma Dogen-who liked her and who didn’t. I’m keeping lists for you.”
“What larceny are you talking about?” I asked.
“Don’t sound so concerned. While I was in the solarium, one of the aides came to pick up the lunch tray. She stood there behind the curtain, which was drawn around the bed, eating my leftovers. Half a piece of toast, the most tasteless cup of vanilla pudding you could imagine, and a slice of turkey. She didn’t realize she was on candid camera. Then she opened the drawer on the nightstand and looked through my cosmetic case. Guess she didn’t like my lipstick color ‘cause she looked it over good before she put it back in the bag. How many times a day you thinkthat goes on in these places, huh?”
“Lonely yet, Mo?”
“Not complaining. No beds to make, no dishes to do. Company’s coming later. Have fun tonight and give me a call.”
I beeped Chapman and went in the kitchen to have some yogurt while I waited for him to get back to me.
“I’m over at the hospital,” he said when he returned the call. “We’re reinterviewing most of the med school staff, trying to get more of a handle on Dogen this time. I think you should sit down with Dr. Spector yourself. He probably knew her better than anybody.
“I saw him for a few minutes this morning when he was checking on a patient postsurgically. He says he can see us Monday afternoon at two. Can you do it?”
“Of course.”
“Only other news is one of the guys from the 17th found some folders in a trash bin in the parking lot. Wallace thinks they came from Dogen’s office. They’ve got some bloodstains on ‘em, but then almost everything in the garbage here does.”
“What kind of folders?”
“Empty ones. Three or four. They seem to be sports-related stuff, not anything medical. Labels say things like Mets, Braves, Cubs. I knew she was a runner, but I guess she was a baseball freak, too.
“And the ex-husband’s due back in London on Monday, so we should be able to get some personal scoops on her from him.”
“Okay. I’ll be out doing errands in the neighborhood this afternoon. You taking tomorrow off I hope?”
“Yup. Got a hot one tonight with that reporter from the Italian magazine who did a feature on the Squad last month. Thought I’d take her to your place-Primola. Between Giuliano and Adolfo, they can charm her into forgetting I’m Irish.”
I tried to sound like I meant it when I told him to have a good time.
I scooped up an armful of clothes to take to the dry cleaners and three skirts for the tailor to shorten. Next door to that was the lingerie shop, where I stopped in to buy a dozen pairs of panty hose. The salesgirl talked me into some new lacy underwear-powder blue-to start the spring season, and I walked to the cash machine in the bank on the corner to replenish the supply I’d been doling out all day.
By the time I reached the nail salon, it was after three. I was overdue for a manicure and endured the loud gossip back and forth across the crowded space knowing I didn’t want to be the only woman at Joan’s dinner table without clipped cuticles and an even coat of polish.
I went home, fed Zac her late-afternoon meal, and walked her once more. Too restless to nap, I relaxed on my bed with the SaturdayTimes, struggling over the bottom left corner of the puzzle until I could work all the letters around the missing word to fill in the name Galle for the clue-German astronomer who discovered Neptune-that I was unable to come up with.
Joan’s Saturday-night dinner parties were fancy affairs and I was looking forward to a festive evening with her friends. It was always an occasion to dress elegantly and wear some of the jewelry my mother had collected over the years but let me keep in New York ever since she had moved to the Caribbean. I primped with great pleasure and called for a car to pick me up at a quarter to eight.
The housekeeper opened the door and took my coat as well as my drink order. Vases in the foyer and living room erupted with French tulips and pale coral roses. Joan was in the library regaling the first of her guests with a story about the production of one of her plays several years ago in an off-Broadway theater. She had made a remarkable transition from writing drama that was staged here and abroad to authoring novels, the latest of which had gone into its fourth printing.
Jim Hageville, the man Joan had fallen madly in love with when she met him during the winter, was the first to see me. He was a foreign affairs expert who wrote an internationally syndicated column, and both of them had been commuting on the shuttle for the first three months of the romance. Part of the reason for the dinner was to introduce him to some of Joan’s other friends.
/> We exchanged kisses and Joan brought me into the circle, telling the people I hadn’t met who I was, while I greeted the others I knew. Cocktails were served for an hour and I made small talk with the guests, shifting conversation away from the investigation when anyone asked about it.
Shortly after nine, Joan moved us into the dining area to find our seats at the three circular tables. “Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you, kid,” she said, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “That adorable guy who was talking to you inside about theNew Yorker profile of your boss? He’s your dinner partner. Drew Renaud.”
Joan was repinning my antique brooch at a different angle on my dress as we stood at the door of the room. “Where’d you put his wife, Joanie? I saw the guy, but I also saw the wedding band,” I said, laughing at her machinations.
“He’s a widower, Alex.”
I bit down on my lip. “Whoops. Sorry. Glad I found out from you or I really would have stepped in it. Now, don’t tell me you’re playing matchmaker here. I’m going to kill you. You know I can’t stand being set-”
“Oh, stop it. It’s just a dinner party. He’s an old friend of Jim’s from Princeton. Partner at Milbank, Tweed. His wife had a brain tumor and died two years ago when she was thirty-seven. It’s a terrible story, and Drew’s just been coming out of it the past couple of months. So lighten up. Don’t be such a grouch, Alex. And stop blushing.
“Besides, you’ve got friends all over the room-it’s not a blind date. He’s been dying to meet you. Says you were on a panel together last year at the Bar Association but you were dating-ahem-something,I mean, someoneelse at the time. Turn your damn beeper off and let yourself go for the evening, will you?”
“I can’t believe you did this to me with no warning, Joanie,” I said, laughing at my own agitation, trying to get a glimpse of my hair and makeup in the mirror on the wall over her shoulder and reapplying my lipstick.
“That’s a smarter response, darling. I’ve put him right in between us and by tomorrow I’ll expect garlands in tribute and gratitude. You look great so just go take your seat.”
Likely To Die Page 16
