Chapter Four
In the predawn light the city across the river looked like it was being bathed in the mist that rose from the water. The first rays of the sun glinted off windows and metal frames. A tug dragging a garbage scow labored toward the bay. Seymour sat on a bench on the promenade, smoking a cigarette. He waved to a jogger, a young man whose sweaty face, heavy breathing, and uncertain stride suggested the last leg of his run. He did not hear the steps behind him.
“I thought I might find you here,” Rosalie said. She leaned over to kiss him. “I hope you’re not always going to be this predictable.”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Seymour said. “I felt too good to sleep any longer.”
“Next time, wake me. If you go sneaking off again, I’ll have to find a better way to keep you in my bed.”
Seymour smiled. It had been a long time since he had been teased, and he gave himself a moment to enjoy the attention.
“I’m going to walk to work, catch Junior first thing, then go to court. I’ll call you later when it’s done.”
She ran her hand through his hair and brought his head down to hers for a kiss.
“Tell my brother that if he acts up, he’ll have me to deal with.” She smiled, but her voice had an edge.
* * * *
The walk tired him more than he anticipated, and although the day was cool, he was perspiring when he turned down Smith Street. Heavy traffic crawled toward the bridge and the expressway, thickening the air with exhaust fumes. He watched the commuters in their cars, most of them stone-faced against the frustration, some sipping from a container of coffee as they drove. None were smiling. But he found a spring in his step as he thought of Rosalie and made a mental note to buy another bottle of champagne.
He unlocked the door to his building and entered. In his impatience, it seemed as if the elevator wasn’t going to come. His palms were damp, and he felt the blood draining from his head. There was really no reason for Junior not to agree to his petition, even if he wanted to continue working in the building for whatever reason, Emily Levine, or simple perversity. But until it was done, there was always a chance for some slip-up, and he found the thought intolerable.
He took the elevator down to the basement, but when the door slid open he stared into an unlit corridor. He forced himself to take a deep breath. Just because the lights were out, he didn’t have to assume a problem. Maybe it was too early for them to be on, but he remembered that they were always on—although he could not begin to imagine what Eddie Gomez did down there by himself during the long nights.
He groped for the light switch and flicked it both ways, but nothing happened. He felt for the overhead bulb. It had been unscrewed, and he tightened it. In the light, he saw the closet door closed. And then he heard a shuffle of feet. His muscles tensed and he flattened himself against the wall, peering down the dimly lit corridor. He recognized Eddie’s shuffle even before he heard his spit spatter on the floor.
“Fuckin’ bitch,” Eddie mumbled. “Who’s supposed to clean up now?”
Seymour stepped into his path.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Eddie cocked his head, but continued walking. He seemed to be more bent over than usual, and he was clutching his left forearm with his right hand. Seymour grabbed his shoulder and felt the bone under the thin flesh. Eddie pulled forward for another step, and then stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, down the corridor.
“Bitch,” he repeated.
“Where’s Junior,” Seymour demanded. He grabbed Eddie’s right arm, and Eddie shoved him off.
“I ain’t cleanin’ nothin’,” he said with a wave of his hand.
Seymour went to grab him again, but he stopped when he saw the bright red on Eddie’s fingers. He recovered himself, but it was too late. Eddie had made his way to the stairs, and disappeared. Seymour walked down the dark corridor. All the lights were out, but he could see a shape on the floor. He looked for another light, but could not find one. He knelt beside the body and flicked his lighter, bringing the flame near the face. Her left eye was open and staring, but the right was puffy and half closed. The blood on her face was dried and rust colored. He expected her to moan when he touched her, but the skin on her neck was cold, and she did not move beneath his hand. He ran the light down her body quickly, knowing before he saw the details what she would look like, how her blouse would be ripped open, her skirt hiked to her hips, and her legs forced apart. But he did not anticipate the wound on her swollen belly, the ragged circle of clotting blood there, still dark red and moist enough on the edges to trickle down her thigh.
His lighter had begun to burn his thumb, so he released the lever, and knelt next to the body. He flicked it back on and brought the flame closer to her neck to confirm what he thought he had seen there, and he had been right: her scarf lay on the floor next to her, and circling her neck was an abrasion, about an inch and a half or two inches wide. He moved the light down her body once more and paused at her right hand lying across her chest. Two of her long, carefully manicured nails were broken.
He struggled to his feet. His mind raced—to Junior, to Eddie, and to O’Riley—and he thought about slipping out of the building through the basement. He forced himself to look at her again. Her other arm was spread out as if it had been pinned. Her rings and bracelets were still there, as were her earrings. Her purse was a few feet away, unopened, and beyond it her coat. It was neatly laid out on the hard floor, almost like a blanket. He took one more look around, walked to the elevator, and rode it up to his office.
* * * *
“So, Mr. Lipp, tell me how you came to discover the murder.”
Detective Rosenberg was a short, grizzled man, with thinning gray hair. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit that hung loosely over his spare frame.
Seymour was about to say that he was on his way to find Junior, but he stopped himself.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, “I think the whole thing is just hitting me.”
Detective Rosenberg looked up from his little notebook, and pointed a stubby pencil at Seymour.
“Sure, take your time Mr. Lipp, but I am curious as to why you were prowling around the basement, for no particular reason. In the dark.”
Seymour recognized that it would be stupid to fabricate.
“I was looking for a client,” he said simply. The detective raised his eyebrows. “A client,” he added, “who works in the building. As a custodian.”
Rosenberg nodded.
“Yes, I believe half the city knows your client. Did you happen to find him?”
Seymour stared hard at the detective.
“We’re that famous, huh?”
“I’m afraid so, media hype and all that.”
Seymour shrugged.
“In any case, no, I did not find him. I did, as I’ve already told you, run into, and try to restrain, the other custodian.”
“Yes,” Rosenberg looked down at his notes, “a Mr. Gomez, another ex-con, am I right?”
“Right, straight from upstate.”
Rosenberg frowned. “We have here a sensitive case, Mr. Lipp, very sensitive. The wife of a rich man, with heavy political connections through her father, raped and murdered. Maybe she was pregnant.”
Seymour realized that the detective had made a couple of assumptions he was not ready to concede, not if, as he suddenly realized, he was to wind up representing Junior in this mess.
“Let’s be careful. Do we know she was raped? Or pregnant?”
Detective Rosenberg narrowed his eyes further until he was squinting. Seymour could see that they were slightly bloodshot at the corners.
“That seems fairly obvious, but of course the medical examiner will have to confirm all that. In any case, we know we have a brutal murder on our hands. And you were one of the last people to talk with Mrs. Levine. Is that not right?”
Seymour sighed, and lit a cigarette.
“Yes, or at least I can say that
I talked with her briefly late in the afternoon, yesterday, as we were both leaving the building.”
“Did you talk about anything in particular.”
“Not that I remember.” He had decided that he could not, under the circumstances, admit to knowing Emily more than casually, and although that was not exactly true, he rationalized that it was close enough.
Rosenberg’s expression did not change.
“She didn’t then say anything about being afraid of somebody, or anything like that, or ask you to walk her outside?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Do you have any idea what she would have been doing in the building in the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t say. Maybe it had something to do with her husband’s business opening.”
“At two or three in the morning? That’s the approximate time of death.”
Seymour shrugged.
“Well, I’m sure that’ll come out, along with everything else.” The detective thought for a moment. “Do you know if she had any other particular acquaintances or friends in the building?” He held his pencil poised over his pad.
“Really, detective, I know very little of her personal life. Her husband leased the space upstairs, and she was around a lot while the work was in progress because, as I understand it, her husband was away on business.”
“As you understand it?”
Seymour ground out his cigarette.
“Yes, that’s how I understand it. That’s what it looked like, in any case.”
“I see, sir. Is there anything else you can think of?”
Seymour tried to look as though he were concentrating, and then he said, “No, but if I do think of something, I’ll let you know right away.”
“That would be very good, Mr. Lipp. My number is on my card. In any case, we will be checking out everyone who works in the building. As a matter of procedure, you understand.”
“Certainly,” Seymour said. “That is your job.”
After the detective left, Seymour opened his briefcase and took out the papers he had prepared for Junior.
“Why,” he muttered, “couldn’t you wait a little bit longer before fucking up?”
He was stretched out on his couch, staring at the faded print on the wall across the room, when the phone rang. He let it ring for a few moments before picking it up. He expected it to be Rosalie, insisting that he let her come over now, saying that she would be there whether he wanted her or not, and he smiled to himself for a second, but he hoped to hear Junior’s voice on the other end, calling from God only knew where.
“Lipp, we’ve got a serious problem. And I expect that you’ll handle it with discretion.”
Seymour paused to light a cigarette.
“Look, O’Riley. I don’t know what you mean ‘we’ have a problem. Unless you were one of Mrs. Levine’s long list of lovers? Or was fat Phil, or her father, a heavy contributor to your campaign?”
“Don’t get smart,” the prosecutor snapped. “You know perfectly well what I mean. Your boy might take some heat.”
“You mean, you might. Let’s not forget whose bright idea this whole thing was.”
“Him, you, me, all of us, together.”
Seymour inhaled deeply.
“You sound as though you know he did it.”
“Did he?”
“I sure as hell don’t know, but I doubt it. I don’t think it would be his style.”
“Good. Let’s hope you’re right.”
“But, I’ve been thinking,” Seymour continued, his mind suddenly fixed on the champagne he had not bought, “that if he did, I’d like to watch him burn.”
There were a couple of moments of silence on the other end, and then O’Riley’s voice sought the right note.
“I’m not altogether shocked to hear you say that,” he said. “But we’re going a little bit fast. I will, of course, do everything I can to keep him out of this, for as long as I can. Maybe we’ll get lucky. I hear there’s a good lead to another suspect. Some deranged old bastard.”
“I know the gentleman in question.”
“I’m sure you do. But not as well as you know your friend, as you’ve just indicated. So, don’t concern yourself. I’ll take it from here. All I ask is your cooperation, should it become necessary.”
Seymour squeezed the receiver tight.
“I’m going to do my best to find out what happened. As you say, for me it’s personal.”
“You wouldn’t be planning on interfering in police business, now would you?”
“No, just protecting my ass.”
* * * *
He lay on the couch staring at the print on the wall. The lamp was at its lowest setting, but he could see the bearded figures around the plain wooden table on which lay open a scroll illuminated by a single candle, their faces drawn to one who had his finger poised over the text and his mouth half open as though about to speak. Seymour strained for a moment, as though he, too, would hear the pronouncement, but all he heard was the distant rumble of the subway.
The floor shook and the dishes in the cupboards in the kitchen rattled as the F train rumbled up Smith. He waited for the trembling to stop. After a few moments, he realized that it was his body that was shaking. The train had disappeared into the night. He put his feet on the broad floor planks to steady himself, but he could not flush away the image which assaulted him of Junior with Emily, their bodies intertwined on the basement floor. He forced his eyes open to stare at the print on the wall, and again he saw the ancient rabbis looking back at him, impassively, just a slight tremor in their upraised hands.
* * * *
Seymour heard the knocking on his door and leaned over so that he could read his watch in the light from the lamp.
It was three-thirty. The sour taste in his mouth and the gurgling in his stomach reminded him that he had fallen asleep without eating any dinner. He rolled off the couch and staggered to the door.
“Rosalie, is that you? Just a minute. I’ll be right there.”
He hurried into the bathroom and splashed water onto his face. He tucked his shirt back into his pants and examined his red eyes and stubbled face in the mirror. He swiped his hair back from his forehead. As he opened the door, he began forming words of apology as to why he hadn’t called.
The hallway outside his door was not well lit, and it took him a moment to realize that he was looking at Lois. She stepped across the threshold and pulled his head towards hers for a kiss that tasted of vodka.
“I guess,” she whispered, “he’s done it good this time. To both of us.” Then she laughed, “Sorry to disappoint you, about not being Rosalie, I mean. I won’t stay long.”
Seymour motioned her into the room, and she sat down on the sofa. He stood before her, trying to force himself awake. She was wearing jeans, running shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt as though she were ready for a morning jog along the promenade or through the park.
“Do you know something I don’t?” he asked. “Have you spoken to Junior?”
“No, and no,” she replied. “I don’t know any more than what I heard on the news about a murder in your building, that plus the fact that he hasn’t been home since the day before yesterday.”
“Then why did you say he did it?”
“Come on counselor,” she laughed. “I’m not some fool on your witness stand. I didn’t say he did it. I just suggested that whether he did or didn’t, he could have, and that’s enough to fix us. Don’t you think?”
Seymour nodded.
“It sure as hell doesn’t do us any good. Particularly if we can’t find him.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll turn up. Just like he always does. And when he does, he’ll be looking for your help.”
Seymour paced around the room and then sat next to her.
“I’ve thought about that. And I don’t know what I’ll do when he asks.”
She laughed again, loudly.
“Ask? Since when does he ask about anythin
g?”
“He did once. The time you came to see me.”
“That’s just the point. I came to see you. He would never have done that himself.” She studied his face.
“No,” she said softly, “that’s not why I am here this time. Nothing like that. I wouldn’t do that again.”
She took out a cigarette and lit it.
“It’s like this. I’m the one who needs help now. Even before this, he hasn’t been home that much. He’s done this trip before. Gets reckless, shacks up with someone someplace for a while. I take him back. Why I can’t tell you exactly, anymore than you know why you’ll help him. Don’t think you won’t. But when he’s like this, off on his wanderings, he forgets me, and things like buying groceries. It didn’t matter so much before the baby, but now, well, I don’t have as many options. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what he’s been doing with his money for the past couple of months. Maybe he’s been playing the ponies, or buying tokens of his affection for Mrs. Levine.” She stopped suddenly and ground out her cigarette. She shut her eyes and seemed to drift. Seymour took out his wallet and emptied the few bills he had, no more than thirty or forty dollars. He took her hand and placed the bills in it. She opened her eyes, looked briefly at the money, and then stuffed it in her jeans pocket.
“It’s all I have right now. I’ll see if I can raise more for you tomorrow.”
“No, don’t. This’ll do me fine. If I hadn’t gotten pissed I wouldn’t have come here, and I wouldn’t be taking this from you. Think of it,” she paused, “as a loan. Or maybe you’d like immediate payment. In services. I’ve been told I’m good, real good.” She settled back on the sofa, her eyes very bright, and he wondered if she had been doing anything more than vodka.
“Really,” she whispered. “Don’t you remember?” She drew up her sweatshirt up over her head, slowly, pausing with her arms stretched high and her bare breasts revealed. He reached toward them, drawn for the moment into the memory, but the sad flaccidity of the naked flesh dissuaded him, and he grasped the bottom of her shirt and pulled it back down.
“Yes,” he said. “I do remember. Just take the money, and forget about it. If you need more, I’ll see what I can do.”
The Monkey Rope Page 8
