One Small Sacrifice

by Hilary Davidson

  “I’m under no obligation to open my door,” Sipher answered. “Go away.”

  “We can just ask you our questions from the hallway, Mr. Sipher,” Sheryn said, loud enough so that the neighbors in the surrounding apartments could hear. “We want to talk to you about a missing woman named Emily Teare. We don’t need to ask if you know her. We’re aware that you do.”

  If she thought shame was going to motivate him, she was mistaken. “This is harassment,” Sipher shouted back. “I’ve been harassed by the police before. I know exactly how to report you. Thanks for your badge numbers. That makes it easier.”

  “I’m going to strangle this asshole when he opens the door,” Rafael whispered.

  “You’ll have to beat me to it,” Sheryn whispered back. Then she raised her voice. “Look, Mr. Sipher, we know Alex Traynor’s a friend of yours. We’re sure you care that his girlfriend is missing. We just need your help to find Emily.”

  There was stony silence on the other side of the door. Sheryn waited.

  “Don’t you want Emily to be found?” she added, after several moments of quiet. “Don’t you care what happens to her?”

  Sipher didn’t answer. She could feel his oily presence on the other side of the door. He was laughing at them, she was sure.

  “We could knock on his neighbors’ doors,” Rafael muttered, sotto voce. “Find out if they’ve seen anything.”

  “Whatever we do now will just be fuel for his harassment claim,” Sheryn said. “Let’s go.”

  Rafael swore a blue streak on the elevator ride down.

  “That’s not going to help,” Sheryn told him.

  “Let’s come back with a drug-sniffing dog,” Rafael suggested. “I could smell drugs outside that door, so a dog could. We’d get him.”

  “You ever hear of Florida versus the Jardines?”

  “Nah.”

  “Some Miami cops tried that,” Sheryn said. “It was thrown out by the Supreme Court. Violation of the Fourth Amendment.”

  “What do you want to do? Stand here with our thumbs up our butts?”

  “Now that’s a mental image I need to erase,” Sheryn said. “I’ll call the ADA and see if I can get a warrant.”

  “It won’t happen,” Rafael predicted gloomily.

  He was right. Sheryn hung up her phone, her ears ringing with the ADA’s You gotta be kidding me, followed by laughter. “I’m not giving up,” she said.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Get your car,” Sheryn said. “I’m going to wait in front of the building, because I’ll recognize this creep on sight. Anywhere he goes tonight, we go.”

  Sheryn stood like a sentinel until her partner returned, then she got into the passenger seat of Rafael’s black Mercedes. “I meant to tell you this morning, but I forgot in the heat of the moment. This is a sweet ride.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You don’t see many detectives tooling around in a Mercedes,” she added.

  Rafael gave her a sidelong look. “This is your slick interrogation style?”

  “Oh, no. Somebody outed my old nickname?”

  “Slick Sheryn.” Rafael smiled. “All it cost me was a coffee too.”

  “Just wait till I work my LAPD contacts. You know I’ve got some. I’ll do a little digging of my own.”

  There was nothing more boring than a stakeout, yet nothing more effective at forcing bonding on you, even with someone you didn’t much like, Sheryn thought. After the sun slunk down to the horizon, Will Sipher emerged from his building. It was twilight by then, but the man was wearing dark glasses and had a scarf pulled around the lower part of his face. Did he think that was a disguise? She had no trouble recognizing him—if anything, that getup only made him more conspicuous.

  “Who does he think he is, Aldrich Ames?” Rafael asked when she pointed Will out.

  “It’s going to be fun taking that entitled creep on a perp walk,” Sheryn said.

  They watched Sipher get into a hired SUV.

  “Follow that car,” Sheryn said. Rafael actually cracked a smile at that.

  It was a long drive up to Riverdale, and they pulled up in front of Sipher’s place just in time to see him hurry inside. The house he’d inherited from his mother looked like it had been sitting on that plot of land since colonial times: it was a two-story federalist brick building, imposing and much too large for any modern family. There was a wrought iron fence around the property. There were other grand houses down the block, but this one—lying at the end of the cul-de-sac—appeared particularly forbidding.

  “How much do you think it’s worth?” Rafael asked, rapidly scrolling through his phone.

  “A couple million. Why?”

  “He’s trying to unload it for five.” Rafael held up his phone, and Sheryn scanned the listing. Five bedrooms, five baths, two fireplaces, and a sauna and hot tub.

  “A lot of places you could stash a missing girl,” she said.

  “You’re thinking this creep has Emily here against her will,” Rafael pointed out. “What if my booty-call theory is right? Maybe she left Traynor to shack up with his friend.”

  Sheryn shuddered. “Let’s try knocking. Maybe we’ll get a warmer reception out here.”

  “You just want to peer in the windows,” Rafael lamented. “And I would, too, if it weren’t for that big wrought iron fence around the property.”

  Sheryn tried the gate, but it was locked. “Where’s your sense of adventure?” she asked. “Give me a boost.”

  “You are kidding, right?”

  “This isn’t my joking face,” she said. “Come on, that fence isn’t even six feet tall. No barbed wire, no broken glass on top.”

  “I like the cut of your jib,” Rafael said. “Last one over is a rotten egg.”

  The fence around Will’s property was riddled with iron curlicues, which proved to be decent footholds. Sheryn climbed up and dropped down on the lawn. Rafael was just a couple of seconds behind.

  They approached the house confidently. “Let’s walk the perimeter,” Sheryn said. “See what looks like probable cause.”

  That was easier said than done. Thick draperies covered the first-floor windows. There were two tiny basement windows—about the size a child could crawl through—that were covered with iron bars.

  “Perfect for holding a prisoner,” Rafael whispered.

  “The man has his own dungeon,” Sheryn answered. “Never a good sign.”

  They walked around the entire house, but there was no noise at all coming from inside. Sheryn had been praying for a chance to use an exigent circumstances exception, allowing them to break in to save a life that might be in danger, but the silence mocked her. Breaking a window without even a flimsy pretext was too much of a reach even for her.

  “What do you want to do now?” Rafael asked.

  “Let’s ring the doorbell. What can it hurt?”

  She pressed it, expecting to hear a chime inside, but there was nothing. “You think the house is soundproofed?” she asked.

  “That’s going kind of far,” Rafael said. “But it does look like a fortress. Wish we knew if Sipher made the changes himself or inherited the weirdest house on the block.”

  They rang the bell again and waited. While they were talking about their next move, Sheryn’s phone rang.

  “One Police Plaza? What do they want?” she mused, just before she picked up.

  “Sheryn Sterling? Larry Adler. I heard an ugly rumor that you and your partner just jumped over the fence of a private home in Riverdale.”

  “We are at that house, sir,” Sheryn answered, trying to placate the deputy commissioner without admitting to any wrongdoing. It seemed impossible that they had been called onto the mat so quickly; Sipher must’ve phoned his lawyer immediately.

  “Did you jump the fence?”

  “We heard some strange noises, sir. We had to investigate.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, t
hen get your asses out of there, pronto. This Sipher character’s got a shark of a lawyer, and he’s already threatening a harassment suit against the NYPD.”

  “But we didn’t do anyth—”

  “I don’t want to hear an argument,” Adler said. “I want to hear the screech of rubber as you burn out of there. Got it?”

  CHAPTER 31

  ALEX

  Alex was no stranger to cemeteries, but the last time he’d set foot inside Woodlawn was for Cori’s funeral. He entered from Jerome Avenue, at the southern end. Within moments, he was surrounded by grand stone mausoleums. Guardian angels with sightless eyes watched him. Judged him, he suspected. They stood beside Corinthian columns and windows made of Tiffany glass. He knew the angels weren’t real, but it was getting dark out, and the distinction between reality and imagination was thinner. It was also getting cold; subtract the bright sun from the sky, and twilight felt like a different part of the planet. That was the wonder of desert lands to him: scorching hot during the day, freezing cold at night. He’d never acclimated to that. Even New York’s vastly milder version of the switch made goosebumps rise on his neck.

  He touched the turquoise cord in his pocket. Earbuds, of all the objects in the world to suddenly get sentimental about. Against every instinct, he’d walked into the police station to hand them over to Detective Sterling, only to be told that she’d left for the day. He’d kept them, superstitiously fearful that they would be lost if they were entrusted to anyone else.

  After the chaos of Central Park, the serenity of Woodlawn at dusk was a relief. Cori’s final resting place wasn’t near the grander mausoleums and statues. She was tucked into a modest corner on the eastern side of the cemetery, with a flat headstone that lay atop the cold ground.

  “Cori,” he breathed aloud when he found it. What was there to say? He didn’t have any firm ideas about what came after death, though the words of his high school science teacher sometimes bounced around his head. Energy does not die, old Mr. Speed had taught him. It merely changes form. Alex could be literal about that, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, an endless cycle of birth and destruction in the material world that he’d spent his adult life witnessing. But what about the part of Cori that made her who she was: her warm personality, her easy laugh, her adoration of horses, and her fondness for practical jokes. What of that part of Cori wasn’t reduced to dust?

  He’d brought a bouquet of white lilies from a corner bodega, and he knelt in front of her grave to set them down. Someone else had left a single red rose. It seemed like a strange choice for Cori’s father, but who else would have been there?

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  It was almost as if he heard Cori laughing at him. Miss me much?

  He often felt her absence, like an old wound that never healed properly. It wasn’t unlike his bullet-shattered leg; he could forget, for a time, but never for long. In some ways, Cori had understood him better than people he was closer to. She didn’t wonder how he could carry such dark, destructive impulses inside him; she shared them.

  One time, when they were smoking a particularly strong substance, she had asked him, Do you think you were born fucked up, or did you get that way later?

  Without having to think about it, Alex had said, Later.

  Why?

  Because my mom was great, Alex had told her. She was always there for me.

  But your dad left when you were little. Didn’t that screw you up?

  I was so young when he left I don’t think I cared, Alex had answered. What about you?

  A shadow had settled on Cori’s face. I can tell you what made me a mess: my father. After my mother ditched him, he made me into his little wife. In every way.

  Cori wasn’t much for confidences, and she’d never wanted to talk about it again. When Alex had later asked her, point-blank, Did your father abuse you? she’d denied it with a desultory Of course not. When he advised her to go into therapy, she’d laughed at the idea. Then, when Alex had refused to take Sid back to Kevin’s veterinary clinic, Cori had been baffled.

  I don’t want to see your father again, Alex had explained flatly. He abused you.

  Plenty of things happen when you’re growing up. You get over them, Cori had argued back. Alex hadn’t pressed the issue, and he regretted that, but he’d been in a downward spiral himself at the time; not even three months after she’d first alluded to the abuse, Cori was dead.

  Alex stood over her grave, his thoughts shifting from Cori to all of the friends he’d lost. There were other war photographers who’d been killed on the job, and one who’d killed himself. That colleague had taken some of the most haunting images Alex had ever seen, starving children in a refugee camp. How did you live with yourself after you’ve walked away from a scene like that? Alex had wondered. Maybe the answer was that you couldn’t. But most of all, Alex thought about his friend Elias Maclean, and he instinctively reached for the silver lighter, now safely tucked in his pocket. He would’ve been dead but for Maclean. Even now, months after he’d shaken off the urge to end his own life, Alex didn’t feel that he deserved to be there. Not at the expense of Maclean’s life.

  He had told Detective Sterling about the buried woman that afternoon, but he hadn’t told her the full story. Emily knew it, of course. Everyone knew a part of it, because it had made the evening news. Alex Traynor, hotshot photographer, kidnapped in Aleppo. Everyone wanted that story; he had no doubt it was part of the reason NYU had hired him to teach, and why they put up with his unconventional ideas and workshops. But it was impossible to convey the truth with words: the three months in various subterranean bunkers or caves, the way his captors would randomly put a gun to his head and pretend to shoot him, the beatings and sleep deprivation and Torture 101 classes that the men taught with Alex’s body as a prop to be sliced and burned. He could talk about that; he knew those parts weren’t his fault. It was how he’d gotten out of hell that he couldn’t get over. The truth loomed over him like a shadow, blocking out any light. Deep down, he knew he didn’t deserve to live. That was why he’d decided to kill himself. What sense did the world make when innocents and heroes perished while screw-ups survived? He hadn’t been planning to tell anyone—except Emily, and by the time she got the message, it would have been too late to stop him—but Cori had wrangled the truth out of him. When she’d shown up the night before Thanksgiving with his heroin, she’d been in one of her moods.

  What do you want with this much? she’d demanded. You better not be selling it.

  I’m not. It’s all for me.

  This shit is pure, she’d warned him. You could kill yourself with it.

  He’d opened his big mouth without thinking twice. That’s the idea.

  Really? She hadn’t seemed startled so much as intrigued. Why would you kill yourself?

  Alex hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but he was in such a deep depression that he lacked the energy to put her off. There are so many reasons, but the main one is that other people suffer because of me. They die.

  Did you kill someone? Cori had wanted to know.

  Yes.

  How did it happen?

  The story had poured out of Alex like blood, hot and furious. His guilt over the young Syrian woman’s death was palpable. If only I’d put down the camera and helped, he told Cori, more than once. That was the dividing moment in his mind: had he done the right thing, that woman would have lived. The second bomb wouldn’t have killed her and her rescuers. That second bomb was the one that blew up in front of Alex’s eyes, knocking him unconscious. When Alex had come to, he’d found himself in darkness. His hair was singed, and his hands were burned. When he tried to move, he found he was chained to a wall.

  You blame yourself for getting kidnapped? Cori had been incredulous. That still doesn’t make any sense. You can’t blame yourself for everything.

  Alex had struggled to explain. After three months, Special Forces staged a raid to free the hostages. Maclean shouldn’t even have been there; h
e was supposed to be on his way home. He only came on the raid because of me. My closest friend died because of me.

  Cori had given him a long, hard look. You know what your problem is, Alex? You think you’re at the center of every story.

  This isn’t about my ego.

  Actually, it is. You think you caused your friend to die. But you know the story of Death in Samarra?

  Sure. Famous ancient Mesopotamian fable.

  Then you know the point of it, Cori had said. If it’s your time to die, death will find you.

  If I hadn’t been taken hostage, Maclean would still be alive, he’d insisted.

  You’re the linchpin that the world turns on, or so you think. My problem’s the opposite: I know I’m expendable to everyone.

  That’s a crazy thing to say.

  It’s the truth. I’m thirty years old, and my father is still running my life. I’m dating a man who won’t be seen in public with me. It’s been two years since I had an acting job. I’d be better off dead.

  Stop being ridiculous. Things will get better. He’d felt obligated to say the words, but they rang hollow.

  If you think it’s time to check out, it’s definitely time for me to, Cori had said. But hold that thought. I need to do something first. Don’t kill yourself while I’m out. I don’t want to come back to a mess.

  She’d disappeared for what felt like forever, but in reality was probably ten minutes.

  Well, fuck that, she’d said after she returned. Her face was red and blotchy, as if she’d been crying. Let’s go out in a blaze of glory.

  You’re not going to kill yourself, Alex had said.

  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Cori had held out her wrists. How does that Dorothy Parker poem go: Razors cut you, acids . . . something you? Well, I’ve tried razors and pills and gas. I’m sick of failing at everything.

  You’re not going to kill yourself, Alex had insisted.

  Yes, I am. But there’s something else I want first.

  That was the moment when Cori had shocked him. She had rested one hand on the side of his neck and leaned forward quickly to kiss him.