by Chris Knopf
“They stabilized her and relieved some pressure on her brain,” he said. “She’s unconscious and they’ll likely keep her that way for another twenty-four hours. Vital organs are working, though they think there’s some bruising of the kidneys that might affect function, though not permanently. Several fractured ribs. She’ll need plastic surgery on her face. You can see her if you want, but she won’t know you’re there.”
“Absolutely,” said Nathan.
“You go ahead,” I said. “I’ll wait for Amanda. She’ll be here soon.”
“You don’t want to see her?” Nathan asked.
I shook my head.
“I don’t. It won’t make me feel any better or any worse. And there’s nothing it’ll do for her.”
“You’re gonna see her eventually,” he said, more a question.
“As soon as she wakes up.”
“You’re not supposed to be afraid of anything,” said Nathan.
I liked that.
“I am, though,” I said. “I’m afraid of me.”
CHAPTER TEN
Amanda arrived about when I thought she would. She sat down next to me and let me explain the situation as well as I could. She concentrated carefully on my words, her face serious, but calm. When I was finished, she asked, “Who could have done this?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the cops do. That’s my next stop.”
“I can stay with her.”
“She’s not waking up for a while. We need to get a room.”
“I can do that, too.”
“Thanks for that.”
I went to the window and told the desk nurse to get the security guy back. She looked unhappy, but didn’t hesitate. The guy showed up about ten minutes later. I asked him if Amanda could join Nathan while I went to do some things. He said sure, room for one more. Before they disappeared through the door, he surprised me by shaking my hand.
“Terrible thing, a child injured by the hand of another,” he said. “I been there.”
“Thanks.”
“Can make intelligent men do stupid things.”
“You’ve been there, too, I imagine,” I said.
“I have indeed,” he said.
“So you won’t mind keeping a close eye on her while she’s here.”
“We will, but it’s a big hospital. Special attention equals overtime.”
“I’ll pay it. Through you. Just tell me how much.”
“That’s interesting,” he said. “How do you know I won’t just pocket it?”
“Because you’re an honorable man. You can’t hide it.”
He grinned at me and shook his head, then he shook my hand.
“Deal.”
I had to get all the way to the street before I could use my cell phone to call the detective on the case from the card he’d given Nathan. He picked up right away.
“Detective Fenton.”
“This is Sam Acquillo. My daughter’s Allison, the one here at Roosevelt Hospital.”
“Mr. Acquillo. I talked to Mr. Hepner.”
“I know. What can you tell me?”
“The door was unlocked and the chain intact.”
“So she probably knew the attacker.”
“Well enough to let him in,” he said.
“Anything going on in the neighborhood?”
“Nothing special. And no, the neighbors heard nothing.”
“Must be well-insulated apartments,” I said.
“Yeah. And they’re all wearing earplugs.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Investigate. Catch the guy. Help the ADA put him away for as long as the law allows.”
“You sound confident,” I said.
“It’s the only way to live, brother.”
He said he’d call me if he learned anything substantive. I thanked him, and he said the usual things about having kids of his own, like he actually meant it. All in all, I felt we’d drawn a good cop.
I felt more that way when I got to Allison’s apartment. The door was open, and inside was a pair of CSIs guarded by a short jerk in an NYPD uniform. I didn’t actually know he was a jerk when I first saw him, but sometimes first impressions are pretty accurate.
“Nobody goes in,” he said, thrusting out his lower jaw to reinforce his position.
“I’m her father,” I said. “The girl that was beat up.”
“Allegedly,” he said. “And nobody includes you.”
“There’s an interior fallacy in that statement. ‘Nobody’ is the word for ‘not a person.’ Would ‘anybody’ then be allowed?”
He might have thought about that if thinking was something he normally did.
“It’s a crime scene, pal. Move it along.”
“Can I talk to them?” I asked.
“What part of ‘move it along’ don’t you understand?”
“All of it.”
He put his face up closer to mine, though it meant he had to tilt his head back and rise up on his toes.
“Not everyone’s afraid of hurtin’ civilians,” he said, quietly.
I moved my personal space back away from his invading breath and took out a little notebook I kept in my back pocket. I wrote my name, cell phone number, and Amanda’s e-mail address on one of the sheets, tore it out, and folded it four times. Then I yelled “Hey!” at the closest CSI. She turned and I flicked the paper like I used to do with baseball cards as a kid. It hit her in the breastbone, but she was quick enough to slap it against her chest.
The cop shoved me across the hall and pinned me against the wall with his right forearm.
“Listen, fuck,” he started to say, but I yelled over him to the lady investigator.
“I’m the girl’s father. Anything you can tell me I’d appreciate.”
The woman looked a little confused, but held on to the folded paper. The cop gave me another shove, then let go so he could shut the apartment door.
“Ten seconds to get out of here before I start clubbing you to death,” he said.
So I left. I assumed this was all a waste of time and an unnecessary provocation of the cops, people I wanted on my side, but if I didn’t do something I thought I’d rip my own skin off my body.
And yet I knew the worst was yet to come. Shock had flooded my bloodstream with deadening biochemicals, protective natural narcotics designed by nature to blunt the agony that a little time might make easier to control. When the wiser parts of the mind could take over and force the animal parts back into the dark.
This is what I was thinking as I hunted up a late night bar, with its promise of my preferred soothing agent, something clear, cold, and harsh on the throat. A bridge to daylight, when I might be able to imagine a future of something other than madness and fury.
I WAS looking at the ceiling of the hotel room, having watched it emerge with the meager sunlight that slunk in from the city outside, when my cell phone rang. Amanda stirred on top of the bed, like me, still in her clothes. I brought the phone into the bathroom. It was Nathan.
“They’re going to start bringing her out of the coma this afternoon. Doesn’t mean she’ll wake up, they just won’t be forcing her to stay under.”
“What else?”
“Don’t expect her to remember anything. The doc told me trauma like that wipes out big chunks of memory, usually of the traumatic event itself.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“That’s it. I’m lying down now on a gurney out here in the hall. I hope to sleep a few minutes before they make me go back to the waiting room.”
I hung up the phone and called Detective Fenton. It almost surprised me when he answered.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Sort of, though it won’t make you feel any better.”
“What.”
“They took her computer. Not her purse, or any other stuff in the apartment, as far as we can tell. There was a nice digital camera and other fancy gear that’s like candy to your average home invader.”
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“So it was just about hurting her,” I said. “And hiding something.”
“Not just hurting. The hospital people said she would’ve died if the boyfriend hadn’t gotten her to the ER when he did. Hard heads must run in the family.”
Busted-up heads, anyway, I thought.
“And they targeted her specifically. It wasn’t random.”
“That’s my opinion based on experience, but nothing I could prove in court. It was somebody she knew well enough to buzz into the building and let into the apartment. That could be anyone from a close personal friend to a delivery boy. People aren’t as careful as they ought to be.” Spoken as if he knew Allison like I did. “Nobody else in the building was bothered. We’re running prints. That’ll take awhile. And checking blood, but that’ll take even longer. It’s not going to be a quick collar, so I’d get used to the long haul.”
“What about you?” I asked. “Can you stick with this?”
“Not really, but I will. I don’t get a lot of personal discretion, but I take it anyway. I blame this on my Polish mother. Very stubborn woman.”
I took a shower after that, and woke up Amanda before I left the room. She told me she’d fix herself up as well, then go back over to the hospital. She told me she’d pick up some clothes and toiletries for me, and secure the room for a few days.
“Abby’s going to show up eventually,” I said. “Could complicate things.”
“Surely she’ll want what’s best for her daughter.”
“In her mind, that might include banishing her daughter’s father’s girlfriend.”
“You’re kidding.”
“At the end of time,” I said, “as the apocalypse descends upon this earth, it’ll still be all about Abby.”
“I won’t make a scene. I promise.”
“You can make anything you want, as far as I’m concerned.”
She brooded on that for a moment, then let it drop, though I knew not forever.
“Do you know what you’re going to do?” she asked, changing the subject. “About this whole thing.”
“No. One step at a time.”
“I’d rather not lose you, if that’s all right. I’ve gotten used to those nights out on the Adirondack chairs. It’s quite pleasant.”
“Yes it is.”
“Allison won’t want to lose you either,” she said. “She’ll need you to pull through this.”
“What’s all this talk? I’m just going to nose around a little. Nothing new about that.”
“No, it’s new and you know it.” I moved a wave of hair out of her eyes. She used the back of her arm to finish the job. She looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I won’t bring it up again.”
IT WAS midmorning, and already getting hot. But I needed the exercise, so I walked the ten blocks uptown to Allison’s apartment. There was a yellow crime-scene tape barring the way. I put on surgical gloves and used my key to open the door, peeling, then reattaching the tape before closing the door behind me.
The apartment was a one-bedroom deal, which meant it had a bedroom, a bathroom, and another room that included living area, kitchen, and a counter where two people could eat. Allison was a freelance graphic artist, so the living space was really a work area, with a professional computer set up under a big task light, and a couple of file cabinets crammed in the corner. Every square inch of wall space was covered in photos, paintings, and fabric designs. None of it seemed to belong together, yet it all worked well in the end. I guess that’s what happens when graphic artists decorate their apartments.
On top of her big monitor she’d duct taped a brass plaque that said “Suffer Fools.”
It was hot with the air-conditioning off, and all the rooms were pretty badly tossed, though I’d seen worse. Fingerprint powder, in a variety of colors, was everywhere, and the drawers and cabinet doors were all partly open, their contents spread on the counters and floors. The coarse, woven rug was good at hiding stains, but there was a lot of blood. Also on the hardwood floors and up one of the walls. I hadn’t seen much of the place over the years. Allison was a certified slob and was usually embarrassed to let me in. Or she had a man tucked away in there and was reluctant, for some reason, to expose him to her gentle, unassuming father. So I wouldn’t likely know if there was anything abnormal, any sort of tale the apartment’s inanimate objects might tell.
I sat at the computer and turned it on. Nothing happened. I looked under the desk and saw a tangle of severed cords, then remembered that the CPU, the brain of the computer, was gone. I looked around the apartment, knowing it was a waste of effort. Whoever beat her up took the computer. Maybe because of what was on it, or he was just taking precautions. Or simple theft, though that was unlikely. Too much else was left behind.
I took out my cell phone and called Randall Dodge—Shinnecock Indian, occasional sparring partner and go-to geek.
I asked him if he could break into my daughter’s e-mail account, which I assumed lived somewhere in the cloud.
“No guess on the password?” he asked.
“Nah. I’m more likely to lock it up from too many wrong tries.”
I told him I’d get Amanda to forward one of Allison’s messages as soon as she could get back on her computer.
“No guarantees, but I’ll give it a go,” he said. “You might tell me why.”
I told him, and he expressed sympathy and concern through a few simple words. This was one of the reasons Indians make good friends. Not a lot wasted on unwanted sentiment.
Before leaving the building, on impulse, I knocked on the door of Allison’s next-door neighbor to the left. No one answered, so I knocked on the door to her right. The door opened as far as the chain would allow and a sallow young face with a dusting of beard and shiny skin peered out. The hall was hotter than Allison’s apartment, and the air flowing from this guy’s place hotter still.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“You know the girl next door was assaulted?”
“Yeah. Thoroughly shitty.”
“Did you hear or see anything?”
“I told you guys already, I didn’t see or hear shit because I wasn’t here. I was at a meeting and if you want proof, I can line up people from here to Paterson, New Jersey.”
“Anything when you were here? People coming around threatening or acting abusive?”
“Look, detective. I love Allison. Totally unperverted by the mindless, predatory exploiters she had to work for to pay the rent. Quiet, respectful, nonjudgmental, and generous with her pharmaceuticals whenever asked.” I let that last bit roll by unexamined, helped by a rise in the guy’s amplitude. “So I’m a lot more upset about this than you’ll ever be and I’d do anything to nail the motherfuckers who did this to the fucking wall and carve off their fucking genitals and feed them to their puppies, but I wasn’t here when it went down.” His voice dropped down to its original volume. “So, sorry.”
“Okay then,” I said to the door, after it was closed delicately in my face.
I WAS out on the street when I got a call from Joe Sullivan.
“Jesus Christ, Sam, what the hell.”
“If you had anything to do with Detective Fenton getting assigned the case, thank you.”
“Not a thing. Though they say he’s one of the better ones, if you get past the booze and bad rapport with senior police officials, which makes him sound like every other cop I know.”
“There’s not much to go on. Looks like she knew the guy, though no witnesses and forensics running like a slow boat to China.”
“By the way, Ross put in a word for you as well,” said Sullivan. “Much better than mine, given his hitch in NYPD homicide.”
“Thank him for me.”
“I got a shitload of time off banked if you need company,” he said.
Right after feeling a wave of gratitude, I remembered that thing I was working on when I got the call from Nathan.
“What about the Alfie investigation?”
“Jackie and Veckstrom will have to get along without us,” he said.
“They might make progress, but getting along is not a possibility. Anyway I’d be grateful for the help.”
“You get the room and don’t forget the minibar.”
I’M ASHAMED to say I rarely remembered the details of my conversations with Allison. I could follow the big picture, but when she named names from work or off time, or referred to performers, TV shows, or other useless junk from popular culture, I’d put my attention on hold. So it was a bit surprising I remembered one of her regular clients, a design firm called Brand & Weeks, just because the name stuck in my head.
It was high up in a tower in Midtown, near, but not on, Madison Avenue. The crack security guy at the desk had me sign my name in a book, and even looked at my driver’s license. I asked him if he thought the picture was a decent likeness. He didn’t answer, just handed back the card and told me which floor to get off.
The elevator opened onto a basketball court, though not one you could actually use to play basketball, given the eight-foot ceilings and tiny parquet floor. A very small young woman in a form-fitting dress and nosebleed pumps sat at a table at center court. The only thing on the table was a desk phone. I walked up to her.
“I’d like to talk to the person who hires freelancers,” I said.
“You need to go online and post your book,” she said, loneliness nearly overcoming the tedium of repeating the line. “Somebody will call you. Or not.”
“I’m not a freelancer. It’s a police matter.”
“Oh,” she said, perking up. “That’s different.” She picked up the phone and punched in a number. “There’s a cop here who wants to talk to you,” she said into the phone. She looked up at me.
“Do you have identification?”
“I’ll show it to the person who hires freelancers,” I said.
“He says he has to show it to you,” she said into the phone. “Probably police procedure.”
She nodded and hung up the phone, telling me Althea would be right out. I thanked her. Althea showed up a few minutes later, and instantly filled up the reception area. Six feet tall, or a little more, big around the middle, but not fat, scruffy clothes, and sloppy white hair barely restrained by a red headband, blue jeans and knee-high laced boots, a loose chambray shirt, and a drafting pencil stuck in her mouth. She shook my hand, or rather cranked it like you would a recalcitrant pump handle.
