“Idaho,” he slurred.
The woman looked confused for a minute. Then she gave an awkward smile. “Yes, I guess you are.”
“Whathafug?”
“Listen, you’re really loud, and you keep waking James.”
“I ain’t sleepin’,” he said, trying to process whether or not she was insulting him.
“I know. And you’re waking up little Jamie.” She held out the baby. He looked down and saw a plump mini-version of the woman.
“He James? I James.” He was vaguely aware that he sounded like a caveman.
“You’re drunk. You should go to sleep.” She nuzzled the baby’s head, but kept her eyes on James. “All the Jamesies need their sleepy-sleep. Okay?”
The word sleep triggered his exhaustion. It sounded like a very good idea. But even in his drunken fog, he was aware of a question burning at the edge of his mind.
“Where yo’ man?”
“You mean James?”
“Not the baby.” That much he’d understood. “How come yo’ man send you down here? He afraid I’m gonna kick his ass?”
“He’s still at work. And his name is James, too.”
“Too many Jameseseses,” he muttered darkly.
The woman smiled and covered the baby’s ears.
“My James is as big a motherfucker as you are. And he will kick your ass if you don’t TURN OFF THE FUCKING MUSIC!”
She took her hands off the baby’s ears, smiled sweetly, and walked back toward the elevator, leaving James blinking wearily after her.
Another goddamn steamroller, he thought, and slammed the door.
THIRTY-ONE
Isobel scanned the apartment buzzers until she found the one she wanted, but before she could press it, a woman exiting the building held the door open for her. Isobel smiled a thank you and rode the elevator to the fourth floor.
There was no answer when she knocked. She knew James was there because he’d answered the phone, although he’d hung up without saying anything. That had struck her as odd, and she’d found herself suddenly concerned for his wellbeing. As she stood outside the closed door, she felt certain something was wrong. She pounded on the door with both fists until he finally yanked it open.
The smell of alcohol was so strong that Isobel had to take a step back. James’s gaze hovered blearily over her head as if he were expecting someone taller.
“Tol’ you goway!”
“James? It’s me!”
He squinted down at her, mumbled something she couldn’t make out, and then staggered back into the apartment, leaving the door open. Figuring this was as close to an invitation as she was going to get, she followed him in and shut the door quietly behind her. He was sprawled on the couch, his thick, muscular legs dangling over the armrest.
She reluctantly pulled her eyes away from his legs and assessed the situation. It looked like he was starting to crash, and it probably wouldn’t be long before he passed out. Even so, he was big and she was small, and she didn’t want to risk getting him angry. She decided her best bet was to act, not talk. She found the bathroom and dampened a washcloth. Then she took his toothbrush glass, filled it with water, and set it aside while she looked in the medicine cabinet for some Advil.
At the subway stop with Sunil, she’d had a sudden desire to find James and apologize for not believing him about Katrina. He had been telling the truth, and if she hadn’t been so dismissive when he was trying to help her, maybe he wouldn’t have acted like such a jerk on the street. She’d gotten James’s address and phone number from information and called ahead to make sure he was home.
Not only was he home, he shouldn’t be left alone.
She returned to the living room. James had pulled his legs all the way onto the couch and was curled into a fetal position. She knelt by his side and rattled the pill bottle.
“You should take some Advil,” she said softly.
He turned his glassy gaze on her. “Know you.”
“Yes, you know me. It’s—”
“Yeahgud.” He held out his hand for the pills and she helped him wash them down.
“Lie back, and let me put this washcloth on your head.”
As she let go of the cloth, his hand came up and grasped hers.
“Stay. Don’ wanna belone.”
“Um, okay. I’ll stay.”
He wouldn’t let go of her hand, so she rearranged herself on the floor, knowing she wouldn’t be able to hold the position for very long without cramping. The awkwardness of the situation began to sink in.
What exactly did he mean by stay? Until he fell asleep? Or did he want her to spend the night? Even if he thought he did, he would probably feel very differently when he woke up the next morning and saw her there. It would be thoroughly embarrassing for both of them. But at the same time, she couldn’t leave him alone in this condition. She pulled James’s hand over her shoulder and resettled into a slightly more comfortable position with her back against the couch.
A half-empty bottle of scotch sat on the coffee table next to a pile of shredded paper. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the shreds were ripped photos. One was still intact, and she picked it up.
She spotted James instantly in the group of college kids draped drunkenly and happily over a large sectional sofa. He was holding his fingers in a dorky V over Jason Whiteley’s head. Sitting in Jason’s lap was a cute, dark-haired girl who reminded Isobel of someone she knew. She looked closer and saw that James’s other hand held a bottle of Patrón recognizable by its idiosyncratically shaped bottle.
Was this the girl James had told her about who died at the fraternity party that led to him being expelled? And if it was, was the tequila James was holding the liquor that killed her? Isobel dropped the photo back onto the table and disentangled James’s hand from her own. She had written him off as an innocent victim, a casualty of the prejudicial system of school governance that sacrificed the student with the least amount of privilege and protection. Now she wondered how innocent he had been, after all. She also wondered if he would ever be able to stop punishing himself, since it was clear that he was still consumed by guilt, whether or not it was warranted.
He was snoring heavily now, so she stood up and stretched her legs. His face had relaxed into a sweet smile. All men turned into the little boys they once were when they slept.
James.
She and James were so different, but there were certain things they had in common. They were both willing to take chances, and they were both insatiably curious about other people, although she suspected James would be hard-pressed to admit the latter. And here she was in his space, free to explore and learn more about him. If she felt any compunction about snooping, she told herself that in her position, he would most likely do the same.
The apartment was a standard one-bedroom with a galley kitchen, a long living room, and a bedroom that mirrored it on the other side of the wall. The Ikea furnishings told her little about his taste, except for a large print of an elongated pair of crossed women’s legs with a valentine-shaped doily covering her intimates. She smiled appreciatively. It was an image that both men and women could find sexy. She hesitated at the entrance to his bedroom. This seemed like an invasion of privacy on a different order, and it occurred to her that James might stop short of exploring her bedroom, if she had her own.
He had rolled over so that his face was buried in the back of the couch. She was glad he was no longer facing her, even though his eyes were closed. Telling herself that she might annoy him less if she knew him better, she entered the bedroom, leaving the door ajar so she could hear if he stirred. His bed was neatly made up with chocolate brown Egyptian cotton sheets and a coordinating comforter with turquoise accents. There was a sleek, low dresser and a small desk with a laptop on it. She passed over the dresser and went straight to the desk.
Three books were stacked to one side: A History of American Law, Representing the Race: The Creation of the Civil Rights Lawyer, and Why the Law is
So Perverse. A sheet of paper was tucked inside the latter and she pulled it out. It was a partly completed application to John Jay College of Criminal Justice. She tucked it back and restacked the books.
So James was reapplying to college—and for law. What an interesting choice for him. She supposed it made sense, given the feelings he had about his own history with authority. Was he planning to be a full-time student? A few months ago, the thought of his leaving Temp Zone would have sent her into a panic, but now Ginger Wainwright loved to trot her out as one of their stars, albeit more for solving the bank murder than for her typing skills.
The center drawer yielded nothing but office supplies and old electronics chargers. In the top drawer, she found more supplies, a passport, some financial statements, and return address labels from the Paralyzed Veterans of America. She shut the drawer and wandered over to the bed. Next to the phone she spotted a small, wire-bound notebook. It was open to the middle and the page was covered in James’s handwriting.
Strength is a muscle
Not bicep or delt,
An internal rubber band that only
Proves itself when stretched
Snaps back when released
Ready for the next assault
Flexible and neat
Traveling to a place of dread
Unsure about what lies ahead
Seeds of sorrow newly sown
Staunchly I go on alone
Chose to let her go
Sparkling eyes look elsewhere now
Still she haunts my dreams
Isobel replaced the notebook on James’s nightstand and backed away, her stomach fluttering with guilt. She surveyed the room. If she stayed, she’d have to sleep in his bed. How could she possibly do that? She knew that despite her whispered promise, it would be better for both of them in the long run if she left.
She pulled the comforter from the bed, returned to the living room, and covered him with it. The washcloth had slipped from his forehead, making a wet spot on the couch. She brought it back to the bathroom. As she returned the Advil to the medicine cabinet, she accidentally knocked two prescription bottles into the sink. The clatter made her jump, and she hastily replaced them.
She refilled his glass with fresh water and set it next to the pile of shredded photos. In the kitchen, she paused at the sink with the scotch. She had intended to pour it down the drain, but she didn’t want him to wake up and think he’d drunk the whole bottle. She could dump it and take the bottle with her, but that might be even more confusing. In the end, she left it sitting in the sink, still half-full. She decided against leaving a note and tiptoed out.
With one last glance at his sleeping form, she wondered whether in the morning James would even remember that she’d been there.
THIRTY-TWO
Isobel spent the next morning drowning in separable prefixes. Despite Dorothy’s assurances that the copy had been approved, Schüssler Medizinprodukte had delivered a slew of changes to their annual report, after she’d successfully proofed the galleys the day before. From here on in, any mistakes that made it into print would be hers alone, since they wouldn’t be proofing it again. Inputting long, unfamiliar compound words was difficult enough, but she hadn’t slept well. She couldn’t stop thinking about James, but she wasn’t sure what to do next. Should she call and make sure he was okay? Should she wait for him to call her and…what? Explain? Apologize? Thank her?
She didn’t want to cause him undue embarrassment, and she knew that even those closest to an alcoholic had to tread carefully. Isobel had hoped to get Delphi’s take on the situation, but her King John rehearsal had gone late. When Delphi finally got home, she had made it clear that she was too exhausted for conversation.
Isobel leaned on her hand, squinted at a row of consonants, and resolved, for the time being, to give James a chance to call her first.
“Melodious one!”
Jimmy was striding toward her, in a red-and-white-striped, long-sleeved, boat-neck T-shirt and his customary Bermudas.
She shook her head in bewilderment. “Aren’t you freezing?”
He rubbed his hands together and shivered. “I need a little chill to keep me from dozing and dreaming.”
“There’s more than a little chill outside. The temperature completely dropped overnight.”
“To placate my mother on whatever lofty or lowly plane she now inhabits, I don my snowsuit before venturing forth into the wild weather. And I usually remember to use the little boys’ room first, but not always.” He came around behind her desk and whispered, “I wondered if we might put our têtes together for a little you-know-what.”
“Sure,” Isobel said, relieved to have a distraction.
“Perhaps we might venture into a vacant office?”
“Is there one on this floor?” Isobel asked.
“Kit Blanchard’s.”
“Is she out?”
Jimmy put a finger to his lips and beckoned Isobel to follow. She set aside the Schüssler report and trailed him silently.
Kit’s office had been returned to its original pristine, anonymous state. All her personal effects were gone, except for a raincoat which hung, forgotten, on the back of the door, visible only after Jimmy closed it behind them.
“Where’s Kit?”
Jimmy drew his hand across his throat, and Isobel gasped.
“Dead?”
“No!” Jimmy smacked his left hand with his right. “Bad mime! Bad mime! Sacked. Gone. Permanent vaycay.”
Isobel exhaled in relief. “When did that happen? And why?”
“Yesterday. She and Barnaby met behind closed doors, and next thing I knew, she was leaving on a jet plane.”
“She certainly cleared out fast. I didn’t even see her go.”
“It was after hours. Most people were gone.”
“Do you know why?”
Jimmy paced back and forth in front of the bookshelves, which were bare except for a few old media directories. “I do not.”
Isobel made a mental note to find out what had happened to Kit. “Okay, what’s up, then?”
“Riddle me this, Batgirl. Sophie told me there was digoxin in Jason Whiteley’s blood and something else, but she couldn’t remember what. Was it, I don’t know, a painkiller, maybe?”
Isobel paused. “Any painkiller in particular?”
“You tell me.”
She regarded him curiously. “Okay…Demerol.”
Jimmy cracked his knuckles. “That’s the one.”
“Jimmy, what is this about?”
He ran his hands through his short, gray hair until it stood on end, which lent him an aura of craziness, despite the fact that his eyes looked as clear and focused as she’d ever seen them.
“I know I have a reputation for recreational inhalation. The reason I indulge is that I am frequently in pain. I won’t lie and say it isn’t also for pleasure, but it does take the edge off. It’s my lower back—an old baseball injury from the days when I did more than dream about the minor leagues. But there are some days when I need a little something extra.”
Isobel nodded, understanding. “Demerol.”
“All regulation, I assure you. Prescription up-to-date and valid. But the thing is, mine went missing about a week ago.”
“And you think someone took it and used it on Jason? What made you think the other substance was Demerol?”
Jimmy finally stopped pacing and collapsed into an empty chair. “I found the bottle in Barnaby’s office, and it was empty.”
Isobel felt a tingle of excitement, but she forced herself not to jump to conclusions. “Maybe Barnaby was in pain, and he needed it? He must know you take it.”
“Are you ready for the weirdest thing you don’t know about Barnaby Flight?”
Isobel held her breath.
“He’s a Christian Scientist. They don’t take drugs. Not even a Tylenol. Not even a vitamin.”
“We have to tell the police!”
Jimmy leaped up and wr
apped Kit’s forgotten raincoat around himself. “Barnaby’s a bear, a boor, a boob—but he’s not a murderer. What would be the good of killing to save your business? Even Bernie Madoff can’t run his racket from the slammer.”
“But he had a reason to want both Angus and Jason dead—”
Jimmy spun around the other way, disentangling and re-entangling himself in the coat. “Nobody killed Angus. That was a heart attack. And besides, Angus’s death accomplished exactly what Barnaby didn’t want to happen—Tony Campbell called off the merger.”
“Jimmy! Stop doing that. You’re making me dizzy.”
“Sorry.” He unwrapped himself and sat down again.
Isobel continued, “Barnaby knew Jason was going to fire us and cause trouble. He had a motive to kill him. If he had access to your Demerol and Angus’s digoxin, then he had means, and he had…well, he must have had some opportunity we don’t know about. There’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“I know he didn’t kill anyone.”
Isobel threw up her hands. “Then why are you telling me all this?”
“I just wanted to know about the Demerol.”
“You have to give the bottle to the police. There might be fingerprints on it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to.”
Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t mean I won’t, I mean I can’t.”
A suspicion stole over Isobel. “What do you mean?”
“I figured if I did it before I knew for sure it was important, it wouldn’t be destroying evidence, especially since it was my personal property.”
Isobel shook her head in disbelief. “Are you telling me…?”
“It’s in a dumpster on Third Avenue. Long gone.”
THIRTY-THREE
Isobel’s conversation with Jimmy left her head spinning. She had no idea what to do with the information he’d given her, especially since it couldn’t be proved. It wasn’t just that he’d thrown away the bottle; she only had his word for it that the bottle was ever in Barnaby’s office. She still couldn’t figure out why he felt the need to tell her. It was almost as if he wanted her to suspect Barnaby, but that didn’t square with him tossing the bottle, which was clearly intended to protect Barnaby as well as himself.
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