by John Case
“The M.E.’s on the way,” the cop added. “And an ambulance. Though…”
The M.E., Adrienne thought, turning the initials over in her mind. The Medical Examiner. Once again, the image of her sister flashed before her eyes. She was lying in the tub, up to her neck in the ice-cold water. With an appliance—a radio or something—in the water between her legs.
She had to get her out of there.
The blood drained from her head as she got to her feet and stood, suddenly dizzy, swaying on her feet, head pounding like the bass drum in a high school band. She felt the policeman’s hand on her arm. “We have to get her out of there,” she said, and took a step toward the bathroom.
“No.” Ever so gently, he sat her down on the couch.
“She’s cold!” Adrienne sobbed.
“No, she’s not cold. She’s—” The policeman looked wildly around, as if to find someone who could help him explain. But there was no one else. “She’s okay now,” he said. “Whatever it was, she isn’t hurting anymore.”
Adrienne awoke in her own apartment, a little after dawn. To her surprise, she was still dressed and lying on top of the covers on her bed. Just before her eyes opened, she remembered…
Getting to her feet, she went into the kitchen and made a cup of strong coffee with the plastic cone and paper filters that she used. Sitting down at the kitchen table, she thought, That’s it. There isn’t anyone else. Now, I’m really an orphan. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back, almost angrily. Who are you sorry for? she wondered. Yourself or Nikki? Then she sipped her coffee and looked at the clock. 6:02. The first gray light of morning.
Her head hurt from where she’d fallen, banging it against her sister’s sink. She supposed she was still in shock, and wondered what she was supposed to do. Make a list, she told herself. She was big at making lists and, anyway, that’s what lawyers always did in a crisis: they made lists. Removing a pen from a Hoya’s mug beside the telephone, she found a pad of Post-its, and began to write:
1. Funeral Home
The medical examiner had said there would be an autopsy—probably in the morning. He’d given her his business card, and told her to call that afternoon. Unless something unforeseen arose, they’d release “the remains” later that day. So she’d need to find one.
2. Call the M.E.
3.
She hesitated. What was 3.? Then it occurred to her that 3. was the shrink who’d killed her sister. Duran—that was his name. Jeffrey Duran.
But, no. She’d deal with that son of a bitch later. There were more immediate priorities than revenge. So 3. was something else. Like, a memorial service. She sipped her coffee, and wondered what Nikki would have wanted. And then she remembered: a funeral barge, piled high with flowers. They’d talked about it once, half-joking, and that’s what she wanted: a burial at sea.
Adrienne sighed. Some kind of service, something simple, but—who should she call? There weren’t any other relatives. Just her. Her and Jack.
Jesus Christ, she thought. Jack!
There was a key to Nikki’s apartment hanging from a hook under the cabinet next to the sink, where she liked to keep her keys so that she’d never have to look for them. The poor dog! Adrienne thought. What about him? What’s going to happen to him?
She left her apartment at 6:35, and walked east on Lamont toward 16th Street, where she could expect to find a cab. The day was brightening now, as early risers came out of Heller’s Bakery, attaché cases in one hand, cups of coffee in the other. Half a dozen people waited at the bus stop, while a ragged Hispanic man snored in the doorway of Ernesto’s Taquería.
It took her a while to hail a cab, but the ride was a quick one, with the cabbie heading west on Porter, then south on Wisconsin to M. She got out in front of the Watermill, half expecting to find a fleet of squad cars, but there was nothing unusual to mark her sister’s death. Just people leaving for work, oblivious to the tragedy of the night before.
She didn’t know the doorman on the morning shift but it didn’t matter. He was reading the sports section of the Post, and merely nodded to her as she passed. The elevator doors opened with a cheerful ding. And then she was on the third floor, walking down the silent corridor toward her sister’s apartment.
She had almost expected the doorway to be crisscrossed with yellow police tape. But there was nothing. Just the door itself—and her, standing in front of it, looking blank. Only a few hours earlier, they’d carried her sister out on a gurney, her body covered by a sheet. She remembered the water dripping on the floor, a little trail from the bathroom to the front door, but it was gone now. Evaporated. Like Nikki.
She fumbled in her purse for the key and, finding it, opened the door. Standing on the couch, the dog unleashed a stuttering bark that seemed to go on and on, half-warning, half-howl. “Jaa-ck,” she said, kneeling to scratch behind his ear as he wiggled over to her side. “Where’s your leash?” she asked. “Where’d it go?”
Jack cocked his head, and looked insane, his stubby little tail quivering at attention.
She tried to think where Nikki would put it. There was a closet a few feet from the door, and she opened it. Looked inside. A couple of coats, hanging from hooks. An armload of dry cleaning, still in its plastic bags. A couple of belts. Her sister’s Rollerblades. Things. There were so many things. So many… personal effects. For the first time, it occurred to Adrienne that she would have to do something with it all. The furniture, the clothes, the skates…
Maybe the leash was in the kitchen.
Crossing the living room, she went into the kitchen and glanced around. No leash. No dirty dishes. Nothing. If anything, the room was a lot tidier than usual, as if Nikki had cleaned up before she’d killed herself. Even the refrigerator door, a sort of tchotchke art gallery, was empty.
Or almost so. There was an envelope pressed to its surface by a magnetized effigy of Tanqueray gin. And Adrienne’s name was on it in big, block letters.
Removing the magnet, she took the envelope to the counter in the middle of the room, and sat down with it in front of her, fearful of her sister’s last words. After what seemed a long time, she opened the letter, and with a sigh, saw that her fears had been groundless. The envelope contained her sister’s last will and testament, a potted document that she’d downloaded from the Internet. Across the top was a four-color, banner-ad with the words:
GET 20% CASH REBATES AT 1000S OF RESTAURANTS NATIONWIDE…
Beneath that was the declaration that
I, Nicole Sullivan, a resident of Washington, D.C., declare that this is my will.
FIRST: I revoke all Wills and Codicils that I have previously made.
SECOND:
She didn’t want to read it now, though she saw at a glance that she’d been named her sister’s executor. Which wasn’t surprising. Who else did Nikki have?
Who, indeed?
There must be an address book, somewhere, Adrienne thought. A Filofax or PalmPilot, some way for Adrienne to get in touch with Nikki’s friends (if she had any). Maybe she kept it on her laptop, Adrienne thought.
A cold nose nuzzled her ankle, reminding her of the missing leash. Getting to her feet, Adrienne returned through the living room to her sister’s bedroom—which, like the kitchen, was quite tidy: bed made, clothes put away. Going over to the closet, she opened the door to see if the leash was hanging there, and her eye was immediately caught by a lime-green, plastic case that she’d never seen before.
Too big for a laptop, and too small for a guitar, the case was rectangular without being square. Curious, she hefted it and was surprised by its weight. Camera equipment? Removing the case from the closet, she carried it to the bed and set it down. A pair of combination locks flanked the carrying handle, but they were no obstacle at all. Nikki bragged about using the same combination on everything, one she’d never forget: 0211, her birthdate. Or, if it was a computer password, 021170, which was just the same, but with the year.
Adrien
ne spun the little brass wheels until the numbers matched on either side of the handle, then sprung the locks, and opened the case.
What she found was so unexpected, and so strange, that it took her breath away. Parts of a gun—a rifle of some kind—lay in foamed compartments that seemed to have been specially made for it. There was a long blue barrel, a matte-black plastic stock, a telescopic lens.
And… nestled into the foam below the scope was a carefully-machined, perforated metal tube, that was threaded at one end. Though she’d never seen one before (except, perhaps, at the movies), she knew at once what it was, or must be: “a silencer.” Almost as a reflex, she slammed the case shut as if to hide its contents, and spun the little wheels of the combination lock. Then she carried the case back to the closet, and put it back where she’d found it.
For the second time in a day, she felt shocked and guilty. Shocked that Nikki had killed herself, and guilty that she hadn’t saved her. Shocked, again, to find a rifle—and not just any rifle, but such a rifle—in her sister’s closet. And then the guilt welling up—again—at the recognition of her own prurient curiosity.
She closed the closet door with a sigh. Stop it, she said to herself. No one could have saved Nikki (except, perhaps, her shrink). Nikki was doomed. Had always been doomed. And as for going through her sister’s things, she was supposed to do that. She was the next of kin. The executor. And the only survivor. If not her, who?
But it was so bizarre, she thought, looking around to see where else the leash might be. A gun like that… you didn’t buy a gun like that for self-protection. And whatever else Nikki might have been, she certainly wasn’t a hunter, so… it must be someone else’s. But whose?
Returning to the living room, she glanced this way and that, having already decided in the back of her mind that she could substitute a length of cord for the leash. Noticing Nikki’s desk for the first time, she went over to it and, much to her surprise, found what she was looking for in the top drawer. The leash itself. And on the desk, Nikki’s laptop—with, she supposed, an address book in one of its folders. (Didn’t Microsoft Outlook have some sort of “contact” list?) She’d take it with her when she left.
Closing the desk drawer, she turned toward Jack who suddenly let loose a prolonged and startling bark—then launched himself at the door. To Adrienne’s surprise, she saw the doorknob turn and felt a sizzle of apprehension, followed by a defensive need to explain her presence. At such an early hour. In her sister’s apartment.
The door swung open, and a man loomed in the entrance, then dropped to a squat and clapped his hands as the dog flew at him. “Tranquilo, Jack, tranquilo!”
Ramon.
Adrienne cleared her throat as the doorman rubbed the dog’s head with his knuckles, talking to it all the time. But he didn’t seem to hear her, and so she raised her voice.
“Hi.”
He looked up, startled to find that he wasn’t alone. Seeing Adrienne, he straightened and, with a look of embarrassment, smiled. “I was worried about the dog,” he told her, closing the door behind him. “I thought maybe I’d feed him, y’know? Take him for a walk…”
Adrienne nodded. “Me, too,” she said.
Ramon shuffled his feet. “Well… “ He glanced around, uncertain of what to say. “You’re here, so—”
“I really want to thank you for last night,” Adrienne said. “I—I really lost it.”
Ramon nodded. “It was terrible,” he admitted. “The most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I know.”
“I’m just the doorman, but—this lady was my friend, y’know? We used to talk sometimes.”
Adrienne nodded.
“So, I guess you’ll have a service—” Ramon suggested.
“I suppose so.”
“And maybe you could let me know?”
“Of course.”
“‘Cause I’d like to be there.”
“Okay.”
The doorman stepped toward her and, taking out his wallet, produced a ridiculously expensive business card. In the upper right-hand corner were the masks of tragedy and comedy, embossed in gold. In the middle was his name—Ramon Gutierrez-Navarro—and a telephone number.
“I’ll call you,” Adrienne promised. “In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came by. To look for an address book. So I can let her friends know… what happened.”
Ramon nodded thoughtfully, and frowned. “She didn’t go out a lot,” he said. “Didn’t have a lot of people over.”
It was Adrienne’s turn to nod.
“Someone that pretty, you’d think… “ He let the thought die, then changed the subject. “What about Jack?” he asked. “What’s going to happen to him?”
Adrienne shook her head. “I don’t know. My landlady lives upstairs and—she’s not real big on dogs.”
“‘Cause I was thinkin’,” Ramon said. “Maybe I could take him—I mean, if you don’t want him—if you can’t have him. I like dogs. And since it’s Nikki’s dog… it would be kind of special.”
Adrienne thought it over—for about half a second. “Well, that would be… just great!” It occurred to her that Ramon had had a crush on her sister.
“Only… if you could keep him for a week or maybe two?” Ramon suggested. “I’m just changing roommates and I got to square it with the new guy. I mean, I can make it a condition. This guy I got lined up, if he doesn’t like dogs—I just find someone who does.”
Adrienne nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely! A couple of weeks. No problem.”
Ramon looked pleased. “Well, that’s great,” he said.
She put his business card in her handbag, and the laptop in its case, which was on the floor beside the desk. Then she clipped the leash to Jack’s collar, slung the computer case over her shoulder, and stepped out into the corridor. Together, she and Ramon rode the elevator down to the lobby, and went outside.
“You want a taxi?”
Adrienne shook her head. “I’ll walk him, first.”
The doorman nodded, and they shook hands. “So… I’ll wait to hear from you,” he told her.
She smiled and, at a tug from Jack, lurched toward the curb.
Ramon beamed. “I’m a dog owner,” he said to no one in particular. “How about that?”
Chapter 8
She was standing in the crowd on the platform at Metro Center, waiting for the Red Line train that would take her to Cleveland Park. And the train was going to be there any second. Adrienne knew that because the glass discs at the edge of the platform were beginning to blink, a staccato light show that she could see between the legs of the waiting passengers. Approaching the platform and peering to the left, she saw the train’s headlight flickering in the tunnel. Somewhere, a telephone began to ring.
But not in her dream. The phone was real, and the Metro was a phantom. She knew this even as she dreamt about it, but knowing didn’t make any difference. The dream still had her in its grip as she fumbled for the receiver on her bedside table.
“Hello?”
The voice at the other end identified itself as “Ms. Neumann,” from the Medical Examiner’s office. “I’m calling about Nicole Sullivan’s remains? Who am I speaking with?”
The word—remains—made Adrienne sit up, and the act of sitting up lifted her out of the dream. “This is Nikki’s sister. Half sister. Adrienne Cope.”
“The police report lists you as the next of kin.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, we need the name of a funeral home—whoever’s going to process the rem—”
Adrienne interrupted. “I understand.” Process the remains? As if Nikki were a kind of cheese or information.
“And?” The clerk’s impatience was palpable.
“I’ve never done this before,” Adrienne explained. “So… I haven’t really decided—”
“I can fax you a list, if you have a machine,” the clerk suggested.
“I do,” Adrienne replied. “I have one ri
ght here.” She gave her the number, and the clerk said that she’d wait for a reply.
“There’s a release for the remains. So we can send them wherever you tell us.”
“Okay.”
“If we could have it back this afternoon? That would be good,” the clerk added.
“I’ll get it to you right away,” Adrienne promised, returning the receiver to its hook. Then she got out of bed, threw on some clothes, and attached the leash to Jack’s collar. Mrs. Spears didn’t allow pets in the house, but “under the circumstances… “ she’d agreed that Jack could stay until next weekend, by which time Ramon would be able to take him in.
Jack was already at the door, slapping it with his paws, eager to go for his walk.
As the two of them left the house, they entered a patch of garden on the way to the garage, where Adrienne pushed a button that sent the segmented door rattling up from the floor. With the door curling into the roof, Jack yanked her into the alley behind the houses.
Out on the street, Adrienne was thinking that although she didn’t have time to take care of the dog, she was going to miss him. It was amazing how many people stopped to talk—ostensibly to her, but actually to Jack. Though it was only a block away, it took her almost ten minutes to get to Heller’s Bakery. There, she tied the leash to a parking meter and went in to get a sweet roll, emerging a few minutes later with a croissant for Jack.
By the time she got back to the apartment, the fax machine was disgorging the last page of a multipage fax from the Medical Examiner’s office. Jack jumped onto the couch and curled up, as Adrienne retrieved a handful of pages from the floor. At a glance, she saw that they comprised an alphabetized list of establishments providing “mortuary services” in the District of Columbia.
She called the Albion Funeral Home, which was near the top of the list. The man at the other end had the soft and confidential voice of a used-car salesman on Qaaludes. When she interrupted his spiel to make it clear that she wasn’t interested in an elaborate service, he offered, without missing a beat, the most “economical” alternative, one that involved no “viewing” or “service” and a “classic,” if “basic,” coffin. Even so, it was soon clear that even the simplest burial was going to cost thousands of dollars.
