Tracking Time

by Leslie Glass

  The plain truth was she'd had it with recovery. She wanted to go out and do something, but two things prevented her from taking off. The day was pretty much over in Manhattan, and she didn't think it was such a good idea to go out with things so unsettled with Brandy. Therefore, she was stuck in the house with nothing to do.

  She needed the comfort of a man and called Aston at his office.

  "Mr. Gluckselig's office."

  "Is Aston there?" Cheryl asked.

  "Who may I say is calling," his bitch of a secretary asked.

  "Cheryl Fabman."

  "Oh, Miss Fabman, he's out of the office on vacation this week."

  Cheryl was shocked. He hadn't told her he was going anywhere. "Where?" she demanded.

  "I'm not at liberty to say." The sweet tone was pure gloat.

  Cheryl hated her, and hated Aston, too. She was terribly upset. It was Thursday. That meant she had a whole weekend to wonder what it meant. She chewed on her new lips, worrying as she moved things around on the countertops. She had no idea what the whole thing with Brandy was all about, didn't want to think about it, but brooded about it anyway.

  Maybe she was upset about the divorce. People said divorce was bad for kids. Well, it was bad for her, too. She didn't have as much money as before. Her lifestyle had shrunk to nothing. And she couldn't just pick up and go to Jamaica like Aston could. Maybe the toaster oven was better next to the refrigerator. Cheryl checked her watch. Brandy had been in her room ever since the detective left. Cute guy. He didn't seem put off by Brandy in her motor-mouth mode. And her wacko story seemed to sit okay with him. He didn't know Brandy like she did.

  Sometimes the kid didn't say anything for days, and then suddenly she was talking a mile a minute and wouldn't shut up. Jesus Christ, why couldn't Brandy be more like her? Cheryl considered going in and talking to her again. But what was the point? The little bitch was sulking now. It occurred to Cheryl that she was not able to handle her daughter, and that was very unsettling, too. She wasn't having a good day.

  She chewed on her new lips, which felt weird but looked great. She looked so great she wanted to cry. In her brand-new kitchen a shooting pain in her side made Cheryl double over and almost fall to the floor. She knew the stabbing pain meant she missed Seymour and the life they used to have together. He happened to be a big slob and snored like a horse, but she'd known him for twenty years. And even if she did aim for a richer man to marry next, it wasn't so easy to land one. Seymour had done everything she ever asked of him, except forgive her for one tiny slip. It seemed unfair.

  And worse, he was recovering from it, had a new girlfriend who Brandy said was really nice when they went out to dinner together. Prettier and nicer than her, and much younger, the little bitch had been thoughtful enough to report. Cheryl felt the tears coming. Jesus Christ, how could that child of hers cause her so much pain. One child was all she'd wanted. Why did it have to be such a difficult one?

  She sighed deeply a few times, sat down at the counter on one of the stools her decorator had bought. She'd specified only two stools because she'd hoped Aston would marry her before the year was out and they would move to a bigger place. She was feeling awfully low. What if she had to stay in a six-room apartment forever? She wondered if Brandy was part of the problem of landing Aston. What if he didn't marry her because Brandy was such a brat? What if Brandy went to college and left her alone? Cheryl poured herself a glass of wine and thought about Seymour with a younger woman enjoying what should be hers. She thought of him, worry-free and happy without her and Brandy.

  Why should he be free of responsibility at a time like this, she asked herself. Shouldn't they be in conference on this, consulting on how to handle their mutual daughter? Shouldn't they present a unified front to her? Shouldn't they be thinking about the importance of family and pulling together in a time of crisis? Shouldn't they be talking about getting back together again before it was too late?

  She thought about all this and poured herself another glass of wine. Seymour didn't have a God damn thing to say about anything. In their marriage he'd given new meaning to the term silent partner, but maybe he'd changed. She checked her watch, then picked up the phone and dialed his office number. He was still there at seven-thirty.

  "See?"

  "Who's this?" he said gruffly.

  "It's Cheryl. Please don't hang up. If you don't want to talk to me, just listen."

  Silence on the other end.

  "How are you?" she chirped.

  "I'm fine, Cheryl, but I'm very busy. What do you want?"

  "I've been thinking about you, honey, just wondering how you are. You know."

  "I'm fine, Cheryl. Is that it?"

  "No, I wondered if you ever feel, you know, sad about the family?"

  Silence on the other end. Cheryl didn't let the silence unnerve her. She knew Seymour very well. He hadn't a clue whether he felt sad or not. He was like a tank on a battlefield. Whatever was going on around him, all he did was keep moving forward. Now she let the idea of sadness sink in a little.

  "How do you find Brandy?"

  His voice took on an edge. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Well, you're seeing her regularly. She's pretty happy about that. How do you find her?"

  "What are you talking about, Cheryl?"

  "Your visits with Brandy," Cheryl said impatiently. "You took her to dinner at the Posthouse just two days ago. She had a steak. How did she seem to you?"

  "Cheryl, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't had dinner with Brandy in three weeks. She doesn't want to see me."

  Cheryl was stunned. "You're kidding?"

  "Why would I lie about something like that?"

  "Um." Cheryl was at a loss for words.

  "Did Brandy tell you she's been with me?" Seymour asked.

  "Yes, she did."

  "A lot?"

  "Yes, she's been with you a lot."

  "What about Tuesday night?"

  "Yes, Seymour, she was with you Tuesday night. You went to the Posthouse. Is it coming back now?"

  "No, she was not."

  "And you know what? A police detective came to see us tonight. Brandy has been cutting school."

  A very long silence. "Well, you know, she comes over to my place when I'm at work sometimes. I know she's done it at least once. The maid told me. What do the police want with her?"

  So that's where Brandy went. She hung out at her dad's. Cheryl made an exasperated noise.

  "She said she was interested in the tracking dog searching for that man who disappeared in the park. Apparently, she got to talking to some cops about it and they wrote down her name."

  "Didn't I see something on the news about it?"

  "I don't know, See. What's going on with her?"

  "How would I know? She won't see me, Cheryl."

  "This is very disturbing. Maybe we should meet and talk about it," Cheryl said brightly.

  "I don't want to meet, Cheryl."

  "Seymour, your daughter is in trouble." It was only reasonable. She'd wear something serious-looking; nothing provocative. He'd see how great she looked. And she'd be sweet, she'd be forgiving. She'd appeal to his sense of family, responsibility.

  Seymour raised his voice on the phone. "And why is she in trouble, Cheryl? Why doesn't her mother know where she is most of the time?'

  "Just wait one little second. Don't blame me for Brandy's problems. You're the one who dragged the family through the mud with that horrible lawsuit." Cheryl felt the rage rising again.

  Seymour clicked his tongue. "This is ridiculous. Put her on the line."

  "But I'm not finished."

  "Put her on the line, Cheryl."

  "Maybe we should do family therapy." Conciliatory again.

  "Maybe we should have when I suggested it three years ago."

  "You didn't," Cheryl protested.

  Seymour sighed on the other end of the line. Cheryl hated that sigh. "Forget it, I'll call her myself."

&nbs
p; He hung up. A few seconds later the phone rang and Brandy's line lit up. It rang four times, then stopped. The eight-thousand-dollar phone system had caller ID. Seymour's name popped up on the screen. Brandy could not fail to know who was on the line. Curious, Cheryl got up and went to Brandy's door and opened it. The phone was ringing again, but Brandy wasn't there to answer it.

  Fifty-seven

  Brandy and David met in front of Bloomingdale's. On Thursdays the store was open until nine. Brandy wanted to have a makeover for the TV shows she was going to be on, but David was already waiting for her when she got off the bus on Lexington. She'd taken a bus because all she had was four dollars and an ATM card for an account that had no money in it. Her father was always at least two weeks late with the alimony checks just to make her mother angry, and her mother was a big spender. She always needed it bad. Right now Cheryl and she were penniless. It was no problem to live off the credit cards, but Cheryl had taken away Brandy's cards to punish her for lying, and Brandy hadn't had a chance to steal them back yet.

  David crossed the street to meet her. She gave him a peck on the cheek the way Cheryl did with her boyfriend, Aston, and was disappointed that he didn't look happier to see her.

  "What's the matter?" she asked, hoping he didn't think she was a dork for using public transportation.

  "This sketchy-looking detective with cowboy boots asked my mom all kinds of questions about me. She's freaking out. She hates cops." He looked angry about it.

  Brandy laughed. "He talked to my mom, too. She thought he was cool and asked him if he was single. Totally inappropriate as usual." Still laughing, Brandy grabbed his arm and steered him across the street. "Isn't this cool?"

  "Tcheesh. Where are we going?"

  "Bloomingdale's."

  "Oh, no," he cried. "I can't stand that place."

  "We can get something to eat in the restaurant there."

  Brandy was excited. She went through Bloomingdale's revolving door, and glanced at the stairs leading down to the Lexington Avenue subway. Suddenly she got the idea that they could go downtown to the Village, hang out there. They could go to Queens or Brooklyn or the Bronx, or New Jersey. They could get on an Amtrak and take a train to Florida. She'd always wanted to do that. They could go on a killing spree across America like the ones in the movies. That would be better than being on TV. Mostly she wanted him to buy her a present to prove he loved her.

  David hung back. "Look, I can't stay. My mom will kill me if she finds out I didn't go to my shrink."

  "What does he do, call your mommy when you don't show up?" she teased. Inside the store, she stopped by the purses to study a Prada bag. She glanced at David to see if he'd buy it for her.

  "Nah, he doesn't call. He doesn't give a shit." David wasn't thinking about the Prada bag. He was twitching all over, worried about his mother's mood. He didn't want to get yelled at.

  A saleslady asked, "Can I help you?"

  "I hate this place. Let's get out of here," he said.

  "Okay, whatever." Disgusted, Brandy got on the escalator and they traveled up to the main floor. She got off and dawdled as much as she could in the vast cosmetic section, then the men's store. Finally, he dragged her out on Third Avenue. Sam Goody was across the street. Brandy thought he might buy her a few discs, but David couldn't handle the music store for more than thirty seconds, either. He wasn't in a buying mood.

  "Come on, let's go," he said angrily. "I hate shopping."

  "Buy me something," she urged.

  "Why?"

  "Because I want some new discs. You're my boyfriend. You're supposed to get me stuff."

  "Fine, I'll get you a pizza. Then I have to go home."

  "I don't see why." Sulky, Brandy followed him out.

  David raised his hand and punched her lightly in the arm. "Better watch out. Like the talented Mr. Ripley, I can make anybody disappear."

  "Yeah, right." She punched him back, not happy without the present.

  "Two for dinner?" Inside California Pizza Kitchen, a girl who looked like she ate all the leftovers came over with two menus. She led the way up the stairs to the second floor, where David pointed at a corner table in the back.

  They ordered.

  "What did you do with the finger?" David asked.

  "Oh, I forgot it."

  "What do you mean you forgot it? I thought you were taking it with you for a souvenir."

  "I was, but I dropped it."

  "Now you tell me. I wanted that, you nut."

  "You're the nut. You go to a psychiatrist."

  "Yeah, but I don't need it. Half the time I don't even go. I'm really bummed about the finger."

  Brandy leaned over the table and lowered her voice. "Okay, tell me."

  He looked at his watch. "Tell you what?"

  "How you killed him? Tell me everything."

  "I punched him, then I kicked him. Then I strangled him," David said simply.

  Brandy bounced in her chair. "It sounds cool. You're cool."

  David turned around. Four tables were occupied but nowhere near them. "You know we could get fingers from the other two."

  "This is true. We could, and we should. You fucked me over on the cave-dwellers."

  "You're crazy. I didn't fuck you over."

  "Yes, you did. You got spooked before the others were done. How am I supposed to trust you if you get scared so easily?"

  He smacked the table. "Jesus, you know what happened. We had to go."

  "All right, fine. We finish up tonight. You can get their fingers. Whatever." Brandy sulked. She'd done it with him, and he hadn't bought her a bag or a disc or anything. He was fucking her over. Killing one guy was not good enough. How was she going to go on TV as the girlfriend of a serial killer now? "I'll never trust you again," she muttered. He snorted in reply.

  The waiter came with the pizza.

  "Hurry up. I have to go home now, or I'll get in trouble," he said.

  Boys! She shook her head. "You can't do this to me. You made a promise."

  "So what?"

  She put a slice of pizza on his plate and took one for herself. "If they find him, and he isn't dead, he'll tell. You don't want your mom to find out, do you?"

  David shook his head. "You're a real pain in the ass. I said I'd finish it up tonight."

  She looked at him with those big eyes. "I'll come with you," she said. She ate the first piece quickly and took two more.

  "Yeah, thanks." He glanced at his watch again.

  She stared at the pizza on his plate. "Aren't you going to finish this?"

  He shook his head again. "I have to get home," he said softly.

  "Why go home? Why not go from here." She took the last two slices of the pizza with a little smile. "If the cops come back, you won't get a chance to get out later."

  "Okay, you're right. Let's do it now." He raised his hand for the bill.

  Fifty-eight

  Mike was in the middle of a clot of smoking men in the squad room. April went out and caught his eye. She didn't say anything, just returned to her office. Seconds later he joined here there, smelling like a smoker.

  "New?"

  "I just talked to the ME. Pee Wee died of a head injury."

  "No surprise there." Mike sank into a chair.

  "Yes. Surprise. Dr. Gloss thinks Pee Wee may have fallen, or been hit on the head earlier in the day, then wandered around for hours. He says the attack in the park isn't what killed him. The earlier head injury was the cause of death."

  "Wow." Mike inhaled, exhaled, sucked on his mustache. "Where does that get us?"

  April gave him a grim little smile. "Quite a ways. We have some evidence on Brandy and David."

  "Those kids? Ah Jesus. What does he have?"

  "Nail polish for starters. Black nail polish chips on Pee Wee's body. Brandy was wearing a color like that yesterday when I talked to her in the park. Dr. Gloss told me Pee Wee's finger was cut off when he was still alive. That's something."

  "And she was
cool as a cucumber an hour ago."

  "There's more. Hey, stop him for me, will you?" Behind Mike, April saw that Baum was getting ready to go downtown with his warrant request to search Dylan Rodriguez's apartment. The man was so slow filling in a form, this time he'd gotten lucky. He wasn't going to have to hang around the courts waiting forever for a judge to give his autograph. They had new suspects now and new apartments to search.

  Mike followed her eye and called out the office door. "Hey, Woody."

  He trotted into the office looking pleased not to be banished anymore. "What's up?"

  April liked having the floor. "Woody, you're off the hook on Dylan's warrant request. And hold on for this one. Brandy and David were Pee Wee's attackers."

  "They were?" Woody was surprised.

  "Yeah. That puts them in the park last night. When I spoke to John, I thought I'd feel him out about trying another search for Maslow." April swiveled back and forth in her chair. "You know, Mike, that whole story you told me about tunnels in Vietnam made me think, I don't know, maybe Maslow is there, under the ground somewhere."

  Mike nodded. "I thought of that. Drainpipe or something."

  "And Peachy never had a chance to search because she got distracted by dead smells, and then we got distracted by Pee Wee's homicide. We never looked for Maslow, either over or underground. So I thought we might take Peachy out and try now. Those kids must have gone out to Zumech's place last night and stolen his body parts to throw Peachy off track."

  The two men stared at her. Mike chewed on the ends of his mustache. Woody made faces. "Body parts?"

  April checked her watch. "I've got people out watching the buildings where they live. But we should get going. John is on his way into the city with the dog. But who knows, maybe we won't need her. We'll bring Brandy and David into the station. If they're involved in the Maslow disappearance, we'll know soon. I also have a BOLO out on Dylan Rodriquez."