“Why do I agree to do these things?” Christina muttered to herself as she rode the elevator to the seventh floor. I’m a thirtysomething adult divorcée, not a stupid college kid. I’m too old and too smart to be playing cops and robbers. As if breaking and entering and nearly being caught wasn’t enough. As if I didn’t do him any favors in that sleazoid bar where we both could’ve been killed.
The elevator doors parted. Christina canceled her interior monologue and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She stared at the door to apartment 701. Well, she thought, I suppose this beats doing document productions in Shreveport.
Almost immediately after she knocked, the door swung open. A short, wide man in a white T-shirt bearing the logo of a domestic beer company stood beyond the portal. He shamelessly surveyed Christina from top to bottom.
“Yeah?” he grunted.
Christina felt a flush of heat rush through her body. “Hello, sir. My name is Christina Crockett and I’m with the City of Commerce taking a survey for the Chamber of Horrors. I mean—” Christina’s hand passed across her forehead. “Oh, God, let me try that again.”
The man in the doorway stared at her. He took one hand off the doorjamb and rubbed his stubbled chin.
“You know it’s always harder to pick up again after lunch,” Christina said. “I’ve got to stop eating Mexican.” She laughed self-consciously. God, what a nightmare.
“I wouldn’t know,” the man said. “I work nights. After work, I usually just grab a coupla beers and crash.”
“Oh, really,” Christina said, scribbling meaningless shapes on her clipboard. “That’s very interesting. What kind of work are you in?”
“Security watchman over at the Williams Center. For now, anyway. It’s not what I really wanna do, but times are kinda tough. What’s it to you?”
Christina smiled reassuringly. “Just something I need to know for this survey. Tell me, do you live alone?”
He snorted. “Don’t I wish. Yeah, other than my wife, three brats, and a brother-in-law—yeah, I live alone.”
“I see, I see.” More furious scribbling on her clipboard.
“I tell you what, Miz Crock, or whatever, none of ’em gonna be home for at least an hour. You wanna step in for a bit?” His eyebrows danced suspiciously. “I got some beer in the fridge.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
“I could get some grass, if you’re into that.”
More self-conscious laughter. “Oh, thanks, thanks, but no …” You’ll pay for this, Ben, she swore silently. “Now, I’m going to read you a list of major businesses headquartered in the Tulsa area, and in order to gauge the effectiveness of their promotional campaigns, I’d like you to tell me if you’re familiar with them. All right, how about … uh …” Come on, Christina, she thought, don’t blank out now. “Uh…the Williams Companies?”
“I said, I work at the Williams Center. You think I’m some kinda moron?”
“Oh, no, no. Far be it for me … How about the Bama Pie Company?”
“They make those little bitty pecan pies, right? I like those. Damn wife never brings those home anymore. Moron wife.”
“I see, I see. How about Sanguine Enterprises?”
“Mmm … never heard of it. Any reason why I should?”
“No, not at all.” Somehow, Christina sensed that lying was far beyond this man’s capabilities.
“Look, I’m tireda standin’ in the doorway. You comin’ in or not? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Christina let loose her loudest laugh yet. “Tempting, tempting. But totally against regulations. Thank you for your cooperation. Be seeing you.”
“What are you, some kind of religious freak or something?”
“No … no … but, thanks again. …”
She beat a hasty retreat down the corridor.
34
BY THE TIME CHRISTINA reached apartment 724, she was convinced that the entire Tulsa populace was comprised of fundamentalists, housewives, soap-opera addicts, and the unemployed. The hardest to shake were those determined to see her born again before she finished her survey; the hardest to rouse were those mesmerized by the thrilling exploits of All My Children.
With a weary hand, she knocked on the door of apartment 724.
The woman who opened the door wore the unflattering solid white cotton uniform that unmistakably identified her as a nurse. She was a large woman, though not a fat one; she had an imposing, big-boned figure.
“Are you affiliated with one of the hospitals in the Tulsa area?” Christina asked after running through her preliminary patter.
“I was,” the nurse said emotionlessly. “I’m retired now.” The woman was tight-lipped and uncommunicative. Nothing but the facts.
“I see. Are you now working for a private employer?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been employed in this capacity?”
“Almost two years now.”
“May I ask who your employer is?”
The woman hesitated. “That information is confidential.”
Christina tried to keep the conversation moving. “I see. Well, I don’t think it’s important that I know the name. I think the Chamber of Commerce would, however, appreciate knowing if your employer is affiliated with one of the major corporations in the city, such as … oh, the Memorex/Telex Corporation, or Sanguine Enterprises.”
The woman’s reaction was unmistakable. “Who are you?” she asked. Her face tightened up, as if drawn in by invisible strings.
“As I said, I’m just a surveyor for the Chamber of Commerce. I take it you do not live alone …?”
The woman’s irritation visibly increased. Her eyes fixed upon Christina’s. “My patient lives here, not me. I look after her nine-to-nine each and every day, including holidays. And I should be tending to her now, so, if you’ll excuse me—”
“And what is the patient’s name?” Christina asked, but it was too late. The door closed in her face midsentence.
“She’s the one, Ben, I guarantee it. When I said Sanguine’s name, she looked at me like a trapped Nazi war criminal.”
Ben stroked his steering wheel. The sun was beginning to fade behind the horizon.
“You checked the rest of the apartments in our price slot anyway?”
“Of course. No one else seemed at all suspicious, though at three of the apartments there was nobody home. But she’s the one, Ben. I guarantee it.”
Ben stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, she’s the one—but what is she? I don’t see the connection. An old nurse and her patient. How does that tie in with Sanguine?” He drummed his fingers on the dash. “Do you know what’s wrong with the patient? How old she is?”
“No, Ben. Those questions all came after she slammed the door in my face.”
Ben sighed. “Then we move to Plan B. It’s time for me to follow up.”
“Do it fast, Ben. I think she was suspicious. She might talk to her mysterious employer or someone else. Then who knows what might happen. I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
Ben saw the genuine concern in Christina’s eyes. Something about the nurse had really spooked her. “I’ll be all right,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll wait a few hours, so she won’t be too suspicious. Besides, before I go in, there’s something I need to see Mike about.”
“Why not get Mike to investigate this? He’s a cop. Cops are supposed to do things like this, not baby lawyers.”
“What grounds would he have for going in mere? How could he establish probable cause? We don’t have anything nearly concrete enough to get a warrant. Well, your honor, that nurse seemed real suspicious. Forget it.” He started the car. “If we get the cops involved in the seizure of illegal evidence, it may become impossible to nail Sanguine.”
Christina brushed her fingers against the side of Ben’s head. “Be careful, Ben. Promise.”
“Oh, yeah? Why?” Christina folded her arms across her chest. “Because you stil
l owe me dinner, and I don’t want you to weasel out of it. Jerk!”
35
BEN KNOCKED SOFTLY ON the door. Then, remembering his role for the evening, he knocked again, with a solid insistent pounding.
The nurse opened the door a few inches. She was exactly as Christina had described her. Formidable, like a slab of granite. Ben felt his confidence dripping away like water from a wrung washrag.
“Yes?” the woman said. Her body language was a neon sign saying DON’T MESS WITH ME.
Ben reached slowly into his inside jacket pocket. Do it fast and smooth, Mike had said, like you do it every day. Don’t let her get a close look. It is a fake, after all. I can’t risk sending you out there with the real McCoy. I might get into trouble.
“Lieutenant Kincaid, Tulsa PD.” Ben flashed his badge with a quick fluid motion, barely giving the woman time to focus on the glinting metal. “Detective. Larceny. I’m investigating a series of robberies in this apartment complex.”
The woman did not open the door. “I haven’t heard about any robberies.”
“Lucky for you,” Ben bluffed. “Don’t you ever read the papers? Talk to your neighbors?”
“No,” she replied.
“May I come in?”
The woman peered at him. Her internal deliberations were almost visible. After a moment, with evident regret, she allowed Ben to pass through.
The apartment was sparingly decorated. The furniture had a higgledy-piggledy quality to it, as if it had been randomly collected from a variety of garage sales with no view toward the whole. A manteled fireplace with no grate, no screen, and no ashes. A round white acrylic dining room table, perfectly clean. Sheets draped across the bay window in place of curtains.
The nurse gestured toward the sofa. As Ben walked in that direction, he glanced down the main hallway jutting off to the left of the fireplace. At the far end of the hallway, in another room, he saw a woman sitting in an upright wicker chair, staring back at him.
She was wearing a long blue overcoat, or perhaps a bathrobe—Ben was too far away to tell for certain. Ben guessed her to be somewhere in her late thirties or early forties. Her legs were crossed at the knee and her arms were drawn tightly across her chest, each hand clinging to the opposite arm. She was barefoot.
Her features seemed pleasant enough from Ben’s distance, but her racial expression was pensive. Her skin seemed untouched by sun—a radiant, glowing ivory. It was a glow Ben thought he had seen before.
“That is Catherine … Catherine Andrews, my patient. This is her apartment. I care for her.”
Ben nodded. The woman down the hallway didn’t seem to acknowledge the introduction. Her eyes were glassy, and her gaze fixed.
As an afterthought, the nurse added, “My name is Harriet Morrison. I’m a nurse.”
Ben continued to look at Catherine. Something seemed wrong. So wrong that this tight-lipped nurse was spontaneously offering helpful information to divert his attention.
The nurse led Ben further into the living room, where his view of Catherine was obstructed.
Ben removed a small notepad from his back pants pocket and began to scribble disinterestedly. “Forgive me for prying,” he said, “but for security reasons, I have no choice. Do I understand that Miss Andrews is here alone at nights?”
“That is … correct,” the nurse said haltingly. “I leave after I see that Miss Andrews is settled for the night.”
“Are you here every day?”
“Yes.” Her left eyebrow rose.
Being too nosy, Ben thought. Slow down and play the game. “Do either of you have any valuable jewelry on the premises?”
The nurse sat down in the love seat facing the sofa. “Miss Andrews has a few pieces. Nothing of great value, I’m sure.”
Ben continued to make notes on his pad. Then, on the pretext of surveying the apartment, he stood up and paced around the living room. “No TV or stereo. Just as well. Burglars love electronic equipment. Easy to take, easy to pawn. Do you have any drugs on the premises?”
The nurse hesitated. “Of course, being a nurse, I have some medications here.”
“What kinds?”
“Nothing of interest to prowlers.”
“You’d be amazed what a dope-starved junkie might be interested in, ma’am. What do you have?”
“Sedatives, tranquilizers, sleeping pills, that sort of thing.” She paused. “Catherine sometimes requires … calming. Nothing illegal, I assure you.”
“I’m sure. Do all the doors here have dead bolts?”
“I’m afraid not. Just ordinary push-button door locks.”
“Unbelievable,” Ben intoned gravely. “I’ll have to make a note. The manager really ought to do something about that. A burglar could be in here and out again with all your valuables in sixty seconds. Piece of cake.”
The nurse shrugged. “There’s not much to take, really.”
Ben continued to pace around the apartment until he had positioned himself in front of the hallway. He raised his voice. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Miss … Andrews, is it?”
The nurse stood immediately. “Could I speak to you privately, Lieutenant?”
Ben strode over to the nurse.
“Lieutenant, Miss Andrews is … not well. Not physically or mentally. I’m sure you’ve surmised the reason she requires the constant care of a nurse. She is not … lucid. She is in a continual depressive state, paranoid, probably schizophrenic. It would be difficult to have a conversation with her and impossible to learn anything. And it could cause considerable trauma to her, you not being a trained professional.”
Ben looked back at the woman in the wicker chair. Asleep with her eyes open, as far as he could tell.
“I understand. I probably have everything I need. But do call the police station if you see anyone or anything suspicious, will you? Ask for Lieutenant Kincaid.”
The nurse nodded her head, not smiling. “I will. What’s that number?”
There was a pause. Ben stuttered. “It’s … it’s in the book. Or dial 911.”
The nurse stared intently at Ben. “You’re very young to be a police lieutenant, aren’t you?”
“I went into the force as soon as I got out of the army,” he said, thinking off the top of his head. “I’ve done my time.”
“I see,” the woman said, without breaking eye contact. “What was your badge number again? In case I should want to contact you.”
“Not necessary,” Ben said, steadily edging toward the door. “Just ask for me by name. Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
36
THERE WAS NO MOON. Ben would have wished for a moon—not a full moon, just enough to see and breathe and feel like the night wasn’t swallowing him whole. Times like this, Ben almost wished he was a smoker. Not for the flavor—just so he would have something to do while waiting. Besides waiting. And waiting.
It began to rain. Not a lot, just a fine mist. He rolled the car windows up, but left a small crack in the window closest to him so he could hear. The windows began to fog, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t turn on the engine to power the windshield wipers or defogger without drawing attention to his parked car. Ben pulled his shirt-sleeve over his hand and wiped clear a circle on the side window. He had to be able to see.
How did that line go? Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives. No kidding, Ben thought. Seven o’clock passed, then eight. Ticktock, ticktock. A mixture of recollection, analysis, and daydreaming trickled through Ben’s head. Maybe the nurse lied. Maybe she stays there all day and all night. Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe she’s the killer. Ticktock, ticktock. Nine o’clock.
At a quarter to ten, the nurse stepped out of the elevator feeding the sunken parking garage of the apartment complex. Her feet clubbed the pavement. She walked through the garage, then stepped into a yellow Nova and started the engine.
Ben waited a full five minutes after she had driven away before he
stepped out of his car. A matter of caution, he told himself, but he knew he was really just drumming up the nerve. He hopped a brick wall, walked into the sunken parking garage, and punched the elevator button. He rode the elevator to the seventh floor.
Quietly, taking care not to attract attention, he walked the short distance to apartment 724. He knocked sharply on the door. He knew she wouldn’t answer, but the suburbs in him made him try, just to be polite. He knocked again.
No answer.
He had examined the simple lock earlier, when he was inside. Later he’d driven to a pay phone, called Greg, and had a brief conversation about push-button door locks. It sounded simple enough.
He withdrew the Citibank MasterCard from his wallet and slid it between the edge of the door and the wall, just below the lock. He wedged the card beneath the lower end of the tongue. One sharp slice, and a quiet popping noise told him the lock was sprung. Simple. Most bathrooms were better protected. He stepped into the apartment.
“Hello?”
The apartment was dark except for the light of a single lamp burning in the room at the far end of the hallway. He saw a dark figure moving in the shadows and then, a moment later, she stepped into the hallway.
Ben flipped on the lights. Catherine could not have reacted faster if he had hit her knee with a hammer. She fell back, clutching the wall with one hand. Her eyes expanded to three times their previous size. She breathed with sharp, painful gulps of air.
And yet, she did not scream. She did not run. She stared at him with uncomprehending eyes. She did not seem to recognize him but, after a moment, she did not seem afraid of him either.
Ben took a step closer. He had not meant to startle her. He had to do something fast to put her at ease.
“I’m here to help you,” he said quickly. He wished he could take it back. Sounded like something out of a fairy tale—knight in shining armor here to save the damsel in distress. He took another step closer.
“Daddy?” she asked. She had a high-pitched, uncertain voice, the voice of a child. Ben wondered how many times she used it in the course of a day. Or a week. Or a year. She was wearing a dingy blue bathrobe, tattered and pocked with holes and dried food stains. She pulled the robe tightly around her body.
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