by Leslie Glass
He had already forgotten about the girl in the city. He was thinking about making it right. All the way back in the car he had been thinking about the brand. It was in his knapsack, very light aluminum. Airplane material. He’d had it made by one of the welders in the plant. He was very proud of it. He liked thinking about how he’d designed it, how he’d worked out the difficulties. He wanted something that would get very hot and was light. Not everybody could think of such a thing or get the wrinkles worked out.
And it hadn’t been so easy to get relocated in New York. He had important stuff that couldn’t be moved around just like that. He had had to think about the best way of moving the torch and the gun. He had to decide whether to put the compressor in the suitcase or buy a new one here. He left the gun and the torch behind. He took the compressor in the suitcase, heavy as it was. What was easy was getting another gun and small butane torch here. He had a plan. He knew what he was doing.
He had thought about the whole picture, and he thought about each little piece of it. For a while he considered getting some handcuffs. Handcuffs were the professional way to go. But he didn’t like them. After what happened to him when he was a kid, he didn’t want to touch them ever again. Decided against them. Anyway, even though they looked professional, you couldn’t kill somebody with handcuffs, couldn’t get them positioned right on a sofa, or a bed.
Willy agreed the nylon ropes were better. Troland told Willy how he liked knots. Liked wrapping the package. He talked to Willy about things like this, arguing the case for and against the different ways to carry out the plan. He was talking to Willy now, telling him he was all ready to go. He just needed a few hours of rest before starting.
He had decided he wasn’t going to tattoo the whole, whole torso, like he did the other girl. Because if he did that, he might get to the end and not want to spoil the tattoo part with the brand part. Better plan to leave a place for it right at the beginning. He decided to draw it in so he’d know exactly where it went.
He didn’t look for the girl. He wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking about the transfer paper, about leaving a place for the brand, getting everything just right when he was setting up. It wasn’t until he almost tripped over her that he realized she wasn’t where he left her.
“Oh, shit.”
She was on the floor, lying there face-down like she was already dead.
“Fucking shit!”
He was horrified, couldn’t believe it. Had he fucked up and killed her before he left? He didn’t remember killing her. Why would he do that when he had a plan, wanted her awake for the whole thing? He wanted to talk to her and show her everything. That was the important part to getting it right. She had to know how good he was.
No way he would kill her first. Maybe somebody else killed her. He squatted down, furious with her for dying, himself for leaving her, and whoever might have killed her while he was gone. Who would do such a thing?
He leaned over and put his hand on the back of her neck. Her skin was warm. Now that he looked at her he could see that she was still breathing. He couldn’t believe this. What the—He looked back at the ropes. Four pieces, three lying on the floor and one on the sofa. What kind of shit was this? How did she get loose, and what was the matter with her now?
Jesus. The bitch was making trouble for him. “You stupid bitch,” he said. “What’d you think you’re doing?”
He turned her over and got even madder. Her mouth was slack, and she didn’t move at all. She wasn’t dead, but she might be dying. Jesus, he didn’t need this after all his trouble. Maybe she was faking.
“Get up, bitch,” he told her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I got a plan. I’m doing you a favor here. I’m taking care of you. You’re not going to die on me. Just get that straight.”
All the time he was talking to her, he was looking her over for injuries, poking at her warm body. It was a little clammy now, not as fragrant as before. This irritated him. He didn’t want her dying and releasing all that body stuff for him to clean up. That was all he needed. For her to die and make a mess before he had the plastic laid out. Before he was ready.
He moved her around carefully. If he bumped her on the edges of things, she’d bruise and the tattoo wouldn’t look good. That was what he liked about her right from the first, the expanses of fresh, well-cared-for flesh. Now he had to clean it up before he even got started.
He examined her all over and got excited again handling her. He wanted to do some stuff to her, but wanted her awake. Shit. He didn’t see anything wrong with her. Except for the bump on the head and a little scratch on her forehead, there wasn’t anything.
He decided the sofa was no good. He had to move her. He picked her up and moved her to the bed in the other room. Laid her back against the pillow so she looked like she was just sleeping. Yeah, that was better. Now he could sleep with her. That was good. He hadn’t thought of that before. If he kept her with him all the time, he could keep her alive. He could touch her whenever he wanted. He started thinking about biting her and shoving it in her and making her scream. It made him desperate to wake her up.
He got some water and poured it down her throat. After a while she started choking.
“Hi, honey,” he said when she finally opened her eyes. “We got a busy day. Don’t do that again.”
57
Sanchez rewound the tape and turned to April. There was a long silence. Already there were eleven people on the case, combing the neighborhood with the photo of Emma Chapman and hastily made sketches of Troland Grebs. The blowup of his photo in the yearbook would take a little longer.
“You know what I don’t understand.” He swiveled around in his chair, facing her and the small tape machine on her desk that was closer to him than her. He was wearing a blue shirt with a darker blue tie, gray trousers of some undefinable fabric, and the sad expression that always made April feel she’d done something really wrong.
She lifted her shoulders a tiny bit to indicate she had no idea.
“I don’t get you,” he said. “One day we’re working a case together, hanging out on a limb a little bit, and I think maybe we’re onto something.”
She frowned. What was he talking about? They weren’t onto anything. As of last night, they didn’t know a thing except that the woman was not where her husband wanted her to be.
“I mean, trust. Working together like a team.” Sanchez looked at her intently, his mustache quivering just enough to show he was agitated.
Her brow furrowed even deeper. Trust was not a word she was comfortable with. She had a lot of trouble in those training sessions where you had to fall down and let somebody catch you. Not so good to let somebody stand behind you, even a cop.
“You don’t get it, do you?” he demanded.
“What?” Her phone rang. She let it ring.
“We go out on something,” he said. “We have something to eat. We’re talking about it, working it over in our minds. Like the two of us, you know? And the next day I come in, you’re already out of here. Not a note, nothing. What am I supposed to feel, huh?”
He looked offended. Angry, too.
She tried to look angry right back and almost immediately had to look down. Angry right back was not something she was good at. “Feel?” She wanted to scold him. You don’t have feelings when you’re a cop. She shook her head. “You have two things mixed up.” She reached for her phone. “Detective Woo,” she said.
“It’s Jason Frank.”
April looked at her watch. It had been only twenty-five minutes since his last call. “Yes, Dr. Frank.”
“Were you able to get those pictures duplicated?” he asked.
“We’re working on it,” she replied.
There was a pause.
“Is there anything new?” he asked.
Sanchez moved restlessly in his chair while she focused on her conversation.
“I know how you’re feeling, Dr. Frank,” she said soothingly. “It’s terrib
le to have to sit around waiting for news, but I promise I’ll call you as soon as I have anything to report.”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking. Is this something the FBI should be getting involved with?”
“Do you think you’d have better luck with the FBI than the New York City Police Department?” she asked without a trace of a smile.
“I wasn’t questioning your expertise. I was just thinking that kidnapping is a federal offense.”
“Yes, it is. But the FBI doesn’t step in on every missing person case, even if there is a suspected abduction. Have you received a call asking for ransom?” April asked, suddenly.
“No.”
“Then try to give us a little time, Doctor. We have a lot of people working on it.” She looked up at Sanchez. At that second he wasn’t looking at her.
“I can’t. I told you it’s too serious. We don’t have much time,” Jason Frank was saying.
“Believe me, Doctor Frank. We know how serious it is. We’ve brought people in.” A lot of them. Right then the squad room was filled with blue uniforms and detectives, rushing around, coming in and out of the field. Coffee cups everywhere. It was hard to breathe, much less hear anything on the phone. The place had become a war room.
“We have to find her soon,” Dr. Frank pressed. “I’d like to come and help.”
That was the last thing she needed. “You are helping. You’re helping a lot,” April said, trying not to get annoyed. He couldn’t just come in and help. It didn’t work that way. And the more he distracted her, the less time she had to concentrate on it.
“I’ll meet with you very soon,” she promised. “But right now you have to let me do my job.”
“One hour?” he said.
“I can’t give you a time. I’ll call you when I have something. That’s all I can promise.”
He had no answer for that. April finally had the space to hang up.
Now Sanchez was looking at her.
“What are you looking at?” she demanded, exasperated.
“We were having a conversation.”
“Mike,” she said, lowering her voice. Right above her head two blue uniforms were distributing the sketches of Troland Grebs to new arrivals. “You got two things all mixed up.”
Sanchez poked the smaller uniform, an earnest-looking female, bulging out of her pants. “Hey, why don’t you do that over there.” He pointed across the room toward the door.
“Oh,” she said. “Sorry, sir.” And moved away.
He turned back to April without skipping a beat. “No, lady, I don’t have two things mixed up. You trust somebody one way, you got to trust them another way. It’s not about anything else. You’re not together with me one minute and then going it alone the next.”
April was silent for a second, thinking it over. “You weren’t here,” she said finally.
“What are you talking about?”
“I went out alone because you weren’t here.”
“Well, I would have been here if you’d let me pick you up.” He poked a finger at the air. Ha, got her.
She narrowed her eyes, furious at him. “Look, don’t confuse things. You listened to the tape. That’s all there is to think about. Finding her. If we find her, then we can talk about trust.”
He shrugged. Okay. “So what angle are you working? You know what that noise is in the background?”
“Of course I do. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What is it?”
Oh, they were playing guessing games again. “An airplane,” she said irritably.
“So is it landing or taking off?” he demanded.
“How do I know?” April said.
“You should know,” he said grimly. “Well, where’s your map?”
April looked startled. Sergeant Joyce didn’t mention any map.
He looked at her with disappointment. “We need to pinpoint all the bridges and airports.”
“I was just on my way to do that,” she said quickly, frowning because she thought that was just a little bit premature. The woman could just as easily be in New Jersey or Connecticut. They had airports there. But no bridges near enough to be able to see the bridge and hear the planes directly overhead. Scratch New Jersey and Connecticut.
“Did you get an audio person to tell by the sound of the engines if the planes are taking off or landing?”
April nodded vigorously. Oh, yeah, she’d had many hours of free time to think of all these things. Why did she listen to him? He just made her feel bad.
“Does that make a difference, if she’s looking out at a bridge?” she asked, without sounding as annoyed as she felt.
She wanted to do things her own way, but he was looking at her accusingly again. She hated having him mad at her.
“Okay,” she said, relenting. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t think of it.” There, she said it.
“But you don’t leave me notes.” She modified the apology. Who leaves notes? Nobody. Anyway, if she started leaving him notes, everybody would see them and think they were involved.
“I would have today,” he said.
April had to look down again, away from his eyes. He meant today after last night. She hated herself for looking down to hide her true thoughts. It was so Chinese, and she couldn’t seem to help it. Must be genetic.
“Did you get a list of all her friends?” he went on, ever so helpful now that she was confused and sorry.
“Yeah, why?”
“Maybe when he wasn’t home, she called somebody else.”
She also hated it when he thought of things before she did. And he thought of a lot of things before she did. Yeah, the lady could have called somebody else. She could even have called the police. Somebody would have responded to the call.
“You want a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I was just going to get one.” Stupid woman. That was the biggest concession she could make. He said he did, and even went with her to get it.
58
As the sun rose, Claudia counted the minutes until the big cop she was pretty sure was Irish by the color of his hair would drive by. Once on this side of the street, once on the other side of the street. She knew how long he’d cruise around before parking outside the diner down the block next to the corner store.
It was one of the many things about the neighborhood Claudia Bartello knew that nobody else bothered about. If she had a name for herself it would be “watcher in the night,” because that’s what she did. She kept an eye out, knew who was coming home drunk at what hour, knew things about the kids in the houses around her that their parents would never know. Even before Arturo died, she’d never been a really good sleeper, but now she was hardly taking the time to go to bed at all. She took a few hours here and there when she felt like it, slept on the sofa or in her chair by the window.
In fact she was “watcher in the daytime,” too. She had to keep an old enemy in sight all the time. The unresolved conflict between her and her husband about living on the approach to the Triboro Bridge kept Arturo alive for her.
She sat in her chair going over and over how she hadn’t wanted to live near that bridge, even though the house Arturo found was brand-new, in a nice neighborhood. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms. A little place to grow roses and tomatoes in the back. Everything a person could want. Except for the bridge. You could always tell what day it was and what hour it was by the amount of traffic heading on and off the ramp to the bridge. Even with two panes of glass in every window Claudia could still feel the vibration.
She was having her usual argument with Arturo about it, as she sat in front of her window half the night, waiting for that big Irish cop who stopped at the diner every day. He went in to get something to eat and then sat in his car for twenty minutes afterward pretending he was doing some kind of paperwork. But she knew he was not really doing anything. Now he could do something.
He was there at eight-thirty. What Claudia Bartello wanted to do was call out to him, have him come to her so
she could point out to him the problem. How close it was to her and how offensive.
But there was no way the cop could hear her. And maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to attract attention and let everyone see a cop coming to her house. She didn’t think she had any choice in the matter. She had to struggle down those steps that always made her feel like her heart was going to give out on the way back, like Arturo’s did. And then after she got down the steps, she’d have to hobble down the block to the diner. She didn’t like it, but she did it.
When she got there, the way the big cop looked down at her from a great height made her feel like an old, old woman.
“I’m Mrs. Bartello.” She peered up at the name tag on his chest but couldn’t make out the letters.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bartello,” he replied pleasantly.
“It’s not a such a good morning,” she snapped. “I didn’t sleep at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” They were standing outside, by his car. He looked down at her with a big friendly smile, like she was his great grandmother with a hip complaint. Well, she had a complaint all right, but it wasn’t about joints.
“There’s a woman in my garage apartment, walking around naked for all the world to see,” she told him angrily. “I don’t like that kind of thing.”
“Hmm. What’s she doing there?” he asked.
“That’s a good question. He said he wouldn’t have no women or parties.” Claudia was indignant.
“Who’s that?”
“My tenant.”
“You have a tenant, and he has a girl in there. Is that the problem?” he said, smiling just a little bit.
“My name is Mrs. Arturo Bartello,” Claudia said. “That’s my house, right there. Fourteen twenty-five Hoyt Avenue. I don’t want no women there.”
“Have you talked about this with your tenant?” the cop asked.
