“‘We are deeply shocked over the untimely death of Harry Dietrich, who gave of himself so generously to this population as well as other neglected and needy causes,’” Kagan was quoted as saying. “‘Harbor View will operate as always,’ he added, ‘continuing to offer care and shelter to people with special needs, the fulfillment of Harry Dietrich’s vision and his passion.’”
There would be a private funeral, the article said. It didn’t say where or when. It also mentioned that Mr. Dietrich was survived by a sister-in-law, Arlene Poole of Manhattan, a niece, and a nephew.
Dashiell had come up on the couch to sleep, his head leaning against my leg. I leaned down and put my cheek on his back, listening to him sigh in his sleep as I did so. I closed my eyes, thinking about Charlotte in her red gloves and earmuffs, following Dashiell down the stairs. There’d been a dark line on the wall opposite the banister, starting on the top floor and going all the way down to the lobby, about two feet from the ground, a grease mark from a puli’s coat, Lady rubbing against the wall, the way so many dogs do, as she ran up and down the stairs, visiting her charges, making sure everyone was taken care of every day.
Harry Dietrich was not the only one who would be missed at Harbor View.
Then all I could think about was Chip, how far away he sounded.
I hadn’t asked where he was—maybe at the new house, waiting for the boys to get ready?
I hadn’t asked about Ellen either, if she liked it there, that hot, dry place that had no seasons, if she liked it that Chip had come to visit, if she were listening on the other side of the door, if that’s why he had sounded so far away, almost like a stranger. Until the end, when he’d whispered.
Then I thought about waking up to the smell of pancakes, neither dog in bed, Chip standing in the doorway with the tray of food, a vase of flowers from the garden on it, how he’d put the tray down on the nightstand, how it sat there untouched while we made love, how after he and Betty had left for the airport I’d taken the cold pancakes out into the garden and put the plate down for Dashiell, watching him wolf them down without chewing, wondering if, given the way he ate, he tasted anything, or if all that begging, all that desire, was just about the pleasure of not being hungry.
CHAPTER 7
Fax Me, Okay?
Tuesday morning, after reading the paper, I walked across the street to the precinct and took the stairs at the back to the second floor, where the bomb squad was located, a bomb-shaped balloon hanging from the ceiling and pointing to their door. I knocked and went in. My friend Marty Shapiro was just hanging up his phone.
“It’s the working girl,” he said. “Have a seat, kid. Long time no see.”
I sat at the chair on the side of his desk, pushing away the overflowing ashtray.
“Did it skip your notice, smoking’s not allowed in the workplace in New York for what, a couple of years now? In fact—” I said, and pointed to the Smoking Prohibited sign.
“Hey, you expect us to go out and risk our lives on a daily basis, and you’re not going to let us have a cigarette when we come back, shaking in our boots? What next, no coffee, no doughnuts?”
“You put it that way, I guess it would be too much to ask.”
He lit a cigarette, pulled the ashtray back to where it had been.
“What’s up, kid? You working again, another citizen thinks we can’t do our jobs, thinks the city pays us the big bucks for nothing?” He leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “I’m glad I’m out of that end of it. No problems like that with the bomb squad. None of the good people we protect think they can do this better than we can.”
“A girl’s got to earn a living, Marty. Someone tells me her life is in danger—”
He leaned closer. “Who’s in danger?”
“I’ve been hired by the manager of Harbor View. She thinks—”
“The old guy has an accident, suddenly everyone gets paranoid.”
“Not everyone. Just one person.”
“So what’s the story?”
I shrugged. “That’s what I’d like to know. The detectives are thinking it’s an accident?”
I waited, but old stone face didn’t respond.
“They come up with anyone yet? Guy who allegedly caused said accident?”
“I haven’t heard, Rach. You want I should find out for you, is that what this visit is all about, God forbid you should stop by just to say hello?”
At least he didn’t have any control issues. Cops.
“The Dietrich case, right?”
“Right.”
“What else you want to know?”
“I was wondering—”
The phone rang, and Marty waited, both of us hoping someone else would pick it up.
“About the bicycle,” I continued.
He nodded.
“Anyone from Harbor View see it happen, someone else going home, perhaps, or coming on for the evening shift?”
He shook his head.
“Well then, who called it in?”
“Your client, far as I know. Nine eleven has it on tape, of course, but what I recall, it was the woman who runs the place who made the call.”
“But she wasn’t a witness?”
He shook his head.
“One of the inmates went bonkers.”
“Residents, Marty. It’s not jail.”
“You sure? Where are they going, if it isn’t jail?”
I shrugged, wondering if someone saw it happen, or saw it after the fact, started moaning or whatever, and got Venus’s attention.
“So if no one saw it happen, how do they know it was a bicycle?” I asked him, feeling stupid the moment I did. There had to be evidence of the fact. They wouldn’t have just made that up.
Marty moved his chair from behind the desk, putting it right in front of mine.
“Skid mark on the sidewalk, for starters.”
I nodded.
“Tread mark on the right pant leg. CSU picked up a piece of a bicycle reflector at the scene. There were a couple of slivers imbedded in the fabric of his jacket, too.”
“I see,” I said, both of us keeping our voices low, our heads down.
“The vic suffered a broken rib where the handlebars hit him, but he was gone before he realized what happened, knocked clear out of his shoes, poor bastard.”
I knew it was a dumb question. There was no way to kill someone, by accident or design, without leaving some trace of the method of preference.
At least, I hoped that was so. Because the very least you’d want in either case was to find out who, and in the latter case, make sure whoever it was didn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his crime. Without evidence, without witnesses, you couldn’t do that. You’d be left hanging, never knowing who. Or why.
“Anyone from the outside see this happen?”
“I’d have to look at the five to tell you that,” he said, referring to the DD5, the report the detectives had to file after ringing doorbells and taking names, hoping to find a witness in the area of the crime.
I looked at him the way Dashiell looks at me when I’m eating pasta. I swear, that dog prefers spaghetti to steak.
“You wanna know, we got our eye on any suspects yet?”
“Would be helpful.”
I picked up a small pad and a ballpoint pen that had seen better days and wrote a number on it.
“Fax me, okay?”
I handed him the number.
“This is your regular phone number,” he said.
“Well, I don’t get enough faxes to justify the added expense of a dedicated line. Matter of fact, yours stands a good chance of being my first.”
“So when did you catch up with current technology? Fax me!”
“My brother-in-law bought me a fax machine, a laptop, and a printer. Until three weeks ago, the only web sites I was acquainted with were between my dog’s toes. Now, whew, I surf, I defrag, I download. I’m practically a techie.”
“So what was the occasion for al
l this equipment giving?”
“He thinks I don’t like him anymore.”
Marty nodded. “Is he right?”
“Nah.”
Marty was staring, like I was his crib notes and the test was tomorrow.
“Well, maybe he’s right. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“He’s a charming man. It’s just that—”
I stopped, wondering why I was making more of this than I should have. Like it was my business in the first place.
“It’s just that?”
“I don’t trust him.”
A banker was missing, it said in the Times, a hundred and sixty-seven thousand missing along with him. Some restaurateur from the Bronx was charged with trying to run over his wife. And yet another mother had killed her children. How did anyone trust anyone?
Marty put out his cigarette. “He cheated on your sister?”
“He did.”
“And does she still like him, Rachel?”
“She does.”
“But you can’t find it in your heart to—”
I flapped my hand at him. “Don’t get me started, okay?”
I headed for the door, my eyes welling up with tears I didn’t want Marty to see.
“Hey. Thanks. I’ll watch for your fax.”
The door closed. I leaned against it, looking up at the fake bomb, someone’s idea of a good thing, thinking about my brother-in-law, wondering, the same as Marty—if Lillian could forgive and forget, why couldn’t I?
CHAPTER 8
How About a Little Trick Today?
Cora was sitting on her bed, her bare feet dangling above the speckled green-and-gold linoleum floor, and for once, Dora wasn’t with her.
“Oh, it’s my little relative,” she said, as soon as she saw me. Then she noticed Dashiell.
“Who woves her mommy?” she asked him. “Lady does.”
I gave Dashiell the hand signal for “find.” Venus had put a dog biscuit in the pockets of those she wanted me to visit, telling them Lady was coming this afternoon, never mind that this time around Lady wouldn’t be a little black bitch with dreadlocks, she’d be a big white pit bull with testicles, anatomically, rather than politically, correct.
You stick to the reality they have to get, Venus had said—meals are eaten in the dining room; you can’t leave the building without an escort; even when you get very angry, you must not hit; that sort of stuff. The rest, poof, you let it go. Because they will anyway.
Dashiell began to nuzzle the pocket with the biscuit. I watched Cora remember the biscuit, the biscuit becoming part of the trail of evidence that would connect her to what she’d been told twenty minutes earlier, help her hold onto the pieces of information she found difficult to grasp. I was interested to see that while she didn’t know one dog from another, she remembered the name of the other dog, giving it to this one, generalizing the way young kids do, designating every animal “doggie” until they learn otherwise.
Cora smiled.
“Is the baby hungry?”
She slid the biscuit out of her pocket.
Dashiell looked at it soulfully. Definitely a Patsy-winning performance.
“She is hungry, she is,” said Cora, letting him slip the biscuit gently from her bent fingers.
“My other daughter, Eileen,” she whispered, “now you don’t go telling on me I told you this, she’s taken all my things. I tried to get them back, but she has lawyers.” Cora’s eyes began to tear up.
“Oh, she was the smart one,” she said, nodding. “She told me she’d keep everything safe for me. But where? I don’t know where anything is. My own daughter. Not a good girl like you. She never visits me.”
I patted her dry old hand, the skin so thin you could almost see through it.
“I signed documents,” she whispered. “I trusted her.” Cora folded her arms across her chest. “From that day forward, I never saw another penny, not a bill, not a check, not a bank statement, not my jewelry.” She was working herself into a froth, the same story I’d heard a hundred times at the Village Nursing Home. “I don’t even have a watch,” she whined, tapping her wrist near the identification band all the residents wore. “I don’t know what time it is.”
“It’s pretty lucky you live at Harbor View, where you get taken care of no matter what time it is, and where Lady comes to visit you. How about a little trick today?” I asked, hoping to distract her from her worries.
“I don’t know any tricks,” she said indignantly.
“Maybe Lady knows one.”
“Lady doesn’t do tricks. She’s just here to love us.”
Dora wheeled herself in from the hallway, her freshly washed hair tight against her head like a cap.
“Oh, goody, Lady’s here,” she said, “in my—”
“Room,” Cora said. “Let’s take her—”
“Downstairs. Let’s take her out to the garden,” Dora said.
“But my daughter’s here.”
“Where?”
Then they both looked around the room.
“Do you know who she is?” Dora was frowning.
“Why, of course.”
“Who is she?”
“Don’t you know?” Cora said.
They both stared at me.
“Do you have children?” Dora finally asked me.
I shook my head.
“They never visit you.”
“Tell her to go away,” Cora said. She flapped her hands in my direction, shooing me out of her room.
“Would you like to see Lady wave good-bye before I go?”
Cora frowned. “She doesn’t—”
“Yes,” Dora said, “Oh, goody.”
“Goody two-shoes,” Cora said.
I signaled Dashiell to wave. Sitting in front of them, he lifted one paw high and patted the air with it. Cora wasn’t impressed. She turned her head away, hoping that, one way or the other, I would disappear.
By then, she wasn’t the only one who wanted me to move on. Someone’s diaper needed changing. Nu, my grandmother Sonya would have said, you think you’ll smell like Lily of the Valley when you’re old?
Cora and Dora shared a room on the second floor, facing east, over the garden. Dash and I took the stairs down to the main floor, turning left toward the garden door, straight back from the front entrance. Venus had given me a set of keys so that I could come and go as needed. I unlocked the garden door and stepped outside with Dashiell into the sultry heat of the August afternoon.
The garden was bricked in the center, no grass to mow, with a scattering of weathered teak tables with backless benches and plantings all around the perimeter in raised brick beds, a large tree in the center of it all for shade. I walked out and looked around, checking the gates to the side alleys, finding them high enough to keep both an agile dog and a tall human in, and locked up tight.
Dash began to sniff the places where Lady had left her scent, and I inspected the wall that surrounded the garden. That too was brick and solid; no holes to squeeze through, no way the puli could have gotten out this way.
There was a drawing pad on one of the tables, some colored pencils next to it. I walked over and leafed through the drawings, not knowing which of the residents had made them, since the kind of self-awareness that inspires artists to sign their work was not likely with this population.
Sitting on the bench where the pad had been left, I turned the pages back to the beginning and looked at the drawings, all meticulous renderings of exactly what the artist had seen: that one big tree across from the table. Each drawing was the same, except for one. Apparently a squirrel had scaled the wall a puli could not. But he hadn’t remained long enough for his portrait to be completed. The unfinished squirrel, washing his hands at the base of the tree, stood out in contrast to the tree, the trunk neatly colored in four shades of brown, the leaves, pale green where the sun reached them and dark green where they were in shade, each drawn perfectly, the pencils, points up, all
neatly replaced in the box.
The glitches were fascinating to me and always had been, one of the many reasons I did pet therapy, for the chance to see what people who worked in homes such as this called tiny miracles, like the time a Down’s syndrome boy who was assumed to understand nothing handed Dashiell his plate of cookies when I told another child I had to leave because it was time for Dashiell to eat and he was very hungry, saying good-bye with something he could relate to.
Cora thought I was her daughter, and as she’d wisely told me, she didn’t know the time of day, but she’d remembered that Lady didn’t do tricks but came to love her.
I flipped back through the drawings once again, stopping at the incomplete squirrel. Only part of the story, like the one Venus was telling me.
I wondered what I’d hear next, the details carefully orchestrated, but for what purpose, I didn’t know.
Was she protecting someone?
And if so, who?
I held the door for Dashiell, then tried it to make sure it was locked and followed him down the hall. There were two more residents who had biscuits in their pockets, and though they probably didn’t know it, they were waiting for his visit.
CHAPTER 9
He Wants To Run
It was one of those triple-H New York summers, day after steamy day so hot, people always say, you could cook an egg on the sidewalk, a suggestion worth ignoring. If the germs didn’t get you up front, the cholesterol would surely do it over time.
When we got to the pier, Dashiell lay down, his tongue out. I was thinking that, despite the heat, after his last visit, he’d need to run. But even after finishing most of the water, he refused to move.
I thought about doing a round of t’ai chi, but practicing moves your energy and makes you hotter. So instead, we left the pier and headed south along the path the bicyclers used; no one was dumb enough to be riding while the sun was still up. There was a little shade here, still, the first huge planter we got to—a twelve-by-twelve-foot cement square filled with trees and room for people to sit along the rim—Dash jumped up, walked to the nearest tree, dug away the topsoil until he got to a cooler layer of earth, and lay down.
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