Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Lido gave me a knowing look. He understood that I was holding back some of the details to see if Villas might fill in the blanks.

  “When was the last time you saw Ms. Redner?” I asked.

  He was reluctant, but finally answered, “We had dinner together on Thursday night.”

  “Just the two of you? Your wife didn’t join you?” I narrowed my eyes.

  Villas looked around the room, his eyes darting evasively. “My wife’s in California on vacation. She’s visiting with her family.” Lido and I made eye contact.

  Yeah, right!

  “Dr. Villas, were you and Ms. Redner having an affair?” I wasn’t going to ask the question, but Lido did. A verbal affirmation would have been redundant. Villas looked at me, pleading with his eyes.

  “Gus.” I shook my head, calling off the dogs, as it were. Then I turned back to the doctor. “Dr. Villas, we’ll need your phone number. We’ll have to sit down again in a more formal atmosphere.” Both Gus and I gave Villas our business cards. “Call us if you think of anything that might be helpful to us.” Villas gave us each a card of his own. He wrote his home phone number on the backs of them.

  “Thank you,” he said. He was grateful for being let off the proverbial hook. He strode away. I wished that I could have seen the, I’d better get the hell out of here fast expression on his face.

  Lido was giving me a look of his own. “Come on, Gus. Don’t start.”

  “Why’d you cut him loose?” Lido asked unhappily.

  “Why not? We had everything the man could give. What was the point of taking his dignity? We both know he was shtooping her. Did you really need to hear him admit it?”

  Lido’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, for the record. Yes, I did.”

  “Well, as long as it was for the record and not for your own personal gratification.”

  “Hey, why are you so pissy? Mad because Don Juan was married?”

  “Nope. Read between the lines. That didn’t stop him before.” Having said that, I turned away from Lido and walked out of the apartment. It was eight-thirty and I was an hour and a half late for a dinner appointment. All in all though, it was good to know where Lido stood on the fidelity issue, just for the record, of course.

  Chapter Seven

  Samantha Harris hit the shuffle button on her iPod. Within a couple of seconds, “Genie in a Bottle” was playing through her headphones. She liked the song and started singing along. Samantha liked surprises, the unexpected, and things that were new and different. She had downloaded about thirty songs in the office, multitasking, as it were. She never stopped working for a second.

  Samantha was forty-one years young. She was still slim, still energetic and definitely living life on her own terms. A twenty-year-old guy gave her the eye as she walked down Second Avenue. She kept her head down and pretended not to notice but it made her feel warm and fuzzy all over. The guy was definitely hot.

  Half a block later, she stopped and checked her reflection in a store window. The Juicy Couture top and Wonderbra thing were still working for her, as were the Mudd jeans and the Steve Madden boots. Short bleached hair added to her youthful appearance, as did her backpack, which was standard issue among the tech set. Staring at herself in the window, she looked much younger than her years. She looked as young as she felt and that’s not bad.

  She had just put in a thirteen-hour day at Razorfish, where she had completed the publication of the new website she had designed for Nike. She had no problem keeping up with the kids. In terms of energy, ideas, and technology, she could go toe-to-toe with any of the young hot shots. The kids had a nickname for her. They called her Software Sam, the queen of HTML.

  Tommy O’Brien, the evening doorman at her co-op, greeted her with an engaging smile. “I see you’re still burning the midnight oil, Ms. Harris.” He spoke in a heavy Irish brogue.

  Samantha smiled gaily. “Technology waits for no man,” she announced, “and you know what that means, Tommy.”

  “It means you’ve got to be bustin’ yer ass, doesn’t it? Day and night, day and night, I don’t know if all this technology is a blessing or a curse.” Tommy shrugged. “Do you think them computers will ever replace the likes of old Tommy O’Brien?”

  Samantha smiled. “Tommy, nothing will ever replace you. No machine could ever do the job that you do.” She gave him a friendly jab in the shoulder. “Certainly not with as much warmth and style. Why, if it weren’t for you, I’d pick myself up and move the hell out of the building.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would too.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “I mean it.” Samantha reached up and pinched the giant’s cheek. “ ‘But now, boys and girls, it’s time for most of you to go to sleep.’ “

  Tommy raised his finger into the air. His mind was working and you could almost see the rotation of the wheels in his head. “That sounds familiar,” he proclaimed in his thick brogue. “I know it, I know it. Give me a minute. It’ll come to me.” Samantha loved to challenge the friendly giant.

  Samantha grinned. “Okay, Mr. O’Brien, show me what you’ve got.”

  “I know it, I do. Darn it, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  Samantha grinned slyly and then looked at her watch. “Ten seconds, O’Brien. Tick-tock.”

  “Oh shite,” he exclaimed. “Come on, O’Brien, come on. Darn it all. I know it as sure as I know my own name.”

  Samantha winked and then walked through the door. “Terrytoon Circus, “ she announced as she walked into the lobby.

  O’Brien’s eyes widened. “Right. Claude Kirchner. I used to watch that show as a kid.”

  Samantha waved to O’Brien before entering the elevator and pushing the button for the twenty-eighth floor.

  Once inside, she hit the shuffle button on her iPod again. It was like a roulette wheel. She never knew what she was going to get. The elevator doors closed and “What a Girl Wants” funneled through the headphones. Back-to-back Christina Aguilera, what were the chances?

  Samantha Harris took advantage of the moment. There was something safe and private that she absolutely adored about being in an empty elevator. It was like taking a shower. She was overwhelmed by the urge to sing.

  Her eyes were closed. She was belting it out when the elevator stopped. She waited for the doors to open, and when they didn’t, she realized that it had stopped between floors. None of the floor indicators were illuminated. She pushed the door-open button hoping that it would do the trick. It didn’t. “Damn it.” She pushed the button for twenty-eight again and held it in. It didn’t illuminate. Nothing happened, absolutely nothing. Samantha pulled off her headphones, thinking it would help her concentrate. What to do? she wondered. She counted to sixty with her finger pressed firmly against the button, hoping against hope.

  Samantha pulled out the red alarm button and stuck her fingers in her ears in anticipation of the blaring alarm bell. Silence. She grew nervous. “What the hell is wrong?” She banged the side of her fist against the control panel. “Come on,” she swore. She remembered the security camera mounted on the elevator’s ceiling and looked up at it and waved hoping that O’Brien was paying attention. “Come on, O’Brien, turn around, turn around.” She was trying to will him with her words.

  A few minutes passed without success. That safe and private sing-in-the-shower feeling was gone. She now felt as if she was trapped in a vault, confined and claustrophobic. Prison was not up there on her list of things to try. She was starting to panic and didn’t like the feeling of not being in control. She slapped her hands against the door in frustration hoping that the noise would attract someone’s attention. “Somebody help me!” she bellowed. “Shit!”

  She was determined not to let the situation get the best of her. She sat down on the floor and pulled off her backpack. “Keep busy,” she told herself as she pulled out her laptop, hit the power button and waited for it to come to life. A blinking cursor began to flash in the upper left-hand co
rner of the screen. She stared at the cursor. As she did, all the power in the elevator went off and she was surrounded in total pitch black.

  Chapter Eight

  I could smell the cigarette smoke even before the door was open. I could picture my mother standing behind the door fanning away the smoke and spraying Lysol with reckless abandon. Her eyes were darting around the apartment when I walked in. “You’re smoking, Ma? What did I tell you about smoking?”

  “Of course I’m smoking,” she huffed. “You’re two hours late. I was so nervous I didn’t know what to do with myself. Did you ever think about picking up the telephone?”

  “Sorry, I was working a case. It slipped my mind.”

  “Sorry? The spaghetti’s sfata.” Sfata, in Italian that means that the pasta has been overcooked and is now the consistency of library paste—”and the London broil’s as hard as a bowling ball.” She was talking with her hands, flailing them in the air like a samurai swordsman. “You don’t want me to smoke,” she yelled, “be on time. You’ll be a mother someday. Just wait.”

  Sure, Ma, anything you say. Just don’t cut my head off while you’re trying to make your point. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I gave her a hug and planted a big one on her cheek. “I’ve been on the job since five in the morning. Some freak murdered a female lawyer on the Roosevelt Island tram. The jerk suffocated her and stuffed a note in her mouth. Took out the conductor too, bullet through the heart.”

  “Madonna, that’s too bad. I hate to see these things happen. Paisano?”

  “No, not her, but the conductor was.”

  “A lawyer, you say? You could have been a doctor or a lawyer. You were so smart—”

  “Ma, I’m still smart.”

  “Yeah, then why are you chasing drug dealers and pimps for a living? Can you tell me that?”

  “Ma, please don’t start. I’m not in the friggin’ mood.”

  “All right, all right. Go wash up. I’ll see what I can do to tenderize the bowling ball.”

  Now you see where my wise-ass pedigree comes from. My mother is one tough cookie. I guess you have to be when your husband works homicide. Now you’ll really see the sparks start to fly.

  Anyway, Ma’s got one of those really comfy padded toilet seats. So while I was down for the count, I noticed a bottle of Roche ACCU-CHEK test strips on the sink ledge, the kind you use to check your blood sugar. Ma’s a Type 1 diabetic, just like my dear old dad was. She doesn’t take care of herself. She has a huge sweet tooth and smokes, which are not good things for a diabetic to do. I’ve warned her repeatedly but she doesn’t seem to hear me. No, there’s nothing wrong with her hearing.

  They say diabetes is hereditary and well, to be forewarned is to be forearmed. That’s why I never ever use sugar and hit the gym a minimum of four times a week. I mean with both Mommy and Daddy being diabetic, well . . . Anyway, I’m not taking any chances. The way I see it, there’s a time bomb ticking inside of me and the more good things I do for myself, the longer I stretch the fuse.

  Just to satisfy my paranoid curiosity, I took one of those test strips out of the bottle and held it under the stream. Normal, thank God.

  I rummaged through Ma’s medicine cabinet. What can I say, I’m a detective, right? Besides, I knew what I was looking for. Ma had recently renewed her prescription for tolbutamide and there was a half full bottle when I came to dinner two weeks ago. Ergo, Ma was hitting the Hershey bars and using the tolbutamide to lower her blood sugar level. Ma’s sort of a chocolate junkie. I mean, she loves the stuff and it’s my job to keep her from killing herself. When she does eventually go, God forbid, I’m going to have her dipped in chocolate like an Easter Bunny.

  Ma was dressed in black. Ever the good Italian, she was still in mourning. “I see you’ve pulled out your spring wardrobe. Why don’t we go shopping tomorrow? I’ll take you to Loehmann’s.”

  “Stephanie, are you for real? I don’t need anything.” Right! “But I’m glad to see you’re wearing a skirt. Maybe someone will notice you’re a woman.”

  Here we go again. “They notice, Ma. Trust me.”

  “Who, the dirty-minded detectives? Don’t you go marrying a cop. I’ll kill you.”

  “Do as I say, not as I do. Is that it, Ma?” That got to her. I really didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. She misted up.

  “If you find another man like your father, I’ll give you my blessing.” Her tone was somber. We both loved Dad so much. We both needed hugs again.

  Ma had just been busting chops about the meal. The spaghetti wasn’t put into the water until I arrived and the London broil was tender and succulent. She cooked it bloody rare and served it with fava beans and a nice Chianti, just kidding. I do, however, like my meat bloody. I like to soak up the blood with a nice piece of semolina bread. Yum.

  “So tell me about this murder,” Ma said, holding a piece of bread in the air. “Want some more pasta?”

  Ma’s determined to feed me until I look pregnant. She thinks that if my belly gets big enough, God will bless me with an immaculate conception. I mean, that’s every mother’s dream, isn’t it? Well, just think about it, they all want grandchildren, but none of them want to concede that their daughters have lost their virginity. In a rather abnormal and deviant way, it does make sense. I told her what I could without mentioning full names, nothing that would be considered a breach of regulations. “No thanks. It saddens me, it truly does. This attorney, her name was Ellen; I mean she was a brilliant person with academic honors. She was a partner in a big law firm and was planning an adoption when some piece of garbage murdered her.”

  “Married?”

  “No. Single, about forty, lived by herself on Sutton Place.”

  “So how would she be able to take care of a baby if she worked all day. What kind of way is that to bring up a child? How’s a kid supposed to grow up without a father in the house? It’s not natural.”

  Okay, this is where the rift in the generations starts to grow. What can I say? I knew she’d see it that way. “Ma, lots of women do it. Just because a woman works doesn’t mean she can’t raise a child. You’re so old fashioned.”

  “Bah!” Not eloquent but descriptive.

  I tore off another hunk of bread and pressed it into my plate to soak up all of the blood. “Believe me, Ma, a kid could do worse than to be brought up by a woman like that. She was smart, hardworking, and generous.”

  “Yeah, but you need a man around,” she insisted.

  For what? She had the suave Dr. Villas on the side. I was about to tell Ma just how fine Dr. Villas was and brag a little on Ellen Redner’s behalf, but that would have led to a conversation on infidelity, the sanctity of marriage, sinning, God, and who knows what else, so I let it go. When it came to the subject of man and wife, Ma was as old-fashioned as they came.

  “You think you would have grown up the way you did if we didn’t have Daddy around the house?”

  I didn’t want to concede my point of view, but there was no way that I was going to trifle with my father’s memory. Besides, there was a compliment buried in there somewhere. “I understand, Ma.”

  “While we’re on the subject, I’d like to raise another point.”

  Oh no, here it comes. “Isn’t this a good example of what we’ve talked about? Doesn’t this show you how important it is to find someone? You’re a beautiful girl, Stephanie, but you’re twenty-eight.”

  Almost menopausal.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to find someone and get serious?”

  Now you get serious. “Ma, let’s not go there again, okay? Right now I’m concentrating on the job. As soon as I’m ready to get serious, I’ll let you know.”

  “Stephanie Chalice, you listen to me.”

  Stephanie Chalice? Every daughter knows that when your mother addresses you by your full, proper name that something serious is coming.

  “I want to show you something,” she continued. And just like that, she stood up and walked into her bedroom. I had just
twisted up a perfect forkful of spaghetti and was ready to devour it when Ma walked by. It was so close I could taste it. “Stephanie, are you coming?” Damn.

  Ma was going through her closet. She had four or five housecoats hanging behind the door. “You see the green one? Look.” She showed me the inside of the pocket. A vault key was attached with a safety pin. “I’ve got a safe deposit box at the savings bank on the corner. Your name is on the box too. I had you sign a signature card. Remember?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, I remember and now I want you to remember because it’s important.” Ma unpinned the key and sat down on the bed with it, her hands folded in her lap. “Stephanie, come here and sit . . . please.”

  So I plopped my fanny down on the bed next to Ma. “Don’t start talking about when you die, Ma, because I’m not ready for another one of those when I’m gone conversations.”

  “Stephanie, look.” She held the vault key under my nose. “The box number is eleven-eleven, four ones. One day, when you’re ready and you want to settle down, there’s enough money in there to use for a down payment on a house.”

  “Ma, stop already. I love my apartment. I really don’t want to know.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars, Stephanie, fifty thousand dollars that we were saving for you. Cash.”

  She said “we” so I’d know that it was my Dad’s wish as well as hers. Fifty large in cash . . . Really? Let the good times roll. “Madonna! Mom, where’d you get that kind of money? I know Dad wasn’t on the take. So how’d you come by that much cash?”

  “We saved it, silly. A little here, a little there.” Ma winked at me. “Learn how to save. Capisce?”

  “Can I buy a boat?”

  “No. I said, buy a house.”

  “But I want a boat.”

  “So buy a houseboat.” She gave me another of those dismissive waves with her hand. “Bah.” She really seems to like that expression. In any case, it ended the conversation. She got up and pinned the safe deposit key back on her housecoat. “Remember, Stephanie, the green one. Green for money.”