He is Mine

by Mel Gough

  “He just had a call, from the wife of an old friend. Vivienne Aubert.”

  “The actress?” Brad asks.

  “That’s her,” Eric says. “She called him herself. Says she was followed and harassed by some men when she arrived at JFK today.”

  Brad doesn’t point out the obvious—they’re not the kind of officers to respond to a call like that. Eric has a special relationship with their captain, who has become a mentor to this gifted young man and has pulled in a lot of favors to make Eric one of the youngest detectives the NYPD has had in the last ten years. “All right,” he says. “Let’s check on your celebrity friend.”

  Eric gives him a sideways glance, looking a little sour. “The reason I agreed,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster, “is that Miss Aubert is currently at an address just around the corner from here.”

  Brad grins, finding this little detour, and needling his partner, the perfect antidote to the day he’s just had. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I like to rub shoulders with famous people, too.”

  Eric cuffs him on the arm, rolling his eyes. Brad makes a magnanimous sweeping gesture. “This is your case, Detective. Lead the way.”

  19

  The street they turn into isn’t Fifth Avenue, or even Gramercy Square. A few discreet, CCTV-secured, glass-fronted entrances lead into doorman-less vestibules. On the opposite side of the street more Chinese printers, restaurants and a beauty parlor squeeze into narrow shopfronts. But when they get into the building Miss Aubert directed Eric to, Brad can see he’s misjudged the kind of residences these are. The hallway is marble and chrome, and the paintings on the gleaming walls are all originals.

  They take the elevator to the penthouse level on the tenth floor. The man who had answered the door buzzer told them to just get into the elevator and get out when it stopped. He would summon it to the correct floor from his apartment. Brad glances at the keypad. There’s no tenth floor on it, but a small sensor that, he guesses, reads some kind of fob key or keycard.

  The elevator comes to a smooth halt, and they step out into a short corridor, with one door at the end. Someone stands in the open doorway, waiting for them. Brad appraises the man. He’s about his own height, and the shoulders, clad in a crumpled gray T-shirt are very broad. He wears black sweatpants and no shoes. His dark, curly hair looks disheveled, as if he’s only woken up. Brad’s eyes linger for a moment on the man’s face. He looks familiar, but that’s not what makes Brad take note. The man looks unwell. His eyes are red-rimmed, and he’s very pale.

  But Brad dismisses his initial guess—the man doesn’t act drunk.

  “Hi, I’m Damien,” he says, holding out a hand. “Thanks for coming.” His voice is low and dark, and Brad thinks of all the cigarettes it must’ve taken to get it that way. But there’s something else, a tremor, a tightness, as if it costs Damien a lot of self-control to speak at all.

  Eric shakes Damien’s hand, then Brad does as well. He can’t smell any liquor, but Brad is still convinced something isn’t right with the guy. Damien’s hand feels very warm in his.

  And Brad now realizes who Damien is. He has watched Gaukur only a couple of times—with his hours, Brad rarely has the opportunity to follow a TV show. But he remembers being impressed with Damien Thomas’s presence on screen as Bard the Viking, and with his physical appearance during the bare-chested fight scenes. Unsurprisingly, the reality doesn’t live up to the on-screen fantasy. Right now, Damien looks more drowned rat than leading man.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” Damien says, waving them inside. “It’s…well, she got spooked, I guess. Up here.” He leads the way up a narrow mahogany staircase. Going up the stairs is dark and claustrophobic.

  They emerge into an open-plan living cum dining room, with the kitchen taking up the back part of the space. Brad looks around. This place could fit three times into his own downstairs living space. In Manhattan, you pay for location, though Brad fails to see the appeal. A Chinatown address, though central, is no sales pitch for him.

  “Viv.” Damien goes over to the sofa where a blonde woman sits with her hands folded in her lap. “The detectives are here.”

  “Oh!” The woman straightens up. “Finally!”

  Before Brad can say anything, Eric strides past him with his hand outstretched. “Miss Aubert? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Call me Vivienne,” she says, looking at Eric from under her lashes.

  Brad raises an eyebrow. Eric’s eagerness is kind of sweet. Brad suppresses a grin and lets his junior partner take the lead. For a greeting, he nods his head when Vivienne’s eyes flick toward him. He takes out his notepad and holds it against his thigh.

  “Have a seat.” Damien, who looks shaky on his feet, points at the armchairs facing the sofa. Eric takes the one across from Vivienne, and Brad walks around the group to sit in the chair next to Eric. Damien sinks into the sofa with a wince, and Vivienne snatches up his hand and holds on to it hard.

  Eric focuses on Vivienne again. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

  “I…I was followed, from the airport.” Vivienne pulls Damien’s hand more tightly into her lap. He shifts to accommodate her and not have his elbow dislocated. To Brad, he looks worse by the minute, gray and clammy and like he’s about to be sick. Vivienne noticed nothing and continues, “There were two men. I think they were on my plane. They followed me from the luggage hall and got into a cab right behind me.”

  As she launches into a disjointed tale about a cab following her all the way to Damien’s house, Brad watches her. He knows already that she’s lying and pays scant attention to the words. On his notepad he writes only one word. Why?

  She puts on a good show. But then, Brad thinks, she’s an actress. He remembers seeing her last film. She was okay in it. It was a dark and twisted love story; Brad doesn’t remember much of the plot. But the performance she delivers now reminds him a lot of what she did on-screen.

  Since Eric hangs on her every word, Brad allows himself to study the rest of her. Even with her too aquiline nose she’s very beautiful, Brad can objectively confirm. And she uses it to good effect. Her legs are demurely closed, leaning against the sofa at an angle to show off her calves. Every so often, she glances at Eric from under her lashes, her look the perfect imitation of the damsel in distress. But her shoulders are tense, and her back is rigid, and Brad is sure this is to help her concentrate on her improvised script rather than a sign of true upset.

  Brad also keeps an eye on Damien. His expression is one of puzzlement. Clearly, he also wonders what kind of game Vivienne is playing.

  When she stops talking, Brad focuses back on Vivienne. She gives him a nervous smile. He doesn’t smile back. Her eyes narrow, and her face is no longer sweet and beguiling. For a moment her eyes on Brad’s are cold and calculating.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police at the airport?” he asks without preamble. “When you noticed those men?”

  Eric turns and frowns at Brad, but Brad ignores him.

  “I—” Vivienne begins.

  “Or in the cab,” Brad interrupts her on purpose. “You could’ve asked the driver to take you to the nearest police station.”

  “I…I was scared,” Vivienne says, flustered. “It didn’t even occur to me.”

  “I see.” Brad leans over his notepad and pretends to write on it. It tends to unsettle people in an interrogation. The thought of being judged, Brad has found, makes those not forthcoming with the truth especially nervous.

  Eric leans forward. Brad is sure he’ll get a reproachful look, but Eric keeps his eyes on Vivienne. “Ma’am, can you describe the men?”

  As Vivienne rattles off some nondescript details about her alleged pursuers Brad counts to ten in his head. He’s angry with that woman, and with Eric for buying into her story so easily. His gaze drifts to Damien again, who rubs his eyes. Brad frowns. The man looks like he should see a doctor, or at least lie down. Brad suppresses the urge to offer his help or words
of comfort. It’s not his place, and anyway, once they’re done here, his girlfriend can take charge of him.

  Brad glances around again. It’s a nice enough space, with oil paintings and some photographs on the walls, and high-end furniture. But it doesn’t appeal to him. The space is too small, and even through the closed terrace doors Brad can hear the faint sound of the incessant Manhattan traffic.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Aubert,” Eric says when he has taken down the descriptions. “I’m not sure how much help we can be, but we’ll try our best.” He gets up.

  Vivienne stays where she is, but Damien struggles to his feet. Brad gestures at him to sit down again. “We can show ourselves out.”

  “Thank you, detectives,” Damien says and sinks back onto the sofa. He takes Vivienne’s hand again. She looks up at them, her eyes wet, her lip quivering. Brad suppresses his irritation. She’s a good actress, but he’s not fooled.

  They walk back down the mahogany staircase, Brad in the lead. They don’t speak in the elevator, but when they regain the street Eric lets out an explosive breath. “Strange pair, those two,” he says.

  “Good at their job, though,” Brad mumbles. “At least she is.”

  Eric glances at him but doesn’t comment. He seems to know what Brad means.

  They’ve been played, but Brad has no idea for what purpose.

  20

  Nothing tonight is going as Viv has planned. As soon as they hear the door fall closed behind the detectives, Damien straightens up and lets go of her hand. “Listen, I know you’re freaked out by…well, whatever happened today.” He leans forward and hides his face in his hands for a moment. Vivienne notices for the first time how clammy he looks. His hair is disheveled, and the curls stick to the sweaty skin on his neck. He says without looking up, “You can stay, if you want to, but I feel like shit. I’m going to bed.” He gets to his feet and sways a little, then waves in the direct of the kitchen. “Help yourself to anything you want. Not much in the fridge, but there’s a take-out menu hanging on the door. Vietnamese, they’re right around the corner. Tell them to put it on my account.”

  He staggers, and grips the back of the sofa. The speech seems to have exhausted him, and Viv sees that he’s gone gray.

  “Okay,” she says, and when he doesn’t move, she adds, “Thanks.”

  “Please don’t turn on the light when you come to bed,” he says, his voice sounding far away now. “There’s a second bathroom, first door on the right downstairs. Can you use that?” Without waiting for a reply, he shuffles toward the stairs and Viv watches him disappear down them. When she hears a door closing on the lower level she pulls her phone from the small carry-on bag that constitutes all of her luggage. She’ll have to go shopping; her clothes at the Park Avenue apartment are all from last fall. She and Victor haven’t been in New York since then.

  There are no new text messages and no missed calls. It appears Stef has given up on her. Her assistant had tried frantically to get hold of her while she was en route, but has stopped now. Viv should call her and tell her she’s fired. She’s not surprised that Victor hasn’t missed her yet. They’ve gone longer than twenty-four hours more than once recently without interacting. But she feels a niggle of annoyance anyway.

  She chucks the phone back into her bag and gets up, ambling into the kitchen without any real purpose. She’s not hungry; the adrenaline she built up by acting out that story for the detectives and Damien still courses through her veins. She’s also angry about how little effect it has had on everyone. It was a good story. At least Damien let her stay.

  Viv peers into the fridge. He didn’t lie, there’s nothing in it except a few cans of soda and a bottle of rose. She hunts around for a bottle opener and a glass, then pours herself a large measure of wine.

  With the drink for company she tries to settle down to watch TV. But she’s soon bored and turns the big flat-screen on the wall off again. It’s much too early for bed; she had a nice nap on the plane. Viv wanders around the living room, looking at the books and magazines on the shelves. But everything she finds is boy stuff—photography and movies and sports, just like Victor’s stash. She goes into the kitchen again and pours herself a second glass of wine. Her heels click on the dark parquet floor as she returns to the sofa.

  She drinks her wine, scrolling through her phone again. Still no messages from Victor or anyone else. For a brief moment, Viv considers posting a picture of a part of Damien’s living room to her Instagram without comment, but then decides against it. He’s already pissed with her, and if he wakes up to that he won’t like it.

  When she has finished the wine, feeling its warmth at last calming her jittery nerves, Viv leaves the glass by the sink and makes her way down the stairs, clutching her carry-on. In the corridor lit by a small, weak light on the wall, she looks around. There are three doors off the narrow, short corridor, one on her left and two on her right. Damien said the bathroom was the first on the right, so Viv takes a guess that the master bedroom is on the left. She opens the door without making a sound.

  Thanks to the black-out curtains, the room is dark, except for the sliver of light that falls through the door from the corridor. She tiptoes over to the bed and bends down. Damien lies on his back, the sheets twisted around him. He’s asleep, but as she watches he sighs, then shifts around. His mouth is open, and his face is waxen. The T-shirt he wears has large sweat stains on the front, and Viv is pretty sure he’s been sick.

  She straightens up and shudders with disgust. It must suck, to have these attacks that knock you out. She thinks back to that night in Vegas, when he leaned on her so hard she thought her back would break. No, she can’t do that again. Anyway, it’s best to just let him sleep it off.

  Without even putting down her bag, Viv retraces her steps and pulls the bedroom door closed. Then she fishes her phone out of the bag again.

  It takes her a moment to locate the phone number for the limousine service they use when they’re in the city. Viv dials the number, then waits for the operator. She gives the address and their account number to the woman.

  “The car will be there in ten minutes, Miss Aubert,” the cultured voice on the other end informs her.

  “Thank you,” Viv says, and cuts the call. As she slips the phone back into the bag she thinks she can hear muffled sounds from Damien’s room. She steps across the hall and pulls the apartment door open. She’s better off waiting outside. After the day she’s had she really doesn’t feel up to nursing anyone.

  21

  It’s still hot and humid the next day when Brad finds himself once again in Chinatown. Mr. Liu’s daughter called that morning, asking if the detective could come back to her parents’ apartment to interview her mother. “She’s still very upset, but she doesn’t want to leave the house,” the daughter said to Brad. “She’s calmed down now, but every time I suggest we leave to come to the station she starts crying again.”

  So Brad takes off for the Six train to Canal Street at midday. Eric is chasing the typists for the witness statements, so Brad decides to go alone. They can work faster if they split up the tedious legwork. And besides, the Lius’ place is so small, the fewer people gather there at once, the better.

  No use taking one of the station’s cars if he goes on his own. Had it not been so sweltering he might’ve even walked. When he comes up out of the subway station the sky is a disturbing green color. There’ll be a thunderstorm soon; the air is heavy with it.

  The visit is a waste of time. The old lady can’t add anything to her retelling of events after the death of her husband in their living room. Brad takes down the names and details of more relatives, both from Mrs. Liu and her daughter. The family, it turns out, is dispersed as far afield as Baltimore, Philadelphia, and Chicago. He takes his leave after less than an hour, feeling irritated that he wasted a journey through the disgusting city for this.

  When he steps out of the tenement, the pavement is glistening wet. The temperature is marginally more b
earable than before the downpour, and water vapor rises from the hot asphalt.

  Brad just wants to get home now, take off the damp, heavy clothes that cling to him like a wet towel and sit in his undershirt with his feet up while sipping a cold beer. He tries to convince himself that typing up the interviews with the Lius will speed up the investigation, but then concedes defeat. Nothing will happen today that’s not already underway with the physical evidence the CSI team collected yesterday. Brad has done a fair amount of overtime recently; clocking off early for once in his life won’t hurt.

  Visualizing the subway map, Brad heads toward Grand Street. He can take the F train from there, and even beat the Friday evening rush hour if he doesn’t hang around. From his and Eric’s trip the day before he remembers a bodega up ahead that sells both American papers and his favorite imported Asian beer, so he takes a left at the next corner.

  As he approaches the little shop, Brad notices a man leaning against the wet building right next to the bodega’s entrance. He wears a baseball cap on his tousled raven-black curls and his head is down, but he’s instantly familiar. He has on the same gray T-shirt and crumpled black sweatpants as the day before.

  “Mr. Thomas?” Brad asks, stopping outside the bodega. Damien looks up. His eyes are bloodshot and glazed, and his face is covered in sweat. As Brad stands there, frozen in surprise, Damien slides down the wall a few inches, his legs unable to support him.

  “Whoa,” Brad says, hurrying to his side. “C’mon, here… hold on to me.” He gets his arm around Damien, who grabs for him and holds on with clammy, hot fingers. Brad braces himself to support the other’s weight. “What’s going on?”

  “Dizzy,” Damien croaks, and a tremor goes through him.

  “What’s wrong? Should I call an ambulance?”

  Damien shakes his head, shuddering. “Just…migraine,” he gasps. “Get them all the time.”