Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) (35 page)

At least until the trouble started. And her father moved out.

At the end of a narrow, dimly lit hall was the room her mother had used as her office. Now it was someone’s bedroom. The mattress on the floor was tattered, the sheet covering it, long in need of washing. As she gazed around the room, a kaleidoscope of images tumbled through Sammy’s mind.

The day her mother died had been beautiful for November, and
she’d dawdled coming home from school. When she’d finally returned to the apartment that afternoon, no one greeted her. There was only silence. She threw her books and coat on the living room sofa and headed for the back. Her mother lay peacefully on the daybed. Thinking she was sleeping, Sammy tiptoed in and stood over her. “Mommy,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

Sammy recalled reaching out to touch her, then seeing the note and the empty pill vial. A paralyzing fear gripped her. “Mommy! Wake up!” Sammy screamed and screamed until she was wrapped in the arms of old Mrs. Shapiro from next door who heard the cries and came and found them.

Sammy felt awash in a wave of guilt, as palpable now as it had been fifteen years ago.

If only she’d come home sooner.

My fault.

Dr. Osborne had called it survivor’s guilt.

Your mother was already dead when you found her, Sammy. You couldn’t have helped her
.

She thought about his words as she stared at the space where the daybed once stood, where she’d found her mother. Already dead.

She wasn’t responsible?

Your mother made a choice, Sammy. Her choice
.

Sammy started as she felt something running across her foot. She looked down to see a small furry animal scurrying under the bed. A rat. Her mother would have gone ballistic if as much as a dust bunny had graced the room. And now — she looked at the dilapidated room — everything’s gone.

Dr. Osborne was right. All these years she’d blamed herself for her mother’s dying, and it wasn’t her fault at all. Never had been. Neither had her father’s leaving. She could feel the weight of all that guilt leave her shoulders. It was time to move on.

“Best be goin’, Lady. They’ll be home soon.”

The boy’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Oh, yes.” Sammy checked her watch: five fifteen. “I had no idea it was so late.”

She followed the boy out into the hallway. The sound of the apartment door slamming behind them reverberated like a gunshot. Nervous, she mumbled a hasty “thanks” to the youngster and, without looking back, hurried off down the stairs.

Outside, the last embers of twilight were long faded. A quarter moon cast a wan pallor over the dark neighborhood, throwing the outlines of buildings into jagged relief. The already foreign-looking terrain appeared even more forbidding. The early morning’s drizzle had returned with a vengeance, chasing most of the street-life parade indoors — or at least out of sight. Shivering, Sammy peered down the empty street, feeling very alone. Thank God the subway stop was only four blocks away.

Hunching against the raindrops, she hastened her gait, adrenaline rushing through her veins. In the middle of the first block she almost tripped over a derelict lying in an abandoned doorway. The homeless man mumbled a slurred complaint and she hurried along.

At the end of the second block she stepped into a deep puddle, soaking her feet to the ankles. “
A brokh
!” she cursed, as she tried to shake off the water. Now she had to walk with an accompanying “swish, swish” from the moisture in her shoes. The sound was unnerving. She felt as if a wet ghost shadowed her with each step. She looked up and down the alleyways, afraid of an unexpected meeting with her ethereal stalker. Damp, rain-slicked debris littered the sidewalk. She stopped for a moment, trying to sort out the sounds around her, giving each small noise an identity in order to allay her fears. The high-pitched drip, raindrops hitting a tin can, the “whoosh,” distant traffic blocks away, the “rasp,” her own ragged breathing. Calmer, she moved on, her footsteps slapping like a drumroll against the pavement.

By the third block, she was certain she heard a different cadence creating a counterpoint to her own footsteps. The beat was loud and invasive. Paced steps behind her. Though the night cold was piercing, beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Her heart pounded against her chest. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder.
Only her own shadow stretched behind her. Nothing more. She laughed nervously and took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart.

A car swept past, perilously close to the curb where she stood, buffeting her with hails of spray. Its taillights disappeared into the misty curtain of darkness before she could react. “Shit!” Now she was really soaked, her hair damp against her ears, a worm-like cap of sleek ringlets.

One more block.

She picked up the pace to a jog, her pumps losing traction and slipping on the slick pavement. She didn’t dare slow down, urging herself onward at a faster rate.
Come on, Sammy, one more block, you’re nearly there!

Focused on her goal, she was unaware of the man who came out of the darkness until he was directly behind her. He grabbed her by the belt, tossed a jacket over her head, and, before she could react, dragged her into an adjacent alley.

“Help!” But Sammy’s cries were merely sounds within her. The pressure of her attacker’s hand against her mouth made it impossible to scream. She felt as though she were suffocating as the man threw her on the wet gravel and crushed her with his weight.

“You’re gonna pay!”

Terror seized her.
Oh God, he’s going to rape me
. Struggling to resist the attacker’s hand moving up her thigh, Sammy kicked one leg out. The leg missed its target, as the rapist grabbed her calf and sat down on her knee. Angry, he punched her hard in the stomach. “Damn bitch!”

Galvanized by the pain, Sammy pushed out with her other leg, aiming her two-inch heel at her attacker’s private parts. This leg landed in the right place and the man, screaming in agony, rolled off of Sammy’s knee.

“Run, motherfucker. Police!”

Sammy and her attacker both heard the distant shout. The sounds of a siren were growing louder.

“Police!” The voice was closer now, as was the moan of the siren.

Still groaning in pain, the man lifted himself up and hobbled off down the alley into the darkness.

Stunned by the blow to her abdomen, Sammy felt too weak to move. She lay in the alley for several minutes before opening her eyes. There was no trace of her attacker.

“You okay, lady?” The child who’d shown her the apartment stood over her.

“I’m —” her voice was barely a croak. Painfully she sat up. “I’m okay.” She was cold and wet and covered with dirt, but at least she was alive. My God, she thought, how close she’d come to dying — again.

He held out a hand to help her up.

Slowly, pressing a hand into her stomach to contain the pain, Sammy struggled to her feet. “I’m okay.” She gave the boy an inquisitive look. “Were you the one who yelled ‘police’?”

The boy’s eyes had a mischievous twinkle. “Yeah.”

Sammy looked around. No sirens, no cops. “I thought I heard a siren.”

Sporting a wide grin, the boy pulled out an electronic gizmo from his pocket. He pressed a button on it, and the alley echoed with the sound of a siren.

Sammy couldn’t resist a laugh. “I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.”

Nodding, the boy extended his other hand. In it were Sammy’s two bills. “Momma tol’ me to give the money back.”

“What’s your name?”

“Darnell.”

Sammy took the bills and stuffed them in the boy’s pants pocket. “Well, Darnell. I think your momma would be very proud of you right now, and she’d say it was okay to keep a reward.”

“Yeah,” Darnell grinned. “Okay.”

Off in the distance, the wail of a police siren once again was heard coming toward them. This one sounded real.

“I’m outta here,” Darnell said, running off. “Cops.”

“Wait!” Sammy shouted after him to no avail. The boy had disappeared into the alley before the squad car arrived.

At seven p.m. Dr. Palmer switched off the respirator. Exactly three minutes later, he pronounced Lucy Peters dead.

The Japanese man standing by the bedside waited until the doctor finished turning off the other monitors before suggesting they chat.

“What about?” Palmer asked, his voice cracking.

“About this accident,” Yoshi Ishida answered quietly.

“What accident?”

Ishida fixed Palmer with a penetrating stare. “My company simply cannot afford any leak about these unfortunate . . .” he seemed to search for the right word, “side effects.”

“But the autopsy?”

“There will be no autopsy.”

“We must —”

Ishida held up a hand. “The family thinks you sent her home, that she was going to travel by train?”

“Yes.” The doctor couldn’t fight off a growing feeling of dread.

“Well, suppose she took the train, but somehow, during the trip, she managed to fall to her death — with a little help, of course,” Ishida explained. “Her body was too badly mangled to be recognizable, let alone autopsied.” He shook his head in mock sympathy. “Most unfortunate,” he added. “Accidental death, multiple trauma. Wouldn’t you say that’s the most pragmatic way around this problem, Doctor?”

Pragmatic?
Palmer looked at his hands. Though clean, he felt as if they were covered with blood. Pragmatism was pernicious; each step might be just a few simple inches, but the cumulative result could be horrific — the sight of Lucy Peters’s lifeless body a silent reminder of just how much.

“Wouldn’t you say?” Ishida repeated his question.

Reluctantly, Palmer nodded. Lucy Peters’s death had put the final nail in the coffin for his soul.

• • •

“Pretty smart — going into a neighborhood like that alone at night,” said the city detective from the Seventh Precinct. Lt. Hector Rodriguez was on his fifth assault case that shift. A thin, intense man, with a heavy five o’clock shadow and eyes as black as his hair, he could have been plucked right out of central casting. “Damn good way of getting killed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sammy said, a sarcastic edge to her voice. It had been more than three hours since the two patrolmen had found Sammy. First they’d driven her to Mt. Sinai Hospital, where after a two-hour wait the examination showed only a few bruises, no serious injuries. Then they’d brought her back to the station where she was given a change of clothes — a floppy old NYPD sweatshirt and a pair of loose-fitting jeans. Shoes weren’t part of the package — she was forced to wear her damp pumps. After another long hour, they’d handed her off to a couple of detectives for questioning. Lectures, she didn’t need.

Rodriguez was not amused. “Assuming you didn’t go down there to commit suicide, what the hell was on your mind?”

Suicide.

The mugging in the street had been bad enough. This barrage of questions seemed like a second assault. Weak and queasy, Sammy just wanted to go home. “I had to bury some old ghosts,” she explained, her voice cracking. The surly detective’s accusatory manner made her almost feel guilty.

“Looks like they almost buried you,” said Rodriguez.

Sammy sat up straight, her eyes blazing. She was just about to respond when Hector’s partner, Lt. Dave Williams put a comforting arm on her shoulder.

“He’s had a rough day,” Williams said, nodding at Rodriguez. The gray-haired detective drew up a metal chair, leaned forward, and asked gently, “Is it okay if I call you Sammy?”

Sammy nodded, though she didn’t feel like talking to anyone. “That’s my name.”

“Would you like something to drink? A snack from the machine maybe?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“I understand,” the detective said. “Can you tell us why you were on Hester Street tonight?”

“I used to live there,” Sammy admitted, fighting back tears. “I just wanted to see the place again.”

“Give me strength.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes upward. “You expect us to believe you were out sightseeing?”

“I don’t care what you believe!” Sammy exploded. “Some maniac just tried to rape me — or worse. I want him caught and put behind bars!” Sammy clasped her shaking hands in her lap.

Williams silenced his partner with a wave of his hand. “Sammy, we want to get the guy that attacked you, too, but we need your help,” he said in a soothing voice.

“I didn’t see anything. I told you, he had a jacket over my head.”

“There’s nothing you remember? Did you see his hands? His legs? Was he white, brown, black?”

Sammy took a deep breath. “I don’t know.” She shifted uneasily in her chair. “White, I think.”

“Do you have a sense of how tall he might have been? Was he big?”

Sammy shook her head. “He felt big.” Her voice was plaintive. “But I don’t know.”

Rodriguez threw up his hands. “Swell. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. How the hell are we supposed to find him? No ID, no suspects; no suspects, no arrests. Waste of time going through the motions.”

His partner persisted. “Did the man say anything?”

“He called me a bitch.” Sammy shivered as the sound of her attacker’s abuse rang again in her ears. “A damn bitch. Said I would ‘pay now.’ ”

“Pay? What do you suppose that meant?” Williams held her gaze. “You think maybe he knew you?”

Sammy hadn’t even considered that possibility. Could she have been followed by one of Taft’s people? Did he plan to kill her because she was getting close to the truth about him? She shuddered at the thought. “Oh, God.”

“Come on, Williams, you’re wasting your time. This is a local perp. Pure and simple.”

“You think he knew you, Sammy?” Williams repeated, ignoring his partner.

Sammy looked at both detectives. Good cop, bad cop. She almost laughed. It was such a cliché. Did her attacker know her? It wasn’t likely. She had been crazy to go down to her old neighborhood alone at night. As Grandma Rose would say, “Why ask for trouble?” That neighborhood was full of trouble these days. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied at last.

The door to the interview room opened, and a female officer poked her head inside. “Detective Williams?”