Inherit the Dead (25 page)

“It’s like I’ve been thinking it through. I think you and Mom still love each other, but you don’t like each other very much. Billy and I have discussed it a lot, and we’re synched on it.”

It was raining again. Reluctantly, Perry turned on the windshield wipers. Raising his voice over the screeching sound they emitted, he asked, “Who’s Billy?”

“He’s my boyfriend. He’s the guy who plays the milkman in the show. You’ll meet him later. His mother and father are getting a divorce, but they can’t afford two apartments so his father sleeps in Billy’s room with him. There are twin beds. His father snores, so Billy is totally going nuts.”

They were pulling up to the school. “The auditorium door will be open, so drop me over there. Maybe you’d better get two pizzas.
Some of the other kids might want a slice. And bring some Cokes. Okay?”

Nicky did not wait for an answer as she hopped out of the car. Nor did she pull the hood of her jacket to cover her head as she made the dash to the door through the now-teeming rain.

Before he started the car again, Perry called Angel, and her cell phone immediately switched to “Leave a message.”

“Angel,” he said, “I want you to call me back right away. And be sure to stay inside with . . . Athena.” It had taken him a moment to recall the nanny’s name.

Twenty minutes later he was back at the school, the pizzas and soda balanced in his arms. His visit with Nicky consisted of everyone not onstage coming over to share the pizza. By luck, he managed to get one slice. The director ordered perfect silence in the auditorium during the rehearsal, so his time with Nicky consisted of watching the rehearsal as it dragged on interminably.

It did give him time to worry about Angel. If she was right and someone was trying to kill her, who could it be? Her mother? But her mother was his client. Was he turning into an enabler by tracking down Angel and then reporting where she was to her mother? At least he hadn’t done that so far. But should he do it?

Finally, Nicky was onstage. The director had them do the final scene at least twenty times. “You’re not sad. You’re not glad. You’re matter-of-fact that Emily is dead, too,” she bellowed.

At last the rehearsal was over. “How was I, Dad?” Nicky breathed.

“You were good,” he said. The idea of acting brought Angel to mind. Had she been acting, too? Something in his gut kept saying yes.

“You had what the director was looking for.” Perry searched his head for the right words, which he actually meant. “You had that
thoughtful remembrance tone in your voice, which is what the part calls for,” he tried.

Nicky’s sunny smile was sufficient reward for knowing that, at least for once, he had supplied the on-target response he’d been praying for. As the rest of the cast grabbed their outer garments, Nicky turned and pulled over a baby-faced guy with a head of curly hair and a timid smile. “Dad, this is Billy. He was helping backstage. That’s why you haven’t met him yet.”

“Hello, Billy.”

“Hello, sir.”

My God, the kid has manners,
Perry marveled then warned himself not to prejudge. It got him thinking about Angel again. How had he judged her? He still wasn’t sure. But something about her act didn’t sit right. Even so, he was supposed to be protecting her.

“Billy, sorry this is a rush. Hope to see you another time. But Nicky has homework to do, and her mother wants her home.”

“Dad,” Nicky whined. “It’s a Saturday.”

“Tell that to your mom,” Perry said, and repeated his apology to Billy.

“That’s okay, sir. I just want you to know that when your daughter is with me you have nothing to worry about, like, I mean, I’m not like a lot of guys.”

“Oh, Billy, shut up,” Nicky said, her face turning into a full-fledged blush.

Methinks he doth protest too much . . . maybe,
Perry thought, but he did seem like a nice guy, and if there’s one thing he was sure of, Noreen kept a close watch on Nicky. “Come on, Nick,” he urged. “Nice to see you, Billy.”

“On the short drive home, Nicky was unusually silent then burst out, “That was a totally stupid thing for Billy to say. It’s not like . . . I mean . . . ever . . . I haven’t . . . ”

The ring of truth. Thank God for the ring of truth. “I believe you, baby, and keep it that way. Let’s change subjects. I’m minding this”—he searched for an adjective—“ditsy twenty-year-old who claims her mother wants to kill her.”

Instantly distracted, Nicky laughed. “Does she know Mom? Maybe there’s a club they both belong to.” Then as they turned onto the block heading to the apartment, a car went around them. “Dad, see that car?” Nicky asked, “the one that looks as though it got rear-ended? It was behind you when you parked. I saw it drive by when I was looking for you from the window.”

Perry felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to bristle. “Are you sure it’s the same one?”

“Oh, I mean, I
think
it is. How many cars look as if they’re banged in the same spot?”

Like father, like daughter,
he said to himself.

“Who knows? There was a fender bender when I was on my way over. Can you believe it? There’s a spot in front of the building. But pull your hood on anyhow. Let’s make it look good for Mom.”

He stopped the car, and Nicky leaned over to kiss him. “I love you, Daddy. Try to be on time next time.”

“I’m going to the door with you.”

“That’s silly.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Harry the doorman was opening the door for Nicky. “Good night, Sherlock Holmes,” he said to Perry.

“I’m taking her up to the apartment,” Perry said. “I’ll just be a minute. Keep your eye open for flying objects.”

This time they waited for the elevator to descend from the twelfth floor. “Daddy, you’re worried because I told you about that car,” Nicky said.

“Nicky, I’m on a funny kind of case. If you see it again in this
neighborhood or around the school, you’ve got to promise you’ll tell the nearest adult that I’m worried about it and then call me. And if possible get a license number but don’t get close to it. This isn’t fooling around. Okay?”

The elevator came, and they got into it. “If anyone is tailing your car, they’re after you, not me, Dad. You be careful. Promise.”

“Promise.”

They got off the elevator and Perry waited as Nicky unlocked the door. “I won’t make any final farewells inside. Let Mom and Corny split the wishbone in peace.” He hugged her. “Talk to you tomorrow, Nick. Who loves you?”

“You do. And I love you.”

Perry checked his phone. There were no messages. Time to see Julia.

He went back downstairs, through the lobby, and out to his car. He had left it running and the windshield wipers were screeching. Forestalling any comment from Harry, who was holding open the door for an elderly couple, he jumped into the car and drove away. The rain was pouring down, and try as he might he had no way of knowing if he was being followed as he approached the Brooklyn Bridge.

And then he saw it, a dark car inching up on him, then trying to pass, way too close for comfort. He sped up. The black car did, too. He weaved in and out of the traffic, and the black car followed. No doubt it was a tail. Then as he was halfway across the bridge the car sideswiped him. The sound of scraping metal was loud in Perry’s ears, and his Datsun skidded on the wet road.

Clutching the wheel, he tried to keep his car from flipping over. It lifted into the air, teetering for a breathtaking moment before slamming down on the road instead of going directly into the railing.

Even with the hopeless flapping of the windshield wipers, Perry
could see that the car that had sideswiped him had a battered trunk. Jamming his foot on the accelerator, he pursued his aggressor, darting in and out of traffic to the tune of frantic honking and slamming brakes, until he was over the bridge and in the maze of city traffic, where he lost his would-be assailant.

Damn—Damn—Damn—

You punch your fist against the steering wheel as you try to navigate the traffic of the Manhattan streets. You try to breathe normally, your mind spinning.

So you didn’t stop him, didn’t send his piece of shit car over the side of the bridge.

So what?

Forget him.

A car horn beeps and you jump. You check the rearview mirror for the tenth time. But it’s not him, you’ve lost him. You’re okay. Better than okay.

You drive through the streets, your blood pumping, your head throbbing. It’s time. You’ve got to do it already—what you planned to do from the beginning, why you followed the PI in the first place.

You’ve got to take care of it. Now. You can’t wait anymore.

Do it.

You repeat the words, your hand tapping the steering wheel: Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.

F
        
ire and ice,
Perry thought as he gritted his teeth and gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white as he cut off FDR Drive at Seventy-first Street and headed toward East Seventy-fifth and Park Avenue. His nerves were jangling from the close call on the bridge, and despite the cold February day, he felt pinpricks of sweat on his scalp and beneath his collar. His heart was still racing.

He powered the driver’s-side window down as he drove and welcomed the sharp-toothed bite of the icy air. Suddenly there was the boiling sound-track cacophony of New York—horns blaring, steam rolling out from sidewalk grates, snippets of conversation from bundled-up shoppers and pedestrians. Messengers on bikes weaved through stop-and-start traffic, and sidewalk vendors called to potential customers in balloons of vapor. The rain had eased, but the late afternoon sky was gray and mottled and close, as if someone had placed a lid over the city to prevent anyone from getting out.

Not the worst idea,
Perry thought. Clamp that lid on tight and turn the heat up on Julia Drusilla. Make her uncomfortable, make her start to sweat the way he was. Make her tell him what was
really
going on, and why she
really
wanted her daughter found.

When she spilled,
he thought,
he could eventually find the assholes who kept trying to run him off the road. And when he found them . . .

But what about Angel? She seemed to know all about her inheritance. So why did she run? And what was it she’d said—something to do with her mother or . . . Perry tried running their conversation in his mind but kept losing the thread. The scenario he thought was clear to him—the framework of the case itself—seemed to be coming apart at the seams, and he was suddenly doing a clown act, juggling the pieces in the air, trying to reassemble them before they crashed down around him and took him down, too.

Perry had driven in New York traffic long enough that he could sense it bottling up ahead of him long before the jam-up was actually visible. It didn’t improve his mood. He’d nearly been killed again, and he was in a hurry.

Traffic didn’t flow in the city. It moved spasmodically; sprinting to the next stop, fidgeting, looking for an opening to squeeze through. So much of every day was simply spent trying to get from Point A to Point B. It was maddening.

He swung into the far left lane to pass the taxi that was slowing down ahead of him, and he accidentally cut off a bike messenger whistling through an open chute. The messenger swerved, wildly cursed at him, and thumped the top of the car with the heel of his hand before squirting away between two cars ahead.

Perry entertained a thought he’d had often where he threw his driver’s-side door open just as a bike messenger tried to sizzle past him. Someday, he vowed, he’d do it. That would show them.

Julia Drusilla’s building
was still four blocks away when he saw the lights ahead. Red and white flashes from the light bars atop RMPs strobed
the sides of the buildings and bounced off windows. Something near Julia’s building had attracted an army of cops.

“Where were you back there on the bridge when I needed you?” Perry asked aloud.

Traffic was crawling but not
good
crawling, like it was poised to break loose. It was crawling to a stop.

Perry cranked on the wheel, fitted the nose of his car between two yellow taxis with inches to spare on each side, and bolted down a shadowed side street. Screw the traffic.

It was a narrow street lined with parked cars, and he felt blessed when a four-door turned out onto the pavement, leaving a space. Perry didn’t look around or hesitate; he took the space before anyone else could take it. He’d park and walk the rest of the way—it would be quicker.

As he swung out of his car he saw the signs posted on the poles lining the street:
NO UNAUTHORIZED PARKING. RESIDENTIAL PERMITS ONLY.

He shrugged.

“Hey,” a thin and pinched woman called to him from where she was walking her tiny dog on the sidewalk, “you can’t park here.”

Perry reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his PI certification and flashed it so quickly she’d have no chance to note his name.

“I just did,” he said, and left her with her dog and her thoughts.