Over My Live Body (20 page)

“How’s your sister doing?”

He clears his throat. “She’s stabilized. I can’t talk now. I’ve got to get some things taken care of on this end. I’ll call back later. In the meantime, stay inside, don’t go
any
where.”

Not even in the bathroom
. Which is the
first
place I go. Which makes it
not
such a lie that I said I was in there in the first place.
There are no windows in here. At least no one can get at me.
As I step over the towels, my heel skids on something. I pick up a wax paper envelope scaled down to Barbie Doll Dream Kitchen size. Except the powdery residue in that wrapper has probably been at least partially responsible for turning Alison Quick’s life into a nightmare. I wonder what I should do with this piece of evidence that Quick in his angst somehow managed to overlook. I kick it under the heap of towels.
I didn’t see it. It’s up to him to tell me. And he’s going to
have
to eventually tell me
a lot
more
to account for what I
did
see.

“I have to tell you something,” Quick says, shutting the door behind him. I rub my eyes groggily. I fell asleep on the couch hours ago;
how many
hours ago I don’t know, it’s dark out now, and it seems as though it was still light when I curled up on the couch, but it gets dark by five. Quick said he wouldn’t be back until the end of his tour, which I translated to mean some time after midnight. A glance at my watch now tells me it’s still early afternoon, then I remember it needs a new battery. “No, don’t get up. Stay there,” he says. When he comes closer, I can see
his
watch, the hour hand pointing to nine. What he has to tell me, I suddenly realize, has nothing to do with his sister.

“I got a phone call a little while ago from someone I know up in the Seventeenth,” he says. “Unrelated to all of this, but he mentioned something about a stabbing late last night in front of an ATM on Madison Avenue. The vic was DOA at New York Hospital. The motive
believed
to be robbery. Cash was gone, but the wallet was left behind, credit cards, a BlackBerry. Gave a home address outside of Greenwich and work address on Wall Street, which it turns out is the same one you gave me Tuesday night,” Quick sits down. “It was Ivan, Delilah.”

The only response I can express is a nod. “You’re sure.” I
know
he’s sure, or he wouldn’t be telling me this.

“His family drove in from Connecticut early this afternoon to make a positive ID,” he reports, watching me, waiting for my emotional seams to split.

“Well, I guess that’s why I haven’t heard from him.” I take a deep breath. “Any clue who did it?”

“You don’t seem upset.” I wonder if he’s rehearsing what he’s going to write in that little notebook in his pocket.
Ex-girlfriend who was abused by victim in the recent past did
not
seem upset
.

“Are you thinking maybe
I
did it?”

“I
know
where you were last night at the estimated time of death, Delilah. You were at the precinct house with me, looking at mug shots. I
know
you didn’t do it.” He’s still looking at me the way I imagine he’s looked at hundreds of people under interrogation, waiting for them to deliver the goods. What I have to say isn’t so good. “So maybe
now
I can safely confess there’s this small part of me that’s not sorry someone else
did
. Are you happy now?”

“No,” he says, “I’m not.”

“I’m not happy either.
Or
particularly
sad
. I guess that’s normal.” I shrug. “I’m supposed to be in shock, right?” I suddenly think of the plaster head taken from the apartment last night. “Do they know who did it?”

“No witnesses as of yet. The guys at the Seventeenth are canvassing the area. There’ll be pictures in the papers, appeals for anyone who saw anything to call the TIPS hot line. What I was told was that things got a little savage, like maybe the vic fought like hell to hold onto his money.”
Yes, yes, I can see Ivan doing that. “
Or the perp had a mean streak. Ivan was missing a few fingers.” He clears his throat. “
Vittorio
was missing a few fingers.”

“You didn’t tell me…” I gulp. “What you
are
telling me is that the guy they want is the same guy
you
want, the guy I
didn’t
want. Curtis.”

“What I’m telling you is you’ve got to do exactly as I tell you,” Quick says. “And the first thing is to put 911 on speed dial. Add my numbers, the number for the Sixth for when you’re going to be at West Eighth. Fourth is the Eight-Four
.
When you’re ready to leave tomorrow, you call me and you
keep
calling every step of the way so we know your location. I don’t think you should have any trouble
here
, but I’m not ruling out anything.”

“While you’re at it, don’t rule out that anyone who’s gone near me has been a target,” I say. “That makes Morgan a target too. And
you.
”
So be careful.

“I haven’t had any success getting through to Morgan. One way or the other, he isn’t getting the message. As for
me
, it’s nothing I’m not used to. People are always gunning for cops.” He unzips his jacket to remind me that he’s armed and wearing body armor.

“What’s going on with that decoy you’ve got staying in
my
place?” Aside from the fact she’s wearing
my
clothes, using
my
moisturizer, sleeping in
my
bed, intercepting
my
mail.

“Nothing I can tell you yet. The minute Curtis shows up on her doorstep—and he
will
—we nail him.” Oh, and so it’s
her doorstep
now
too
. “Meanwhile,
both
of you get police protection until this thing blows. She’s part of the Task Force we’ve set up and the Eight-Four is watching this place
and
you until you cross over into Manhattan tomorrow, then
we
take over. I’ll get you over there myself if I can. I’ve got to get back to the First now,” he says. “Lock up after me.” He hovers by the door, so close that I can tell by his breath that he’s been chewing gum again. My mouth waters. “If you need anything,” he gestures toward my cell phone, “call.”

Any
thing? I impulsively reach for his hand and give it a light squeeze. He surprises me by returning the squeeze, not pulling away. “I will,” I promise, “if I need anything. I’ll call.”

There’s need in his eyes
too
all right, but duty comes first.

The first thing I do when he leaves is call Morgan. I
have
to give the phone a trial run. Gary cuts me short. “He’s not here.”

“Is he still in his studio?”

“Don’t know.”

“Or
with
somebody. Gareeee…”

“
You
still with the
cop
, Delilah?”

“Morgan’s off the hook as far as the cops are concerned. They don’t want to talk to him, Gary,
I
do.”

“Why are they still calling here then? You think maybe one of them wants a
date
?”

“They’re calling because he might be in danger. Gary, just tell me where he is. He’s got to be warned.”

“I
still
don’t know where he
is
, Delilah. Maybe your
friend
can investigate the matter more fully.”

“My
friend
has
enough
to investigate. Somebody who thinks he can’t have me any
other
way is killing everyone who comes near me, may be trying to kill
me too
… ”

“It must be hell to be straight and beautiful. Glad I’m neither. Glad I don’t know anyone else who
is.
Ciao
,
bella
.”

My fingers tremble with rage as I punch in the number of the reception desk at West Eighth Street. It’s
Gary
who’s blowing me off,
not
Morgan, I remind myself.
Unless I hear differently from him.
“Who d’you want to talk to?” the night desk guard asks. I don’t recognize who it is by his voice. I don’t want to ask for Morgan by name. I’ll see him tomorrow, anyway, in the drawing studio while I’m posing. I’ll talk to him then.
If
he’s
there
.

I imagine Lady Detective,
whoever
that person is who’s raiding
my
refrigerator, reading
my
piled-up back issues of
Vogue
and
Time Out New York,
would alert the task force if Curtis left any notes for me, that they’d work on it on the other side of the river and leave me out of it unless they had no choice but to warn me of impending danger. And I must be safe because my cell phone isn’t ringing. I
don’t
want
to be in the know right now. I
want
to feel I can trust Quick and the force to take the matter to task.
I want a good night’s sleep.
I might need it.

“I’m sorry, but Detective Quick’s not here right now. He’s out in the field.” The receptionist at the First Precinct sounds very much like the one at the Sixth, same monotone, same New Yawk accent so thick you could spread it on a bagel and choke on it. “Is this something someone
else
can help you with?”
Same lines even.

I haven’t got time to wait for her to put someone else on the line. One thing I forgot to ask Quick for last night was his sister’s alarm clock and a
map,
and now I have less than an hour to get to West Eighth Street in time to pose for that drawing class. Lucky for me I didn’t sleep all that great anyway. I kept waking up and thinking of Ivan, picturing Ivan missing a few fingers, fingers that once penetrated me, grabbed me, left bruises on me, shuddering because he’s dead and because I
don’t feel bad
, even though it’s because of me that he’s dead.
He could just as easily have killed me one day if I’d stayed with him
.

I can’t stay in the apartment another minute or I’m going to be late for this class. I stash my cell phone in my nylon pocketbook and lock the door behind me. The hallway still smells of cabbage. When I get to the front door, I don’t see any blue-and-whites around and I remember Quick’s admonition to me:
Keep calling every step of the way.
I need protection. I need
directions
. I fish the phone out of my bag and punch in the abbreviated code connecting me to the local precinct. Great thing about this phone, I can make tracks while I’m using it, save time. “I’m at the intersection of Henry and Clark Street,” I report. “Henry and Pineapple. Henry and Orange…

“Whoa, I can’t keep up with you, where you going?”

“West Eighth Street. Which subway do I…”

“You
just passed
a subway stop at Clark Street. You want to go
where
?”

“West Eighth Street. I
think
I’m supposed to have a police escort. I haven’t seen anyone…”

“Go to the High Street station. Got that? You want the
High Street
station, near Cadman Plaza. Keep walking the direction you’re going, go right.”

I expect to see a blue-and-white when I get there, but I don’t.
They must be in an unmarked car
. I look over my shoulder before descending the stairs to the platforms below, wrestle my MetroCard out of my change purse. I miss my fanny pack.
Why’d I have to wear a damn dress.

“
Service on the A and C
mumble mumble
between
mumble mumble
Street and Lefferts Boulevard
mumble mumble mumble
smoky conditions,” a raspy voice squawks over the loudspeaker. “Damn trains ain’t runnin’,” a homeless man leaning against the pay phone swears. He looks like he could be anywhere from thirty-five to seventy years old, could have been waiting here to take the train for half a lifetime. “Ain’t seen no trains for
two hours
now.” His voice suddenly blares into song, makes me jump. “You
can’t
take the A Train. You
can’t
take the A Train,” he wails off-key. I leap out of the way as he staggers up and down the platform, picking up speed, waving his arms up and down like he’s desperately trying to take off through the tunnel on his own steam. “You
CAN’T
take the A Train,” he screeches in my ear.

I don’t even
want
to take the A Train any more. I turn around and go back through the exit and up the stairs, looking over my shoulder for the promised police protection. I don’t see anything that even
remotely
resembles an unmarked car. I’m getting to be an expert at detecting those; I’ve been in enough of them in the last week. I whip out the phone again, call the Eight-Four again. The same voice answers. I hang up on him. I call back the First, hope Quick is back by now. This time a male voice answers, but it’s not his. “Royko.”

I remember him, the toe-tapper who waited for Quick outside of Morgan’s loft a couple of days ago and the way he looked at those paintings of me. I have the sudden urge to cross my arms over my chest. “Quick’s not here,” he grumbles. I don’t identify myself. I reach in my bag and fish out the
other
numbers Quick gave me, his cell number, his home number. I take a deep breath and call the home number.
Give your location
. “I’ve left the High Street subway station,” I report after a long
beeeep
. “The train isn’t running, so I’m going to have to walk across the bridge, I guess, and then take a train from City Hall up to Astor Place. I don’t know if anyone’s watching me. I haven’t seen anyone.” I look from left to right at the line-up of cars parked around me as I walk by; there’s nobody
in
them. “Are
you
watching me?”

Is
Curtis
watching me?

No
, I remind myself, he’s watching someone who he
thinks
is me. Maybe he’s been
caught
already, handcuffed, put in the back of a radio car. Maybe that’s where Quick is now, making imprints of Curtis’ inky fingers. As I start up the walkway spanning the Brooklyn Bridge, I check my voice mail messages. Maybe someone will actually tell me, “you
can
go home again.”

I look behind me. The Brooklyn landscape shrinks in contrast to the gilded Manhattan skyline framed by myriad cables.
Blip-blip-blip.
A guy in flashy red shorts and Rollerblades to match whizzes by to my left and turns back to give me a preemptory smile. I wonder if
he’s
an undercover cop assigned to watch me. How better to
not
be obvious than to appear
too
obvious. My cell phone rings before I have a chance to speculate where he’d keep
his
gun.

“
Surprise
, Delilah. Did you think I’d
forgotten
you? No chance of that. That slut that’s parading around your apartment half-naked
pretending
to be you isn’t even a close second. I’ve seen
you
go
all the way
, remember. I see you
now
.” Curtis pauses. “Isn’t that blue jean dress you’re wearing a little too
short,
Delilah? You can see up it from the back, you know. It doesn’t cover much. Not that you ever cared about covering anything anyway. You’re a piece of meat that people just drool over. Like
prime rib
.” I look over my shoulder frantically. No uniforms of any kind around, not even
bogus
uniforms. “You can’t see me. Don’t strain your neck. You’ve got to
pose
soon,
don’t
you?
After
which you’ll be posing strictly for
me.
My art exhibit is ready. I
sent
you an invitation. I’m looking forward to showing it to you,” his voice becomes a menacing whisper, “real soon.”

Traffic whizzes below to the left and right of me and I look up at the gray arch over my head and behind me. I start to call 911. The phone slips out of my sweaty hands and crashes face down onto the bike lane of the wooden walkway. A black ten-speed sideswipes it. I run after it. “
Watch
it!” another biker yells out. I jump out of his way. Before I can retrieve my phone, it skittles under the metal barrier rimming the walkway and crashes to the roadway below.

The Manhattan skyline looms closer through the web of cables, but so far I don’t see a sign of
any
of the police protection I’ve been promised. I do see a yellow call box ahead and I run over to it. It surprises me that it’s not
look-at-me
red. What
doesn’t
surprise me is that it’s out of order when I need it the most.
Where is Curtis watching me from
?
Is he behind me
? I keep walking, looking over my shoulder at shadows, dreading the appearance of a
very
big one, and a squeal bursts out of me as I feel the impact of a head-on collision. Whoever it is
is
big,
ver
y big. I freeze. I can’t even spin around to confront my attacker face to face. I’m too paralyzed by panic to make a sound, to get past that first squeal of surprise and have it escalate to a
bona fide
scream.

“You mind? I’m trying to take a picture here,” my would-be perp intones in a high-pitched nasal female voice. I spin around. She’s easily as big as Curtis and giving me a
look
that could kill, waving a disposable camera in my face. “You
could
watch where you’re going, you know. You just made my arms move and this was the last shot on the roll.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hal, never mind, you can relax now, the film’s all used up, she made my arms move,” she shouts at the scowling man standing at the base of the gray stone arch, waiting for her to click the shutter. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes tell me he’s relieved that I’ve inadvertently released him from the torture of holding the pose. I could tell him a
lot
about torture, but I haven’t the time. I keep walking by them and pick up my pace. Cars zip along the FDR Drive. The green exit sign to my right points to Park Row. I start to run, not entirely sure whether I’m running away from danger or right smack into it.
I’m almost there
. I turn around one last time. Fingers suddenly grab my forearm, propel me forward. A scream catches in my throat. “
No
!” is all I can sputter. When I dare to look, a gold shield is thrust practically up to my nose and Rubenstein is holding it, looking more dour than I’ve ever seen him. I know all too well his acerbic expression has nothing to do with yogurt or anything
else
he’s eaten. “It’s okay, Miss Price,” he grumbles, “we’re the good guys.”

I look around and don’t see anyone else I recognize. “Where’s Quick?”

“He’s been tied up all morning. Some kind of unexpected personal business, but he’s back now. He radioed me to meet you here, take you where you’re going.” He jerks his head in the direction of the dark blue junker blocking the exit ramp. “I’m afraid I got some bad news,” he says as I get in the car. He waves off a driver giving him the finger. “The operation over on Waverly was
completely
blown; our boy knows she isn’t you.”

“
Duh
!” I mumble as he struts around to the driver’s side.

“So it looks like we’re going to get him while he’s in the process of thinking he’s going to get at
you
. Did you see him while you were crossing the bridge?”

“He saw
me.
He said…”

“Annie told us what he said. We got people in cars
all around
here.”

“I didn’t see
any
one.”

Rubenstein jerks the car into reverse. “We got West Eighth blocked in. We know who we want, shouldn’t be hard
now
.”
Shouldn’t
be, but what happens to me if it
is
? “Bastard’s killed five that we know of now. Time to shut that motherfucker down.” He glances in my direction. “Sorry.”

I’m
not. I start to count off all the dead bodies that have been accounted for on the fingers of my left hand like I’m playing
this little piggy went to market
. Majesty Moore, Vittorio, Ivan. I squeeze them together. “
Five
? How’d you come up with
five
?”

He’s not about to tell me. “I’m going to drop you a couple of blocks
from
West Eighth. We got cars in place
all over the place
and someone’s going to tail you. When he moves, we move.” Rubenstein’s moving at top speed
now
, along the FDR, almost bypassing the Houston Street exit. The sound of screeching brakes as he cuts lanes makes me gnash my teeth. “Meanwhile, you just go about your business, do just like you always do. We got you covered.”

Rubenstein, true to his word, drops me off on University Place across from the park. “Walk straight up and to the left on Eighth, keep going till you get there,” he instructs me. I wonder how much manpower is backing him up and how much it’s going to cost the city of New York to carry out the whole operation.
Better that than to wonder where Curtis is.
A guy in flashy red shorts and Rollerblades to match whizzes by to my right and I do a double-take as I recognize him from our earlier encounter on the Brooklyn Bridge. Maybe he
is
an undercover cop assigned to watch me. Maybe that cabby parked by the curb isn’t a cabby after all. Maybe the guy at the pay phone on the corner of Fifth Avenue is giving my position to someone on a cell phone half a block away. I start to relax as I turn into the familiar doorway framed by rococo stone columns.

Louise is nowhere to be seen. In her place is a guard in uniform. All I see is the uniform at first, and I feel a sudden wave of nausea grip me before I’ve had the chance to take a good look and realize that this guard doesn’t look anything like Curtis; he’s about fifty pounds lighter than Curtis. Probably a uniform posing as a
different kind of
uniform. I clutch my hand over my stomach and take deep breaths. “I’m late for an art class,” I explain as I head past him, so he’ll know who I am as if he doesn’t already. I glimpse Louise in the vestibule to my left making fresh coffee as I start for the stairs. She scowls and dumps the filtered grounds in the trash. I hurry up the stairs and into the second-floor drawing studio. “Well, look who’s finally here,” Morgan announces, “everybody’s favorite target of obsession.” I stop dead in my tracks, but not because of Morgan’s greeting. Standing there among the crowd of disgruntled artists impatiently honing their #4 charcoal pencils is Quick, a huge Morilla newsprint pad propped up on an easel in front of him. He greets me with a perfunctory nod.

Rubenstein definitely wasn’t kidding when he said
we got you covered
. Except that I’m going to be
un
covered.
Literally
.

“What are you
doing
here?” I whisper at him. He holds a pencil aloft. The hand grip of his semi-automatic protrudes from under his windbreaker. “Aren’t there any
female
cops who could be doing this?” I hiss under my breath as I start to unbutton my dress.

“None who can
draw
.” He seems genuinely surprised that I would object to him being here while I’m working. If it were a crime in a strip club he was investigating,
no one
would question his presence there.
Bare flesh is bare flesh, right?