Pressure Drop (33 page)

“I'm not sure I'm following you.”

Delgado opened her mouth as though to speak, then stopped herself.

“Go on.”

“I don't want to give you a hard time. You've already had a hard time.” Delgado reached into her pocket and took out a pack of Marlboros. “Do you think it's all right to smoke in here?”

“I don't know. Where are we?”

Delgado laughed. “Shit,” she said. “Mount Sinai.” She lit a cigarette, sucked the smoke in deeply, blew it out slowly. “First smoke since I got on the plane at Kennedy. Except for some weed down there.”

“You still haven't told me what you're getting at.”

Delgado took another drag. “I'm just saying it would be understandable in your case.”

“What would be?”

“Don't make me say it.” “Say it.”

“Okay. Ever heard of copycat suicide? It happens all the time.”

“But I told you,” Nina said, her voice rising; she tried to rise with it, but the restraints kept her down. “I didn't take those pills. I didn't write that note.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Nevertheless? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means this, Nina—you just had a baby. Your hormones are all messed up. Then this kidnapping happened, and that messed you up more. Then you had the bad luck to meet up with this woman in Boston. You fed each other's anxieties. You identified with each other. You said yourself she reminded you of you, although you sound a little more together to me. Then she did what she did and you … you did it too.” Delgado paused, waiting for Nina to say something.

Nina said: “Have you got a penis under that trenchcoat?”

Detective Delgado's face reddened. “You're in bad shape,” she said. “And I feel sorry for you. But you're a bitch just the same.”

“Maybe. But I don't need to hear the hormone theory from you.”

Delgado took a last deep drag, then dropped her cigarette on the floor and ground it under her heel. “All right,” she said. “We're a couple of assholes. Tell me about this appraiser.”

“I told you,” Nina said. “I don't know his name.”

“Who was he working for?”

Nina thought. He had told her the name of a law firm. Or had the real estate woman mentioned the name of the firm? She tried to remember the name: Mullin, Somebody and Somebody? “I'm not sure. But there's a woman from a real estate company up there who will know. Her card's in my bag.” Nina glanced around the room. “Where's my bag?”

“I don't know.”

“Can you check my place?”

“Yeah,” Detective Delgado said. She rose heavily: her thick legs stretched the seams of her trousers, the skin under her eyes sagged. She was her old self. “I can do that,” she said.

“And can you get them to untie me? You know I'm not a suicide risk.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because you know I haven't given up. And I'm not going to. Never.”

Detective Delgado looked down at her. “I'll see what I can do,” she said.

Delgado left. Nina thought: But what if I don't get him back, and what if I do give up? What kind of a suicide risk will I be then? Never was just a word. Nina was still thinking about that when an orderly walked in and freed her arms and legs. A man with a stethoscope around his neck watched from the doorway.

“You all right?” he said.

“I'm fine.”

“Don't let me down, now.”

“I'll make that my first priority,” Nina told him.

He frowned, but his beeper sounded and he left within seconds, the orderly following. Nina got up. She discovered that her legs had forgotten how to walk. They still knew how to stagger. She staggered to the window and held on to the sill. Her view was a brick wall, pockmarked with environmental disease. She stared at it for a long time, unthinking, almost detached. Then it occurred to her that she was no longer following Laura Bain through the time machine. Laura's path had led to death, while she had escaped. That must mean she had a chance. No longer staggering, Nina went out into the hall, looking for food.

She was fed, dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when Delgado returned. “Well, well,” said the detective.

“You got it?” Nina said, rising.

“I got it,” Delgado replied, tossing her the bag.

Nina looked inside. Something was missing. It wasn't the real estate woman's card; that was in the zippered pocket where Nina had left it. A moment or two passed before she realized what it was: Laura's suicide note.

“Something wrong?” said Delgado.

“No.” Nina dialed the real estate woman. She answered on the first ring.

“Sure I remember you,” the woman said when Nina began explaining who she was. “I don't want to alarm you, but if you're thinking of making an offer it better be soon. And significant. I've already got two highly interested parties. Not counting yourself.”

“Before I make an offer,” Nina replied, “I'd like to talk to someone at the law firm.”

“What law firm?”

“The one you mentioned. Acting for the vendor's estate, I think you said.”

“What do you want to talk to them about?”

“The appraiser's report.”

“What about it?”

Nina was conscious of Delgado's gaze as she replied, “I'm a little concerned about that elm tree.”

“Elm tree?”

“In the backyard. It didn't look too healthy to me. If it's got Dutch elm disease, I'd like to know beforehand. There's a possibility of liability, to say nothing of the expense of having it removed.”

“Liability?”

“Vis-à-vis the neighbors. There have been a number of cases lately. It doesn't lessen my interest in the house. I'd just like to know.”

There was a pause. “I see,” the real estate woman said.

“So if you'll just give the number of the law firm—Mullin and something, wasn't it?”

“Mullins, Smithson and O'Leary,” the woman said. “In Newton Center.” Another pause. “I guess it's all right,” the woman said, giving her the number. Nina wrote it down, again feeling Delgado's eyes on her. “But don't waste any time. This one's hot.”

“I won't. Thanks.”

“Wait,” said the real estate woman. “How can I reach you?”

“I'm out of town,” Nina said. “I'll get back to you.”

“But—”

Nina hung up, turned to Detective Delgado, who was smiling slightly; something green was stuck between her incisors. “You're not a bad liar,” Delgado said. “And that's my area of expertise.”

“I'm an ordinary businesswoman,” Nina replied.

Delgado laughed. Nina almost laughed too, but she was already dialing Mullins, Smithson and O'Leary. The receptionist put her through to Mr. O'Leary's secretary. Mr. O'Leary's secretary put her through to Mr. O'Leary's paralegal. Mr. O'Leary's paralegal got Mr. O'Leary.

“Appraiser?” he said. He had the kind of accent you might hear in Fenway Park, way down the right field line.

“For Laura Bain's house. She was a friend of mine. I thought you were handling her estate.”

“That's right. But that house was totally redone last year and besides we do a lot of real estate work in that area.”

“I don't understand.”

“What's to appraise? We know Dedham values to the dime. Why waste the money?”

“You mean you didn't hire an appraiser?”

Silence. “Listen—what was your name again?” Nina told him. “Listen, Miss Kitchener. Are you questioning, maybe, our representation of the estate? Because if that's the case—”

“Not at all, Mr. O'Leary. I'm sure you're doing a fine job. I just want to know if you hired an appraiser, that's all.”

“Why?”

“A friend of mine is thinking of selling her house. She wanted to know who I'd recommend.”

“I don't give advice of that sort. And the answer to your question is no. We didn't hire an appraiser. Now if you'll excuse me …” He hung up.

Detective Delgado was no longer smiling. “No appraiser?”

“That's what he says. But there was a man in her house, a man with big hands, the same kind of …” Her voice trailed off. “You don't believe me?”

“You're a … businesswoman, remember?”

“There was a man in Laura's house,” Nina said. “Get that straight. And I wasn't the only one who saw him.” She called the real estate woman, and reached an answering machine that began by playing the first four notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Nina put the phone down, hard.

Nina and Delgado looked at each other. Nina knew what Delgado thought she was seeing: a woman knocked off the tracks who may have seen a man in Laura's house, someone who didn't belong there, a thief perhaps, and who later imagined his presence while she was trying to kill herself, or invented it to protect herself, when she woke up and saw she hadn't. She searched for something to say that would change Delgado's mind, and failing to find it, sat slowly on the bed.

“All right, all right,” Delgado said. “Give me her number.”

Nina handed her the real estate woman's card. Delgado copied the number. “I'll be in touch,” she said, and went away.

Nina stayed where she was. She remembered a song about paranoia striking deep. It played itself over and over in her mind, until she became almost unaware of the clatter of food trays, the rolling wheelchairs, the passing conversations, rapid footsteps coming down the hall. Then Suze burst into the room.

“Oh, Nina, are you all right?”

She grabbed Nina, hugged her tight, sat on the bed beside her, rocking her back and forth. Nina didn't cry; she was all cried out. She let herself be rocked back and forth.

“I should never have gone to L.A.,” Suze said.

“Don't be silly.”

Suze rocked her some more. Then she said: “Can you talk about it?”

“I can talk, but no one believes me.”

“Talk.”

Nina talked. She told Suze all there was to tell. Suze's face registered many things, but disbelief wasn't one of them. “You believe me,” Nina said at the end.

“Of course I believe you.”

“Then what's the explanation?”

“I don't know. We'll have to go over everything, from start to finish. But first let's get out of here.”

Getting out of there involved a wait of several hours, the signing of many forms and three loud arguments, all won by Suze. She menaced the hospital bureaucracy with her spiked hair, clanked her heavy jewelry, used at least one “attorney,” “liability,” “court,” or “lawsuit” in every sentence and finally marched in triumph to the elevator, poked the DOWN button as though it were the eye of the chief resident and rode with Nina to street level. They laughed all the way to Nina's, and were paying the driver when Nina's mood changed: “I can't stay here.”

“Right,” said Suze. “Come to my place.”

“What's it going to be, ladies?” said the driver.

“Keep your shirt on,” Suze said, whisking a ten-dollar bill out of his reach.

On their way inside to get some of Nina's things they met Jules, in street clothes, on his way out. “You were right, Miss Kitchener,” he said.

“About what?”

“They canned me. For booze. It's not fair. I can hold my liquor.” He was holding some already and his eyes were watery.

“You weren't in very good shape the other night.”

“That's why they canned me. But they're wrong. It wasn't booze. I was sick.” Nina said nothing. Jules came closer. His breath reeked. “I only had one drink. I swear. An old guy gave me a bottle. I had one little nip. That's all. Or two. It made me sick.”

“What old guy?”

“A big old guy with white hair. Walked in off the street. Said it was an early Christmas present from one of the tenants.”

“Did you let him in?”

“No. He didn't want to come in. He just gave me the bottle and went away.”

“Then you drank it?”

“Just a nip, like I said.”

“And it made you sick?”

“As a dog. I passed out behind the desk.”

“For how long?”

“Not long. I don't think. I was up when you came back, wasn't I?”

“So anyone could have come in while you were passed out?”

Jules looked at Nina, looked at Suze, looked away. “Jeez. I thought you were on my side. On the side of the little guy.” He walked out the door, took a few steps down the block, then slowly turned and went off the other way.

Upstairs in Nina's apartment, the cleaners had done their job. They'd wiped up the vomit, straightened the furniture, put the typewriter away. Nina threw some clothes in a suitcase and was on her way out when she found herself pausing to look in the nursery. The cleaners had piled all the stuffed animals in the crib. Nina began rearranging them. Her hands lingered on the lion, the polar bear, Winnie. She stayed there, bent over the crib, unaware of time.

“Let's go, Nina,” Suze said quietly from the door.

She went.

In the lobby, Nina stopped to check her mailbox. It contained the latest copy of
Bicycling
magazine, two credit card applications, coupons from Gerber's and a letter from Laura Bain, postmarked on the day of her death. Nina opened it where she stood. Suze read over her shoulder.

Dear Nina,

I called you last night, but I guess you weren't home yet. In case we miss each other in the next day or two—I've got a very heavy schedule before the Accra trip—I'll just send this off to make sure you know how glad I was to meet you. I really feel so much more hopeful since you came up here—you're such a strong person!

I haven't been able to reach my obstetrician yet. He's on vacation. Meanwhile I'm trying to get hold of the doctor from the Reproductive Research Center. Dr. Crossman. A bit creepy. He kept asking if I was part Jewish and I had to draw my whole family tree to show I wasn't. Something about Tay-Sachs disease. I'd really like that printout. In the meantime, I have remembered one thing about the donor, at least I'm pretty sure I have—he was left-handed. I'm left-handed too, so it struck me at the time.