Tracking Time (4 page)

D
avid Owen was in an excited condition around seven when his mother, Janice Owen, came into his room without knocking and screamed at him for a while. She continued screaming as she left to get in the shower. He pulled the covers over his head to block out the noise. Jesus Christ. He wished she were a bug he could squash.

There was no sign of his dad, who worked on Wall Street lawyering people to death twenty hours a day. David wondered if he'd worked all night again and hadn't come home at all. It was hard to know. His father was always gone by the time David hauled himself out of bed, which he did his best to avoid every morning. Only rarely did he succeed in staying in bed. Not even throwing up worked with his mother anymore. Now he had to have
a fever
of 101 to get her attention.

Jesus Christ. Same shit every morning. David hated school.
Hated it.
He heard the kids call him a loser. Did they think he was deaf? They said it practically to his face. He hated it. He'd rather be dead than go there. The work was too hard for him, and he just couldn't manage being cool.

He watched the other boys being easy with each other. They knew how to make friends and hang out. He just couldn't do it. He didn't know how to act or what to say. He had friends from camp, but no one at school ever came up to shake his hand when he arrived in the morning the way the "in" kids did with each other. No one called him at night. No one invited him to their parties. Mostly they ignored him. But sometimes he heard them refer to him as a loser. It made him nuts.

Every school morning David hid out under the covers as long as he could, playing with himself, moaning, and trying to avoid being taken to school by his mother. If he was lucky and managed to be really late, she'd leave him. But that didn't happen too often, either. Janice Owen liked taking her son to school in her limo. It made her feel she was being a good mother. David was certain she did it just to torture him because he was too old for that. Everybody else came on their own. On the subway or whatever. Only the little kids came with their mothers in the car service. But his mother just loved getting him in that car-he, unshowered and hastily pulled together, she in a suit with her hair styled and sprayed and her makeup on, wearing jewelry, talking so fast the words swam together like a school of fish. She called the big swing north up to his school in the navy blue Lincoln Town Car-on her way to the bank that was more than thirty blocks south-their quality time together.

This Wednesday morning, when he felt elated and close to happy for the first time in his life, she came into his room three times. First in her robe, then in her skirt and silk blouse with her hair still wet. Then dressed to kill, strapping on her watch. By then, she was yelling like a maniac that if he didn't go with her, he wasn't getting the Beamer when he finished Driver's Ed and his private Saturday morning driving lessons. That made him get up, throw on his clothes, and leave his building on Park and Sixty-fifth Street and jump in the limo with his mom just like always.

As soon as Janice was in the car she got happy. She yammered on about the bank's second merger with another bank in three years and her chances, this time, of being promoted or fired and her contingency plans in either case.

"If I get promoted and you get a 3.0 average, we'll go to the south of France this summer. And if Dad can't go, Dad can't go." She gave him one of her high-wattage, brave smiles. "What do you say?"

David yawned.

His mother's smile broke up. "I thought those pills were supposed to wake you up. Are you taking your pills?" she demanded.

"I'm awake," he grumbled. He was taking the Ritalin, but he'd stopped taking the Zoloft on the second day. It made him feel funny.

"Did you take your
pill?"
Sharp look from the hyper mom.

"I took the pill," he assured her.

"What time did you get home last night?" Questions, questions, every day the same questions.

David looked at his mother and saw an evil person, someone who took pleasure in torturing him just because he wasn't like her. Her disappointment in him had squared her off. When David had been a little boy, his mother had been a pretty, smiley woman, giggling all the time. Now she was hard and cruel as a mirror, twenty pounds too fat, dressed to the nines, and all business. She fixed him with her steely eyes, hammering him into the corner with all her questions. And she never answered any of his.
Does Dad have a girlfriend? Do you have a boyfriend? Are you getting your face lifted? When can I stop going to that asshole shrink?

"Early," he lied. He never even saw her last night. When did
she
get in? He was pissed at her for lying to him, but he gave her a sincere look because he was going to flunk math and get a C in biology, and he wanted that Beamer bad. He knew she'd give it to him.

The limo sped up Park Avenue, and he peered hungrily out the window as they passed Brandy's building at Seventy-fifth Street. Brandy had told him she'd give him a call as soon as her mother let her out. They'd be together by noon, going over their triumphs.
Now
he was cool.

"Good, I'm glad you slept well. You need your rest." Janice's eyes softened. She was satisfied, snapped open her briefcase, and started flipping through a pile of papers. Then her cell phone rang and she answered it. She became engrossed in her conversation and didn't even notice that David got out at a red light two blocks shy of school. She was happy with their exchange and had no idea he was playing hooky.

W
oody was at his desk talking on the phone, chewing a bite of bagel, when April came out of her office at half past eight. She could tell by the way he had his feet up on the desk and was making decorative little piles of crumbs with the end of his pen that it was a personal call. She caught his eye and wiggled her fingers at him just the way her boss did to her when he wanted her to jump.

His brow furrowed.
Now?
he
mouthed at her.

"Now," she said loud enough for the three ugly henchmen to exchange glances.

Woody said something she couldn't hear and hung up. "What's up, boss?" he asked.

"A shrink didn't show up for an appointment last night. We're going to check it out."

Woody processed that bit of information as he got to his feet. April knew he was thinking the lieutenant hadn't mentioned any missing person complaint. She didn't enlighten him as they left the squad room, trotted down the stairs, said hey to some uniforms hovering around the front door, and went outside to their unmarked unit. Not until they were in the car did she give him Maslow Atkins's Upper West Side address, which just happened to be outside their precinct.

"Who is this guy?" Woody asked.

"Young shrink in training with Jason Frank."

"I hate those head-shrinker quacks," he remarked.

April would have rebuked him for his idiocy, but her cell phone burbled. She rummaged through her shoulder bag, disrupting the clutter of tissues, rubber gloves (for not contaminating evidence at crime scenes), notebooks, her telephone and address book that contained every source she'd ever used, second gun, lipsticks, hairbrush, wallet, badge, aspirin, all the essentials she needed to function. The phone was at the bottom.

She grabbed it and flipped it open, but before she could speak, Woody stopped abruptly at a light, flinging her against her seat belt.

"Jesus!" she erupted.

"Estas enojada conmigo, querida?"
Mike replied anxiously.

April scowled at Woody and spoke softly to Mike. "Why would I be angry,
mi amore? Te quiero mucho."

"I have no idea; I'm such a wonderful guy."

Uh-huh. "Did you get into trouble last night?" she asked sweetly, guessing he had a guilty conscience about something.

"No trouble, I promise." The soft sweet voice was working to soothe.

"I'll bet," she murmured.

"Well, maybe just a
little.
The bar fight, the hooker brawl, and the trip to ER." He was teasing, but she didn't exactly laugh along. An evening out with his old partner might include any or all of the above.

"Talk to you later. Something's doing," she told him. Then she glanced at Woody and sighed, wondering what was up with Mike. She wasn't a detective for nothing.

Woody accelerated through Columbus Circle and shot up Central Park West. She ignored his high-speed race past the Museum of Natural History. He slowed down just enough at Eighty-second Street to do a gut-wrenching U-turn. He just missed a speeding limo coming at them from the north, braked hard in front of Maslow's building's entrance, and gave April a big grin.

Something was up with him, too. Men had a primitive way of communicating.

She'd warned him, but Woody wasn't settling down after his rough-'em-up years. Now, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of chewing him out. She wasn't his mother. She got out and slammed the car door.

The doorman came running out and screamed at them. "No parking here!" His accent was thick. He was a Russian. Alex Yelsin, his tag read. Alex looked about forty, had a big fleshy face, angry red-rimmed eyes. His belly strained the buttons of his uniform jacket.

"Police." April's hand reached into her purse and instantly connected with her badge. She pulled it out and showed it to him. "I'm Sergeant Woo," she told him.

Alex glanced at the badge, unimpressed. Then his angry eyes looked her over as if he didn't believe a Chinese could be a cop. She was used to it. She pointed to the curb in front of the building. There was no yellow line there. Anyway, they were cops and could park anywhere they wanted. If they got a summons, they had recourse.

The guy was still unimpressed. "Something wrong?" he asked.

Woody came around the side of the car. April introduced him. "This is Detective Baum. We're looking for a tenant by the name of Maslow Atkins."

"So?" Alex challenged them.

"Have you seen him?"

"See him every day."

"Did you see him today?" Baum asked.

"Today?" He looked at Woody, scratched the side of his nose. "No, not today."

"Would you ring him, please."

They trooped inside to the cavernous lobby. Yuppies with their briefcases and workout bags trooped out around them as Alex tried the intercom. April reached into her purse and turned her phone off.

When Yelsin rang, there was no answer from Maslow's apartment on the intercom.

"We need to check out Dr. Atkins's apartment," April told him.

Alex shook his head. "Oh, oh, oh. You'll have to talk to the super."

"Fine."

They hiked across the lobby to the building office, where more Russians were sitting at desks eating highly caloric bakery goods. An obese woman in a black pantsuit with intense magenta hair, magenta nail polish, and matching lipstick was the manager. Her name was Regina. She didn't want to help out.

"It's a lot of trouble for me to do it," she complained.

April shrugged.
Too bad.

With pursed lips, Regina collected the key, and they went up in the elevator. On Maslow's floor they followed her down a long hall and around the corner. As they neared his door, a strong aroma of bacon lingered from someone's breakfast. Homey touches of everyday life like this always gave April a bad feeling. Once she'd smelled toast outside the apartment of a man who hadn't shown up for work. The toast had given her the false hope that the man they were looking for was just taking a day off. But when she and Mike, who'd been her supervisor at the time, had gone inside, they'd found the man stone cold with a plastic bag over his head.

Now she didn't want to open Maslow's door and find him in his bedroom with his throat cut, hanging from the chandelier, or lying on his bed, dead from pills. He was someone's son, friend, colleague, maybe boyfriend. Her heartbeat accelerated as Regina fumbled with the locks. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until the door was open and she had a clear sight line into the living room.

Regina started to go in first, but April shook her head. "Please stay here for a moment."

"This is my building," she protested. "I have to know what's going on in here."

"You'll know soon enough," April told her, then nodded at Woody. The two of them went in, leaving Regina muttering angrily in Russian just inside the door.

The lights were on, as if Maslow were home. But the place had the dead silence of emptiness. April's gaze swept the unexceptional living room. White walls, bare except for three large photographs, beige wall-to-wall carpet. Blue sofa, two red club chairs, a simple desk with one drawer. Laptop computer on top. Desk chair with wheels. Above the desk a bookshelf full of medical and psychiatric texts. Another pile of books neatly stacked under the desk. Phone with message light blinking.

April moved into the bedroom and exhaled. The bed was made, and on it no dead body was waiting for her. There was no body in the bathroom, either. The towels were carefully folded on the towel rack. Hairbrush on the sink with light brown hair in it. She looked in the medicine cabinet. The large quantity of prescription medicines indicated that Atkins either had health problems or was something of a hypochondriac. None of the drug names were familiar to her.

Back in the bedroom, she found his plastic hospital ID and his wallet under the gray suit, white shirt, and blue-and-red striped tie he must have tossed on the bed before he went out. April looked through the wallet quickly. Stuffed in the billfold compartment were two foil-wrapped condoms that looked as if they'd been mashed in there a long time. She put them back before Woody could see them and make a smart remark. On the floor were black loafers and discarded black socks. It looked as if the doctor had come home, changed, and gone out without his identification. She frowned and moved on. The air conditioner was off. It was hot in the apartment, and a powerful smell of rotting Chinese food emanated from the kitchen. April checked the refrigerator. Diet Coke was the only food group represented. In the garbage were white containers with the gluey leftovers from a Chinese meal that must have been eaten several days ago.

Back in the living room, Woody hit the play button on the answering machine. By now Regina was in the apartment. All three of them listened to the messages. Two were from Jason, asking him to call right away no matter what time he came in. Two were from the same girl. The first time she said, "I'm-um-really sorry for walking out. You upset me. Please call."

The next few calls were hang-ups.

The last call was the same girl voice again. "I don't
want
to explore it in the next session. I need you to talk to me
now
so I don't do something."

Woody gave April a look. Girl threats were not his favorite thing. April jerked her head. "Let's go."

"Disgusting." Regina was sniffing around the garbage.

"Please leave it for now." April said.

"Are you finished here?"

"Not quite. I want to talk to the doorman who was on duty last night."

"That's a lot of trouble for me."

April gave her a little smile. "You can give me his number at home."

"I don't have to do that. He's on the day shift today."

"Fine. Let's go talk to him, and no one else in here until further notice, okay?" April left it to Woody to close up. She was upset by the wallet with Maslow's ID on the bed. This was a sticky situation. As far as she knew no sixty-one had been filed. The missing doc was not her case, not her jurisdiction, but he had become her problem. She had a bad feeling about it and knew she'd have major explaining to do if further investigation of his work, his life, his patients, and the contents of his computer became necessary.