Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (27 page)

Several steps before I reached it, the door opened, and the sunlight hit my face. I pulled myself up into the bushes. I fell over the iron fence and onto the paving stones. I rolled onto my back and let the sun beat down on me. Hearing footsteps, I turned my head. A woman walking her Pomeranian stopped when she saw me. Her mouth formed into a little O. “Snowball? I whispered. The woman turned and hurried back the way she came. I closed my eyes.

“Joy. Jesus Christ. Joy?” I opened my eyes. Mulberry stood above me, silhouetted against the setting sun. “What happened to you? My God. Are you OK?” I smiled with parched lips.

“I’m alive. And I found the killer.” I closed my eyes again, enjoying the orange-tinted darkness.

“You need a doctor. Jesus, who did this to you?” He reached down and took my arm. I opened my eyes and looked at him. His face was very close, an expression of concern tinged with fear on it. Mulberry smelled like clean laundry and greasy food. He helped me up. “I’m going to take you to the hospital.”

“I think that’s a bad idea.” My head was beginning to clear. “I can’t explain what happened to me.”

“You don’t know?”

“Oh. I know.” I swallowed, trying to dull the pain in my throat but only made it worse. “But I can’t tell anyone.”

“Even me?”

“I mean doctors. I’ll tell you when we get back to your place.”

“I really think you need to go to the hospital. You may need stitches.”

“I’ll be alright,” I told him as we left the park. “Let’s just go to your place. It’s close, right?”

Mulberry lived in a converted tenement. It had an antique elevator with big push buttons and a gate you had to pull closed yourself. His apartment was warm, small, and cozy. Mulberry cleaned my wounds. I tried to push him away, but he hushed me and continued to wipe the dried blood off my face. When he was done, he put an ice pack on my swollen cheek. I slept between clean sheets with a fan cooling the air around me. I slept all night until the sun peeked over the horizon and turned the sky outside a dusty blue.

My throat was swollen and painful. The left side of my face shot a pain through my head and down my neck when I touched it. I got out of bed and found a bathroom. My reflection was shocking.

The entire left side of my face was deep purple. An angry scab sliced across my cheekbone. A smaller abrasion sat just above my eyebrow. On my neck, in dark blue, with green edges, was the imprint of the hands that had tried to choke the life out me. When I climbed into the shower, I found a bruise the size of my fist on my hip and a welt on my elbow.

I let the hot water pound the back of my neck and rush over my chest and down my legs. I breathed the steam and tried not to think about anything except the rushing sound of the water. The room was filled with swirls of white, and the walls were coated in condensation when I got out. I found a towel hanging next to a silk robe. It was black with small white dots and smelled like a man. It felt good against my damaged body.

Mulberry was asleep on a tan, overstuffed leather love seat that faced a large television. He was snoring under a blanket, his mouth open, his eyes fluttering. The dawn light filled the room, filtered through sheer white blinds. His feet, bare and hairy, stuck out over the armrest. He was too big for the little couch.

I wandered into the kitchen and looked at the pictures on the fridge—one was of Charlene and Mulberry at Charlene’s high school graduation. They smiled at the camera, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. They looked young. Another picture showed Mulberry as a young kid with his father, who wore a full-dress uniform. His father’s hand rested on Mulberry’s shoulder.

I found coffee in the freezer, and filters in with the mugs. Mulberry’s machine was a classic drip. I made a big pot of thick and serious coffee, hoping it would help clear the fog from my mind. I found fresh milk in the fridge next to a nearly empty six-pack of Newcastle. My whole body hurt, but here I was doing what I did every morning except today I had fresh milk.

As I poured myself a cup of coffee, Mulberry walked in, his eyes puffy and his hair sticking out in odd, though not unflattering, angles. He wore a white undershirt over a pair of Christmas boxers. Santa rode, in an overstuffed sleigh, across his thighs, over his crotch and around to his butt. “Mornin,’,” he said in a scratchy voice.

“You want a cup?” He grunted. I filled a mug with a dentist logo on it and passed it over to him. Mulberry leaned against the counter and sipped it with his eyes closed. The whole thing was surprisingly comfortable considering that we didn’t really know each other at all. “How old are you?” I asked. Surprise showed through his puffed lids.

“I’ll be 40 in a month,” he answered.

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He sipped his coffee loudly. “Nice robe, by the way.”

“I like it.”

“Me, too.” He smiled. “Nice shiner.” I reached my hand up to the bruises and stopped just short of touching them.

“Thanks.”

“How does your throat feel?”

“Like someone tried to choke me to death.”

“You want to talk about who that someone was?”

“I don’t know.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s gonna sound insane. I can’t even really believe it.” He waited. I laughed through my nose. “Alright. It was the mayor.” He smiled.

“Come on, Joy. You can tell me. I’m on your side, remember?”

“I’m not kidding.” I turned my back to him and refilled my coffee. “He tried to kill me after I found a secret passage that led directly into his office from the basement of Eighty-Eight East End. I know it sounds insane, but it’s the truth.” I turned back around and saw that Mulberry was starting to believe me.

“You’re not kidding.”

I looked him straight in the eyes and watched his face fill with fear. “I know. I don’t know what to do. I think the mayor killed Joseph Saperstein and Tate Hausman, and here’s the really crazy part—I think he killed them over long-lost treasure.”

“I’m sorry, back up. The mayor really tried to kill you.” Mulberry was looking at the finger marks on my neck.

“Definitely.”

“How did you escape?”

“I Tasered the shit out of him.” Mulberry choked on his coffee.

“What?”

“What? He was trying to kill me.”

“Is he OK?” It suddenly occurred to me that I had left a man in his late forties lying in a basement, gurgling. I felt my blood make a mad dash to my toes.

“Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“I didn't even think about it.”

“What?” Mulberry looked scared.

“I just left him there. I just wanted to get away. I couldn’t have killed him, could I have? No. Is it possible?”

“Yes. There’s a reason those things are illegal here. I mean, if he has heart problems and you shocked him near his heart, it could kill him.” He put down his mug and walked toward me. “Where did you shock him?”

“In his stomach.”

“That should be OK.”

“And his heart.” His face fell. “And when he was on the ground, I zapped him in the back of the neck.”

“Holy shit.” Mulberry took a step back from me. “Um. I.” He wiped his mouth with his palm and rubbed his stubbled chin. “I have to pee.” He turned and left the kitchen.

“Mulberry?” I called after him, but he didn’t respond. The bathroom door closed and the shower turned on. “Fuck.” I finished off the cold coffee at the bottom of my cup and walked into the living room. I flopped onto the couch and rested my head on the back. Closing my eyes, I tried to squeeze the image of the mayor on the floor out of my head. It didn’t work. I snapped my eyes opened and looked around for something, anything to fix this mess. But all I saw was a big TV, a coffee table, and a bookcase.

I scanned the books neatly lined up on Mulberry’s shelves. Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes sat next to Sir Francis Bacon’s
The Great Instauration. I found Caesar Beccaria’s treatise Of Crime and Punishment
next to Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
. I smiled at his selection. In a framed photograph on top of the TV, Mulberry smiled with his arm around a pretty blond lady holding a dog’s leash. The dog, a chocolate lab, sat between them with his tongue hanging out. It occurred to me that I owned a dog. I ran back into the bedroom and found my phone in my bag, but it was dead. I hurried to the kitchen and used the phone on the wall to call Nona.

“Nona. Thank God. Can you go over and take care of Blue for me? I’m—” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Done and done dear. I heard him in there alone yesterday and took him out and fed him. Are you OK? I was worried about you. Why didn’t you come home?”

“I got beat up.”

“My God. Are you OK? You sound hoarse.”

“I’m alright. Nothing permanent, but I have some pretty gruesome bruises.”

“Did you go to the hospital?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“And you filed a report with the police? Do you know who it was who hurt you?”

“I never saw his face.”

“Where were you?”

“In the park.”

“Carl Schurz? I thought that park was so safe, what with Gracie Mansion there and everything.”

“I was surprised.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re OK. Strange James didn’t mention this to me.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t you call him?”

“Not yet.”

“He’s in your apartment.”

“He is?”

“Yes. He and a blond man arrived about an hour ago. I saw them in the hall, and James said that he was taking care of the house for you. I asked if you were OK, and he said that he couldn’t talk and ran inside.”

My heart started beating faster. “What did the blond man look like?”

“I only saw the back of him, but he was shorter then James and stocky.”

“Did James look OK?” I asked barely above a whisper.

“I guess so. He was a little out of breath. I guess, now that I think about it he looked— scared. Joy is everything OK?”

“Scared?”

“Yes. Joy?”

“Alright, Nona. Thanks. I’ll call you soon.”

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate.”

I hung up. My whole body tingled. James was in my apartment with a blond man. I dialed James’s cell phone with a badly shaking hand.

“Joy Humbolt. How nice of you to call.” A lump constricted my throat, and I couldn’t respond to the syrupy-sweet voice. He laughed at the other end of the line, a low and menacing rumble.

“Don’t you hurt him,” I growled through the fear.

He laughed harder. This time he was really amused. “Too late.”

“Fuck you.”

“Those are big words for such a little girl.”

“Yeah, how’s your neck?”

“I bet it’s feeling better than your delicate little throat. You sound like shit.”

“What do you want?”

“A fair trade. You for your brother.”

“OK.”

“Come to your apartment.”

“Let me speak to James. I have to make sure he’s OK.”

He laughed again. “Don’t worry, he’s alive.”

“Put him on the phone or no deal.”

He laughed again. “Why not?” he said, and I heard the phone changing hands.

“Joy?”

“James, are you OK?” Tears welled in my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to get you out of this.”

“Hey. I’m OK. Just a little bruised.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think the mayor is crazy.” I heard a slapping sound and James say, “Ah, fuck” over the sound of the phone clattering to the floor.

“James! James, are you there?”

“You two are a real laugh riot.” The mayor was back. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“I’ll hurry.”

“Come alone. If I see one cop, or even the hint of a cop.” He laughed low and menacing. “Come alone.”

“I’m on my way.” He hung up. I placed the phone back on the cradle and stared at it for a couple of seconds. I heard the shower turn off.

“The mayor’s alive,” I yelled to Mulberry through the bathroom door on my way to the bedroom. I pulled my jeans over the bruise on my hip and put my head through the hole of my T-shirt with extreme care. Mulberry came out of the bathroom wearing just a towel. His torso surprised me. It was rock-solid. Water glistened in his chest hair. He caught me looking.

“You took my robe.” He walked past me into the bedroom and grabbed it off the chair I had thrown it over. He wrapped it around himself and let the towel underneath fall.

“I have to go,” I said and went into the bathroom to check myself in the mirror. “Do you have a scarf and a giant pair of sunglasses?” Funny how the accessories for being fabulous in a convertible are identical to the ones used for covering up severe facial bruising.

“What?”

“I can’t go out looking like this.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to go home.”

“We need to talk. You assaulted the mayor of New York City.” I turned on him.