All I Did Was Shoot My Man (14 page)

28

I’D NEVER BEFORE
taken the stairs from Bug’s underground electronic grotto to his first-floor apartment. I knew that Bug owned the apartment above his intelligence laboratory; that he had all mail and deliveries come in and out of there.

I walked up the stairs with sliding panels closing behind me as I went. Finally I came to a slender door. From there I entered into a bright living room that had a large window looking down on Charles Street.

There was a young white woman and an Asian man walking hand in hand on the other side of the block. She wore a pink miniskirt and he blue jeans overalls.

“Leonid,” a woman said from behind and to the left.

I turned to see Helen Bancroft, my wife’s personal physician for at least twenty-five years.

She was taller than I, but not by much, and gray- instead of raven-haired as she was when we first met. Back then her hair was long and lustrous. Now it was short, more revealing of her face and smile.

“Helen?”

She smiled and said, “ Would you come into the kitchen?”

“Maybe if you tell me what you’re doing here,” I said.

Helen was slender and smart. She wore a gray pantsuit and an orange blouse with a necklace made from leafy and nacreous ceramic charms. Her hands were small and delicate. Her eyes were brown, but one of their ancestors might have been salmon.

“Your wife called me,” she said.

“ When?”

“Yesterday. She said that you were running a fever and didn’t want to take time to see a doctor. She told me that I’d be called by a woman named Zephyra when she knew that you’d be in your office. I had agreed to make a house call. You know, Katrina and I go way back.”

“That doesn’t explain how you got here.”

“This morning, half an hour ago, Zephyra called and told me that you’d be in Mr. Bateman’s apartment. She said that she knew my office was only a few blocks away. She’s a smart woman.

“Now will you come with me into the kitchen?”

SHE HAD ME
strip down to my underwear and sit on a sheet of wax paper that she spread out on the dining table. I sat upright and then laid back, got on my side and let her use her rubber gloves to inspect my prostate. She took my temperature, of course.

“ What is it?” I asked.

“One-oh-two-point-one. You should be in bed.”

“Not that you’re wrong, Doctor,” I said, “but bed is the last place I should be.”

She looked into my eyes, down my throat, shone a light in my ears, and felt around my abdominal area.

“Does anybody live in this apartment?” she asked toward the end of all those studies.

“Not physically,” I said. “ What’s wrong with me, Doc?”

“It’s hard to say. You definitely have a fever. It’s either a low-grade virus or infection or, more likely, a virus that has become an infection that settled in an organ or gland. The left side of your neck is a little swollen. You need bed rest.”

“Not unless you think the cure is more important than the life of the patient.”

This statement brought mild alarm into the doctor’s eyes.

“I’ve brought a new general antibiotic.” From her bag she retrieved a little glass bottle filled with tiny purple pills. “If you take one of these three times a day, preferably with meals, that should knock out any infection.”

“How many days?”

“Ten, to be safe.”

She went to the cabinet and brought out a glass that she filled in the sink.

Bringing the tumbler back to me, she asked, “Have you eaten recently?”

“Not too long ago.”

“Then take three of these to start with. It will bring down that fever and keep you going. After that take them three times a day.”

“It’s been a long time, Helen,” I said after downing the Lilliputian tablets.

“Yes, it has.”

“ What, twenty years?”

“Maybe more.”

“How’s my wife doing?”

A shadow passed over the physician’s intelligent face.

“I’m worried about Katrina,” she said.

“Is she sick?”

“I think she’s depressed. It’s unethical for me to be discussing this with you but the reason I agreed to this unorthodox meeting is partly because I wanted to tell you what I felt.”

“She needs medicine?”

“She needs help. A therapist, a psychopharmacologist . . . something.”

“Huh.” I was pulling up my pants.

“ Will you talk to her, Leonid?”

“ What do you think it is?”

“Menopause has started. Many times women go through depression at the change. They feel like they are no longer women. Some women believe that there’s no place in this man’s world for a female who is barren.”

Standing there, buttoning my shirt and looking at my wife’s friend and doctor, I thought about the barren apartment in which we stood, about the millions of terabytes of secret information that roiled below us—knowledge that could bring down corporations and do more damage to governments than ten thousand daisy cutter bombs.

Then I considered my wife. I felt that I had to be in that room, at that moment, after fever and fear and death. If one of those elements was missing I wouldn’t have stumbled onto the words I spoke.

“You know, Katrina doesn’t let you in, Helen,” I said. “She thinks she does. She gets an idea in her head and she looks at you and imagines that you’re thinking the same thing—or that you aren’t. But what you think and what you say does not, cannot, mean a thing to her. The idea is already there.”

Dr. Bancroft winced as if jabbed with one of her own scalpels. She nodded and said, “But you know her better than anyone, Leonid. You have to try to get through to her.”

29

I WALKED HELEN
back to her brownstone office on West Twelfth. At the door I reached out to shake her hand but she leaned in and kissed my cheek instead. The good doctor had never kissed me before. She was Katrina’s friend and therefore, in some way, always my enemy—or at least in league with my antagonist.

Katrina and I had been on opposing sides for two decades. There had been brief respites; usually when her machinations to find a better life failed and she realized that I was the only one left to help pick up the pieces. This was no trouble because I wasn’t faithful or jealous, and I loved all three children even if only one was mine.

Katrina and I didn’t hate each other. It’s just that our interactions failed to generate love and love was something we both needed.

And so that kiss, from Katrina’s friend and physician, spoke of a new era between my wife’s world and mine. This was not a truce I was looking for.

Not at all.

CROSSING
Fourteenth Street, I glanced at my phone to see an e-mail from the new and improved Bug.

Seldon Arvinil was fifty-three, a professor of political science at City College, married, with three children, the youngest of which was nine and the eldest nineteen. His wife’s name was Doris Borman-Arvinil. They lived nine and a half blocks from my apartment.

I VEERED
to the east on my stroll up to the Tesla Building because Claudia Burns’s address was on East Twenty-second. That address turned out to be a package-mailing business that also kept private mailboxes.

I smiled at the subterfuge designed just for a guy like me. And when that grin appeared I realized that the fever had departed, at least temporarily. I missed the subtle rewiring of my mental faculties. In some ways it felt as if I was smarter under the influence of the symptoms provided by the infection.

HEADED BACK
toward the west, I tried to use my more mundane thinking processes to understand the problems I faced.

Claudia was connected to the mother of the woman who slept with the man who was subsequently shot by the woman Zella who I falsely framed for the heist.

Zella was the only client I ever had who I knew for a fact was innocent of the offense for which she was charged. This being true—how could her boyfriend and
his
sidetrack girlfriend be implicated in the crime?

There was no answer forthcoming.

I reached my office door on the seventy-second floor without a workable resolution to my problem. I was about to push the buzzer when she called to me.

“Leonid.”

Aura was coming down the hall to the right, from the service elevator no doubt. The man at the front desk, Warren Oh, had probably been asked to call her when I arrived. She took the service elevator and made it to my floor just in time.

At least my detecting skills were good for something.

“Hey, honey,” I said.

I don’t know if anyone else thought that Aura was beautiful. She was certainly good-looking on any scale. But she was unusual because of her Nordic and Togolese heritage. Her skin was the color of darkly burnished gold and her hair was so light brown as to be confused for blond. Her eyes . . . I still don’t have a color to define them; certainly not brown or blue or green—there was ocher in there and some gray, but that wasn’t all of it.

Aura is taller than I am and solidly built but not heavy.

She walked up to a foot away from me and stopped.

Looking in my eyes, she saw something. For a moment she wondered and then smiled.

“Have the women been after you?” she asked.

“Fallin’ from the sky.”

She laughed quietly and reached out to touch the knuckle of my left hand.

If I hadn’t known that I was still hopelessly in love with her, that touch reminded me. It went all the way down, past where the fever had been.

“I have to go,” she said.

I took in a deep breath and nodded.

When she turned away I resisted the urge to follow her.

I stood in the hallway a full three minutes after she had gone.

USUALLY MARDI WAS
in competition with the
Mona Lisa
for subtlety in her humor, but not that day. She took one look at me and broke out into a smile, an actual grin.

“ What are you so happy about?” I asked.

“Lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“ Well, for one, I can tell by your eyes that the fever is gone.”

“By my eyes? Maybe you should take the back office and I could be out here takin’ the calls.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head with sudden gravitas. “No. I can read things but I can’t translate them.”

I have never in my life heard a more cogent or succinct understanding of true detective work.

“ What else makes you happy, Mardi?”

“You’ll see.”

Another surprise.

TWILL WAS SITTING
at his desk, perusing a dark red hardback book that had no dust cover. He had his feet in an open drawer and his back to the aisle. I stopped behind him. He kept reading and I stood there, waiting.

The standoff didn’t last a whole minute.

He turned toward the aisle, kicking the bottom drawer shut to obtain enough momentum in the office chair.

He had on a wheat-colored silk T-shirt and black skinny jeans. His tennis shoes were dark green and he wore no socks.

“Pops,” he said with a grin.

I stifled my own smile and took the seat next to his desk.

“Son.”

He hadn’t been in the office long, but Twill and I had a rapport from before the days when he could talk. All I had to do was look at him and he perceived the drill.

“Me an Em—” he started.

“Em?”

“Mirabelle Mycroft . . . Me and her had a pizza with Kent and Luscious McKenzie last night. The Last Ray of Day, the place is called, over on Ninth Ave.

“I sat next to his girl and he was there next to his sister.”

“ What was he like?” I asked.

“That’s hard to tell, Pops. I mean, he wasn’t pushy or nuthin’, but he was hard-like. You know, he gave you this look that said
Who the fuck do you think you are to be sittin’ here with me?
But he smiled and shit, and asked about what I did.

“Luscious was fine. Mixed white and black, with green eyes and hair like Ms. Ullman. She the kinda girl have men jumpin’ outta trees an’ shit.”

“And Kent?”

“ We ate through two pizzas and he excused himself to have a cigarette. While he was gone and Em was trying to talk to Luscious—”

“They didn’t get along?” I asked.

“Mirabelle was just nervous. Her brother was too quiet and Luscious said anything come into her head. Anyway . . . Kent was outside and Em went to the bathroom. That’s when Luscious slipped her card into my hand. It was real slick-like. She was tellin’ me that her moms was from Texas and she was lookin’ me in the eye, and then she give me the card.

“So after we finished Kent took us to this rock-and-roll club down on Varick. The kinda music you like, Pops. Him and Luscious run into some’a their friends, and I say that I’m takin’ Em home.”

“And did you leave her alone like I said?”

“Pretty much.”

“ What does that mean?”

“She needed a hug ’cause she was so nervous. And it’s just a quick turn from there to a kiss. And you know you can’t tell how a girl’s gonna kiss you. But I told her that I was on the job and I had to go. She understood, for the most part.

“I left her going into her place and called Luscious.”

“Hold up a second, Junior. I told you that this was just a fact-gathering mission.”

“I know,” he said defensively. “I just called to see what she had in mind. I figured if she said she wanted to get together that I could ask how connected she was to Kent and then maybe get a thing or two about him. You know, I could do most’a that on the phone.

“But instead of a hookup she told me that Kent wanted to have a meet with me.”

“ What?”

“That’s what I said, man.” Twill even gave a mild expression of surprise. “I mean, she was actin’ like one of
his
crew. He’d been checkin’ me out while I was checkin’ him. That meant his sister and father might’a got it wrong. If anybody’s doin’ somethin’, it’s Kent.”

“ What did the girl say . . . exactly?”

“She said that Kent liked what he saw and wondered if I wanted to get together today.”

“ What were you talking about to him?”

“Places I go, scams I heard of down around the Village—light shit.”

“You think he’s trying to protect his sister?”

“Maybe so. But that don’t mean he’s not in charge.”

“ What did you tell the girl?”

“That I’d meet Kent at the NYU student center this afternoon at two. And before you start talkin’ about gatherin’ and not doin’ . . . I don’t have to go. I could just shine it on and let you take over.”

“ What’s your read on this Kent, Twill?”

“It’s hard to say, Pops. I mean, havin’ the girl call me for him makes him at least a little bit in charge. But who knows? Maybe he’s her connection and this is just a favor. I won’t be able to tell until we talk—if we talk.”

Twill sat there in his reclining office chair calm as a pensioner on vacation in Bali. He had his hands laced behind his head, the expression on his face free from concern. He was telling me with his posture that the decision was mine and mine alone.

Like hell.

“Broad daylight?” I said.

“In a public place.”

“Don’t go anywhere with him until you check in with me.”

“You got it, Pops.”