Don't I Know You? (3 page)

“Was she seeing anyone besides him?”

Steven shook his head.

“He seemed kinda angry to me,” McGuire said. “He ever lose his temper?”

One time he'd thrown Steven's books off his shelf. Steven had done some drawings on what turned out to be important papers. Phil had called him a little shit. He'd apologized after.

“Not really,” Steven said.

“What about with your mom?” McGuire asked. “It might've been why they hadn't moved in together. She might've been thinking of you,” he said.

Once, a woman had shown up at the door when Phil wasn't there. Steven's mother was in the bedroom. He went to the door and looked through the peephole. The woman was pounding on the door, screaming for Phil. She had blond hair and a scarf around her neck and her coat was unbuttoned. She was screaming for him to come out, to talk to her. She was calling him a lot of things. Steven's mother came out of the bedroom, fastening her robe as she walked. She took Steven by the shoulders and pulled him away from the door, and they both stood there in the front hall, watching the door and listening to the woman on the other side of it.

“I don't know,” Steven said. “I know what you're thinking,” he said. “I'm not stupid.”

“Of course you're not,” McGuire said. “That's why I'm talking to you like this, because I know you're smart and you loved your mom and you want to help us catch who did this to her.”

Phil and Detective Adams were talking in the other room. Every now and then he could make out something they were saying. “I don't think so.” “Not that I know of.” “No.” “She didn't go to bars.” “Yes.” “No.”

McGuire leaned forward and put his hands on the table. They were big and soft-looking. “I'll be honest with you, Steven. There was no sign of forced entry. Stabbings indicate more anger than guns. We got six stab wounds here. In cases like this, it's almost always someone she knew, and someone she knew pretty well.”

He had a kind of pained expression, like he was embarrassed to be talking about it. Steven felt like he was hearing what he already knew.

“Sometimes it's about money. Sometimes it's about jealousy or love. Sometimes, if there's a kid, it's about custody.” McGuire looked up. “That's why I was asking about your dad,” he said.

“My dad didn't want me,” Steven said. “They didn't fight about money.”

McGuire shook his head slowly. He was like a bear doing a trick. “Dads,” he said. “Sometimes they don't know what they want.”

Outside, people coming home from the bars. There was laughter. Something hit a garbage can. Steven felt bad for wanting to go to bed so much.

“You're sure that bracelet was hers?”

“She had a lot of bracelets,” Steven said.

McGuire nodded. “Did she drink?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Steven said.

“What did she like to drink?” McGuire asked.

“I don't know,” Steven said. “Kahlua. Sometimes she let me make Kahlua milk shakes.”

McGuire smiled and pulled out his notebook.

Sometimes she gave herself B-12 shots for the hangovers. It was okay, she always told Steven. She was a nurse.

It sounded like someone was walking around in the living room. He closed his eyes and tried to remember better the sounds the guy had made in her bedroom.

“We were gonna move in with Phil,” Steven said.

“Oh?” McGuire said. “So I guess I was wrong.” He smiled. “Sometimes I am. Not often, but sometimes.”

“In a different town,” Steven said. Someone she knew, he thought. He thought of all the people they knew. He imagined someone doing that to her.

“You okay?” Detective McGuire said. “Getting tired?”

“We were gonna live in a town,” Steven said.

“Sounds good,” McGuire said.

Someone she knew had done that to her. The guy he'd seen was someone she knew.

“We were all really happy about it,” Steven said.

McGuire nodded. “You should be,” he said.

Detective Adams came in. “You about all done?” he asked.

McGuire stood up. He held the edge of the table like he was thinking about lifting it.

“Where's Phil?” Steven said.

“I told him to go home; get some rest,” Adams said. “We all need some rest. He said he'd call you in the morning.”

“Where do I go?” Steven asked.

Adams checked his notebook. “Christine Mahoney?”

Christine from the hospital. Another nurse. His mother always listed her under Person to Contact in the Case of an Emergency.

“She's on her way,” Adams said.

“C'mon,” McGuire said, “we can wait out on the stoop. Get some air.”

The lobby was empty. There was no one on the street. Steven had no idea what time it was. It was still warm, but cooler than in the apartment. Detective Adams said he'd see McGuire back at the precinct. He told Steven he had his condolences. He gave him his card.

Steven and McGuire sat on the bottom step, their knees up high.

When he walked with his mother, she would sometimes put her fingertips on the edge of his hood or the back of his collar. After a while, he knew to look ahead, knowing there'd be something she'd seen, something she was watching out for.

“What next?” Steven said.

McGuire rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You'll have to go ID the body,” he said. “Someone can go with you.”

Steven looked at the toes of his sneakers. The rubber was wearing away. He could see his socks.

“How will you find out what you need to find out?” he asked.

“There'll be an autopsy; that'll help,” McGuire said.

Steven waited.

“We'll talk to her friends, to the neighbors.”

Steven must've looked skeptical. McGuire said he'd rather canvas this kind of neighborhood than the East Side any day. “People hang out windows all day here,” he said.

He was right.

“They might not tell us anything right away,” he said. “Maybe they want to talk to a friend before they say anything. Maybe they just need a little prodding, a little encouragement.” He said it took patience. He rubbed his hands like he was putting lotion on them.

“We'll find out the restaurants she liked, the grocery stores she
used. We'll figure out what her day was like today. We'll talk to your father.”

Steven was looking at his sneakers.

“You can help with things like that,” McGuire said. “You can make a big difference.”

The gay guys across the street were coming home arm in arm. They waved like they saw him sitting on the stoop every night at this hour. He waved back. “When you find out what her day was like will you tell me?” he asked.

“Sure,” McGuire said. “Absolutely.”

Steven scanned the street from West End to Riverside. There were still puddles in the gutter. Two days ago kids had cooled off in the hydrant Ramon had opened up.

Christine got out of a cab on the corner.

They stood, and McGuire held out his hand like Steven was a grown-up he'd met at a party. “I'll be in touch,” he said.

“She liked that bar up by Columbia,” Steven said. “I can't remember the name. She liked the college kids,” he said.

McGuire looked at him and nodded. “Okay,” he said. He gave Steven his card. “You call if you need anything. Or just want to talk.”

“I don't miss her yet,” Steven said.

McGuire held the back of Steven's neck with his big hand. “You will,” he said.

Christine came up and held Steven's face. He felt like he'd spent the whole night being passed from hand to hand.

McGuire introduced himself and gave her another card.

“Her name was Regina,” Steven told him. “Regina Teresa Fis-
chetti Engel. But everyone called her Gina.” McGuire knew all of this already, but Steven told him anyway.

O
ne fall two years ago, between nursing jobs, she'd worked a temp job at
Natural History
magazine at the Museum of Natural History. Her office was behind two black doors at the end of the Mayan Gold exhibit. Something in the room made Steven's ears ring. They'd been invited to the employee Christmas party. Every year the museum decorated a giant tree with origami animals made by employees and their children. He and his mother sat at a folding table following the instructions of a college-age Japanese girl. He made two swans and a crane. His mother made a frog and a big cat.

Afterward, the children took turns finding spots for the animals on the tree. They let the bigger kids climb the ladders and ride the Genies. He'd gotten to ride the Genie, a workman's hand on his shoulder as they went up. He'd put his mother's big cat on a high branch sticking out at an odd angle, eye level with the brontosaurus. He'd rested it so that it looked like it was rearing up on its hind legs. His mother had stood below him, waving. They'd both been so happy, they'd walked the mile home in the rain.

P
hil met them at the corner where Christine was getting a cab. He had Kitty in their Channel Thirteen tote bag. Steven couldn't believe he'd forgotten her.

“How're you doing?” Phil said. “Hanging in there?”

Steven didn't really feel like he needed to answer.

Phil held the bag.

“Oh,” Christine said, looking worried. “I've got the dog,” she said. “And I'm allergic.” They all stood there for a minute, looking at Kitty in the bag. She looked back. Christine sneezed.

Phil looked surprised. “I didn't know you had a dog,” he said. “Or that you were allergic.”

Christine nodded. “Yeah. I am. I do. I am.”

A cab slowed and then sped up again.

“Well, listen,” Phil said. “He can come to my place. Sam's there.” He smiled at Steven. “It'll be good for both of us.”

Christine seemed willing to leave it up to Steven. His mom hadn't liked Christine all that much. He said Phil's was good. He took the tote bag from Phil and waited.

He didn't think Sam would be all that psyched about having him in her house. Sam was fifteen and a girl. She wasn't all that psyched about him period.

“I don't have any overnight stuff,” he said.

Phil said, “You can borrow from Sam.”

“Great,” Steven said.

Christine put her arm around him. “Sorry,” she said. She cried at everything. Once she cried at a commercial. “I'm so, so sorry,” she said. She had her eye on a cab coming down Broadway.

Steven nodded.

“Okay then,” she said, hailing the cab and wiping her eyes. “You call me if you need anything.”

Phil took her place by Steven's side. Kitty squirmed around. The bag swayed and twisted. The cab pulled away.

Another one came. Phil held the door open.

“The address book,” Steven said. “We gotta call people.”

“I got it,” Phil said.

“They let you take it?” Steven said.

“Get in,” Phil said.

Steven took a step into the cab, then stepped back out. “I should get my toothbrush,” he said.

Phil looked at him. “We've got to go,” he said, not unkindly.

The driver peered at them over his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Steven said.

“It's okay,” Phil said, still holding the door open. Kitty meowed.

They got in. “A Hundred and eighth and Riverside,” Phil told the driver. They were taking a cab six blocks. The driver pulled the meter on. Steven couldn't see his building anymore.

“We were supposed to watch nature shows,” Steven said. “I should've been home earlier.”

Phil was still looking at him.

“It's all my fault,” Steven said.

“No,” Phil said, so forcefully that he startled Steven. “No,” he said again. “It's not.”

S
am let him sleep in the top bunk. “It's just a bunk bed,” she'd said. “I don't like them anymore. They're so elementary school.”

Kitty sat on the pillow next to his head. She acted like she'd been sleeping there her whole life. There were little star- and moon-shaped pieces of paint missing from the ceiling. There was a small window next to him. Outside, he could hear the Riverside Drive traffic. He turned on his side and watched car lights. His first job had been walking the Rifkins' standard poodle. They'd given him a key; he'd gone over after school, letting himself into
the empty house, waiting for the slow click of the old dog's nails on the hardwood floors. They'd walked to the park and back, only a block, but he'd felt important, a heavy leather leash in his hand, a real dog at the end of it.

Kitty stretched out and took over more of the pillow. The traffic light on 108th changed from red to green to yellow to red again. Phil's dad owned this building. Steven had never been able to understand why their apartment wasn't nicer or bigger.

Sam had
The Carpetbaggers
and a boxed set of Laura Ingalls Wilder books on the wide windowsill. The box looked like it hadn't been touched. There were posters and pictures of Baryshnikov and Mick Jagger on her walls. When she'd seen him noticing, she'd said, “I am so over the James Taylor thing.” He hadn't known there was a James Taylor thing.

What would happen tomorrow? And the day after that? He wondered where the guy was right that second.

Sam turned over in the bunk below him. “Are you awake?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Can't sleep?” she said.

“Guess not,” he said.

Phil had given him half a sleeping pill, but he wasn't feeling anything. He never had trouble sleeping. Maybe the pill had had some kind of reverse effect.

“What're you thinking about?” she asked. Then she said, “Sorry. Stupid question.”

He squeezed his mother's keys hard enough to hurt. He wanted to answer. An image from last summer appeared: the tree swing his mother and he had come across in Riverside Park. The
ropes looked too long to be swing ropes. His mother said she would push him. He sat, and she stood behind him and pulled him back as far as she could. He was worried he'd slip off. He was about to tell her he wanted to get off when she let go and he flew forward, his butt coming up off the seat a little. He made a small, surprised sound and she laughed.