Extracurricular Activities (9 page)

He grabbed his keys and left the apartment.

He found himself speeding through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, not sure how he had gotten there but completely aware of where he was going. Everyone knew where Peter Miceli lived; his house had been used during a movie shoot and its location had been both published in every New York paper and broadcast over every major news station in the area. Crawford knew exactly where he was headed, even if he wasn't really sure why he was going.

Staten Island is really part of New Jersey, Crawford thought, and flashed back to the secession movement that had gripped the borough in the late eighties. It borders the really ugly part of New Jersey and is virtually impossible to get to from the five boroughs. It's an island only in the most literal sense without all of the attendant lushness and beauty that usually accompanies the word. Crawford had found out—after they had gotten married—that Christine's late mother's family lived way out on Staten Island. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Christine casually mentioning her family out there, but when push came to shove, he would swear under oath that he never remembered her saying that they visited said family twice a month. He, Christine, and the twins had spent many a Saturday afternoon sitting in traffic on the Gowanus Expressway, inching their way closer to hell: Christine's Polish grandmother, her spectacularly bad Polish food, and her small, overheated, figurine-filled Cape Cod house. Trying to keep toddling twins away from a display of Precious Moments figurines almost became Crawford's full-time job during those days; an ill-timed trip to the bathroom to relieve himself of the cheap, domestic beer he consumed while there could spell disaster. And a Polish curse on his house from his suspicious grandmother-in-law.

He wondered, just for the sake of argument, if failure to disclose Staten Island relatives was a reason for annulment.

He exited the Staten Island Expressway and made his way onto Richmond Road, where small, attached homes eventually gave way to old, big, expensive estates. Peter Miceli's Italianate stucco monstrosity was somewhere off Richmond Road and Crawford knew that he would find it easily. When he got a sense of the house numbers—evens on the left, odds on the right—and saw that they were getting larger as he drove, he knew he was getting closer.

Miceli's house was about a quarter mile down the road on the left. Surprisingly, there was no gate in front of the house and Crawford was able to pull right up to the front door at the center of the circular drive and adjacent to the fountain in the center of everything. Peter's Mercedes, as well as other cars, were in the driveway—all late model and all American made—making Crawford think that perhaps the Micelis were entertaining. He pulled the Passat up as close as he could and turned it off, taking a few deep breaths as he sat in the car.

He had no second thoughts as he walked up the wide stone steps to the front of the house. He pushed the doorbell and waited, hearing footsteps falling on marble inside the foyer. When the door opened, he was surprised to find himself face-to-face with Peter Miceli.

Miceli, on the other hand, didn't appear surprised at all. Recognition flashed in his porcine eyes and he smiled broadly. “Detective!” he bellowed, as if he had been waiting for Crawford all night.

Crawford shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingering the gun under his right hand. “Mr. Miceli.”

Peter held out his hand, forcing Crawford to remove his from his pocket to shake. “What brings you here on this balmy evening?” Peter asked, sniffing the breeze. “Smells like rain.”

“Can I have a word with you, Mr. Miceli?” Crawford asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Miceli stepped out of the house and onto the grand front porch. Once off the inner step of the foyer, he lost several inches and stood at his full five and a half feet, looking up at Crawford. If Crawford had to guess, he would say that they probably weighed the same, however. “What can I do for you, Detective?” he asked, an innocent gleam in his eye.

Crawford got right to the point. “I'm going to have to ask that you leave Alison alone, Mr. Miceli. She doesn't know anything and can't help you with whatever it is that you want.” He tried to remain fairly convivial; he was already in violation of about half a dozen department rules and he didn't want Miceli to feel threatened in any way.

Peter considered what he said, staring up at Crawford's face. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “She's an old friend, Detective. She was very kind to my daughter. Occasionally, I like to drop by and remind her of how grateful we are.” His face turned hard. “I don't see what business it is of yours.”

Crawford took a step back. “It's entirely my business, Mr. Miceli.”

Peter paused another moment. “Stay out of it, Detective. It doesn't concern you anymore. From what I hear, Alison doesn't want to spend a lot of time with you right now.” He smiled. “You've got a wife. I'm sure that didn't sit well with Professor Bergeron.”

Crawford swallowed. “Please. Stay away from her.”

Peter laughed. “Or what? Are you gonna have me arrested, Detective? For what? Visiting an old college friend?” He gave Crawford a look. “You're out of your league here, Detective. Let it go.”

Crawford looked down at him. “Don't go there again. That's all I have to say.” He turned to leave, making his way down the first two steps of the porch.

“Let it go, Detective!” Peter called after him. “After all, it's not like I visited your wife and daughters on Donald Street in Greenwich or anything like that. You know, beautiful Meaghan and Erin? And Christine?”

Crawford was back up the stairs before he had a chance to think. He grabbed Peter by the throat and squeezed; when Peter's face began to turn red, he let go. He got a small satisfaction out of the fact that the smug look that had been on Peter's face had been replaced by raw fear. “Don't ever, ever, say anything even remotely threatening about my family again. I will—”

“What? You'll what, Detective? Kill me?” Peter said, rubbing the red mark on his throat. “Think about your alternatives, Detective. When you do, you'll realize you don't have any.” Peter turned and went back in the house, calling out to his guests that he would be returning to the dining room shortly.

Crawford stood on the porch, shaking with rage. His hands were trembling and his face was hot. He went back to his car and got in, his hands gripping the steering wheel. This may not have been the stupidest thing he had ever done, but it was close.

Fred and Max had stopped by later in the afternoon, after Peter's visit. I had called Max at her downtown apartment after Peter left the house and she could tell immediately that I was shaken. Fred had worked a double shift the day before and she didn't want to wake him to fill him in, so she waited until he awoke on his own, which wasn't long after I called. I'm convinced that cops have a sixth sense about these things. As soon as he heard what she had to say, they took the forty-minute ride up to Dobbs Ferry to get a handle on what had happened.

I was calmer than I had been in the morning, but still unnerved at the ease with which Peter was able to get into my house. He was all about intimidation, and intellectually, I knew that. But I also knew about his history and his business. He had people killed just for saying the wrong thing. What was to stop him from killing me if I didn't entertain his flights of fancy and his wish to “make amends” with me?

I hadn't called Crawford this time. I had a couple of reasons for this: one, he was my go-to guy every time something happened and I didn't want him to lose patience, and two, the next night was my blind date with Jack McManus. I didn't want him to become embroiled in my life on the one day when I was poised to betray him. I know, it sounds dramatic to say it like that, but that's how I felt.

Fred listened to the story and agreed with me that pressing charges really wouldn't be wise or necessary. I couldn't think of a surer way to end up in a garbage bag at the bottom of the Hudson River than crossing Peter Miceli and told Fred so.

Max and I tried to bandy around a few theories about Ray's murder; she had already filled Fred in on the Terri and Jackson scenario but now we had Peter to truly add to the list of viable suspects. Fred wasn't having any of it. He remained quiet while we talked, not interested in sharing what he knew about the case. We tossed out our theory about Ray having been killed by a Miceli associate but Fred is the master of the poker face; we couldn't tell whether or not he thought this was the case, too, or that he thought we were out of our minds. In our discussion, however, we conveniently left out the part where Max went into Terri and Jackson's house; she hadn't found anything anyway, so what was the point in sharing that with him?

So we focused on Peter and the whole biscotti thing. Max was barely able to keep a straight face every time I said the word. I was becoming convinced that Peter was truly out of his mind. And what could be more dangerous than being in the sights of a crazy wise guy who could have people killed at will? Or force-feed them biscotti?

We shared a pizza and a bottle of wine and they left around five. I sat at the kitchen table deciding what to do next—bath, martini, or television, my three go-to activities—when my eyes landed on the keys sitting on the place mat across from me. And then it dawned on me.

I had a key to Ray's apartment.

In his quest for us to be completely open, amicable, and friendly, he had given me a key to his new place on Kappock Street. I didn't want it, had almost thrown it out even, but I had to put it on my key ring because, at the time, he had refused to leave until I had done so. In time, I had forgotten about it. But now it seemed like a message from beyond the grave, so I grabbed the keys and ran out the back door.

I navigated the labyrinthine streets of Riverdale trying to discern which building could be Ray's. I finally found it, and one of those ever-elusive city parking spots, after driving around the block five times. As I started to get out of the car, it occurred to me that I didn't know which apartment Ray lived in, but I assumed that there was a mailbox with clearly delineated floor and apartment numbers.

Wrong. There was a surly doorman, though.

The doorman opened the door for me, taking in my disheveled appearance; in my eagerness to get over to Ray's apartment, I hadn't taken the time to brush my hair or put on an ensemble that even approached acceptability. My baggy jeans, T-shirt, and high-top sneakers did nothing to inspire confidence.

“Leave the menus with me,” he instructed, holding out his hand.

“What?”

“The menus. Leave them with me.” He lost patience with me when I didn't proffer the requested menus. “Aren't you from Shanghai City?”

“No.” Do I look Chinese?

The doorman gave me another look and then returned to his post at a circular desk. “Then what can I help you with?”

“Can you tell me which apartment Ray Stark lived in?” I asked, wiping a hand across my brow; my nervousness over pulling this off had produced a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead.

“Not unless you can tell me that you're a member of the PD,” he said, quite impressed with his authority.

Give a guy a uniform and he automatically thinks he's in charge, I thought. I knew better than to try to impersonate a member of the police department so I went with the truth. Wow, that was a refreshing change. I took another couple of breaths and held the keys before him. “I'm his ex-wife. I have a key.” I tried to think about something sad, willing tears to my eyes. The best I could conjure up was the feeling I get when I watch the first
Rocky.
Between his love for mousy Adrian and his inability to form a complete, cohesive thought, I was a sucker for his plight. I thought about Rocky in his boxing shorts and my eyes welled up. Thinking about Sylvester Stallone's post-Rocky career probably would have produced more genuine sadness and tears, but that didn't occur to me at the time. It wasn't exactly an award-winning performance but the doorman looked at me with something approaching sympathy. “It's just been so hard,” I gasped. “I still loved him!” I wailed.

He waited a moment, obviously considering his response. He gave a look that I interpreted to mean “you look pitiful and I think I'll help you out.” His voice was so soft that I missed what he said the first time. “Four D.” He stopped me before I took off for the elevator. “Listen, if anyone finds out…”

My tears abated as quickly as they started. “I won't tell a soul.”

He nodded again and held his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “We have rules here.”

Obviously none that protect against the wearing of mullets, I thought, but I kept my lip zipped. Business in the front, party in the back…and not the hairdo for a man living in the new millennium. I dug into my bag and pulled out a five.

“I won't forget this,” I said. But I realized that
he
had to. Before I left for the elevator, I went back into my bag and came out with a twenty; hopefully, it would be used at a hair salon. “This is between us, okay?” I made a sound like a sob, but it was a little over the top. He nodded nonetheless, so I ran for the elevator in the hopes that this guy couldn't tell what a giant faker I was.

Ray's apartment was a short walk from the elevator, and despite my nervousness about getting into the apartment, the key didn't require any extra jiggling or special insertion to open the door. The yellow NYPD tape hanging across the door should have been a deterrent to me, but it wasn't. I'm an old hand at yellow crime-scene tape by now. I opened the door and scooted under the tape to find a small living room with a nice balcony off it, a galley kitchen to my right, and a hallway off the living room leading to a large bedroom. The bathroom was across from the bedroom. It was decorated in early dorm room, with some Ikea furniture that was propped up by milk crates. Apparently, the money I had given Ray to buy him out of the house had gone entirely toward his new car. Figures.

Since Ray had been killed elsewhere, the apartment was not technically part of the crime scene, but obviously the police had been through here pretty thoroughly. Ray wasn't the neatest guy in town, but the place had been tossed but good. I didn't know what I expected to find, and particularly, what I would find that the police hadn't, but I thought it was worth a little look-see.

But first, there was the more pressing matter of my bladder. I had had to go to the bathroom since leaving Dobbs Ferry, and while I had been able to keep the discomfort at bay, now that I was in the presence of a toilet, the situation had gotten critical. I went in and used the toilet, reaching behind me for the roll of toilet paper that sat on the back of the tank. It skittered out of my hand and rolled behind the toilet, just out of my reach.

“Dang it,” I whispered. I got off the toilet and onto my knees. “This is classy,” I commented to myself. I stuck my head between the toilet and the vanity next to it, praying that I didn't get wedged in. My cell phone was in my pocket, so I knew that if I got stuck, I could call for help. Crawford would love to find me, with my pants around my ankles, stuck between two fixtures in Ray's bathroom. My guess is that would put an end to any romance we might have had.

My fingertips grazed the toilet paper and I finally managed to get a good hold on it, dragging it toward me. But before I backed out of the space between the toilet and the vanity, something shiny, affixed to the back of the toilet tank, caught my eye. I reached up and yanked it off.

It was a plastic jewel case and inside was a DVD.

I guess the police hadn't been over this place as thoroughly as I had thought.

I finished up in the bathroom and went into the living room. Damn that Ray. In addition to having the nicest car I had ever seen, he also had a giant flat-screen television. I took the disk and inserted it into the DVD player, finally figuring out how to sync the player with the television. As big as life, the surround sound of his voice making it seem like he was in the room with me, was Ray. Well, actually, it was just Ray's crotch, but being as I had some familiarity with that crotch, I recognized it immediately. Yep, there was his appendectomy scar and the mole on his left hip.

“Oh, no,” I said out loud. I sat on the couch and watched the scene.

Ray was sitting on his bed. I could tell it was him even though his head was cut off in the shot.

“Say hi to the camera, baby,” he said to a blurry woman.

“Hi, there,” she said and gave a little wave.

The woman was standing close to the camera. All the camera took in was a shot of her torso; Ray was apparently quite the amateur sex-videographer because all we had here was a sex tape with a blurry torso, indescribable penis, and no heads. Eventually, she walked away from the camera and I could make out a large heart tattoo on her lower back.

Well, that's not very helpful, I thought. I watched more of the tape but it became clear that I would never find out who she was. I didn't recognize her voice because she mostly spoke in whispers and moans, so unless I had a tryst with this woman and got her to moan like that, I wasn't going to find out her identity anytime soon. I took the DVD out of the player and popped it back into the case.

Okay, so that gave me another suspect: Miss Blurry Tattoo Ass. Had she had second thoughts about the sex tape and had she tried to get it back from Ray? Had he denied her possession and had that made her mad? Was that why it was so well hidden behind the toilet? It was hard to tell but it gave me a lot to think about. Although I couldn't see her face, she had appeared pretty tall in the video. Her head came up to the top of the bookcase in Ray's room, so I went in and measured myself against it. Yep, she was about two inches taller than me, putting her at a good six feet. Wow. That was one tall woman. With the most toned thighs I had ever seen.

But any titillation I might have gotten from the sex tape was mitigated by the fact that everything was blurry and I couldn't tell what the heck was going on beyond some murmurings of “you're the best, Ray” and “oh, yeah, that's how I like it.” Blurry and unoriginal. I felt sorry for Ray. His lasting legacy as a champion cocksman would now be sullied by a sex tape in which everything was out of focus and in which he clearly hadn't satisfied his partner.

That poor guy just couldn't catch a break.