Mother's Milk (25 page)

She glanced at her watch, nearly seven. She pictured Chase and wondered what she was stepping into. She caught her reflection in the TV screen, she was still in her clothes from the morning minus her suit jacket, and between running down Jerod and feeding Max she looked crumpled and filthy. She glanced around her condo, and saw a bright orange stuffed duck on the floor. It felt horribly empty. But now, without the baby around, she had an odd thought. She was free tonight, and funky coincidences or not, she couldn't help but think of Chase. She closed her laptop and went into the bedroom, opened her sliding closet doors, and looked in. She tried to remember the last time she'd been on an actual date, and was stunned to realize it had been before she was married. Although there had been the ongoing weirdness with Hobbs, and that horrible day he'd told her how he felt about her, that he loved her. ‘Stop it!' she told herself, trying to figure out what she was supposed to wear, and wondering if she had a single bra that fit.

Her eye caught on something silvery gray hanging in a dry-cleaner's bag. ‘Right,' and thinking of some of the outfits her sister Justine might wear, she prepared for dinner with Chase, and hoped he was the smart decent guy he appeared and not the handsome sociopath that she suspected.

M
arky found the envelope with the letter K, pulled it off the bulletin board by the mailboxes, and slit it open. It was eight and all he could think about was hooking up with Chase at midnight. Seeing him at the Night Shade earlier had made his heart race, and filled him with intense longing. It was hard being around him, knowing that everyone in the room was looking at him, wanting him.

Chase had told him that he wasn't mad about Jerod. He could still feel Chase's hand on the side of his neck; he'd wanted him to kiss him, but he hadn't. ‘Later,' he'd said. ‘Take care of this and we can have the whole night.' He'd given him the bag of house dope, said the regular stuff would come later in the week. He'd said it wasn't as strong as usual and everyone would have to double their doses.

He'd decided not to tell him about the raid on the 4th Street apartment. He hadn't been there, but Dan and Kat had given him the details. But shit like that happens, the six remaining members of the family – not counting him – were used to unexpected changes in venue. No need to bother Chase with day-to-day stuff that might upset him.

He followed Chase's instructions and walked past the elevator to the stairwell, climbed to the sixth floor, and got out. There was a small hallway and a single door. Whoever lived here had money; each floor in the narrow building had a single condo, it had to be worth millions.

From down the hall he heard high-pitched barks. Chase had said to ignore the dogs, that they were locked in the kitchen and wouldn't bother him. All he needed was to go to the big closet in the bedroom and take out all the gold coins and jewelry he could carry.

He turned the knob, unlocked just like Chase had said. He moved fast, barely taking in the surroundings, the fussy feminine living room, the bedroom with its massive canopy bed and silk pillows. He put on gloves … should have done it before … and went into the closet. As he went straight to the safe, he noted how all of the clothing was women's. Dozens of pairs of shoes, each in a clear plastic box. Handbags arranged in cubbies, and racks and racks of suits and dresses.

He peered into the large wall safe. ‘Awesome!' he muttered, opening the first of the black coin boxes. It weighed a ton, each of the shiny coins sealed inside clear plastic. Chase had told him to grab as much as he could carry; he wasn't kidding. He'd said that gold was over $800 an ounce and that this was a major score that they'd split fifty–fifty. He loosened his black knapsack and tilted in the first box of coins. He wondered how much he'd be able to carry and maybe he could leave quick and come back a second time.

As he worked, hurriedly opening boxes and wondering which were worth more, things started to bug him. Something familiar, it was the smells, perfume, and the hint of something like burned hair and … orange, but maybe that was just left over from meeting Chase at the bar. He heard the dogs from the other room, and something else. Someone knocking at the door … the door he hadn't bothered to lock behind him.

‘Dr. Fleet?' A man's deep voice came from the hallway. The buzzer sounded and the barks grew in pitch and frenzy.

Marky threw his knapsack over his back, the weight and the momentum made his knees almost buckle. He ran out of the closet and frantically looked around the bedroom, three windows, all facing 18th Street, two with bars. So no going back to the front door. He either had to hide, not a great option, or get the fuck out of there.

‘Dr. Fleet, it's Detective Hobbs with the NYPD, please open the door, I'd like to speak with you.'

He heard the door open, and then the cop coming in. ‘Dr. Fleet? Commissioner Fleet?'

He padded silently back to the bedroom door and closed it, hopefully buying him a few seconds. He heard the cop go to the kitchen and the barking dogs.

He ran to the fire-escape window. Scared shitless he opened the latch and using his legs for support pushed it open. It made a horrible screeching sound, as cool evening air rushed in. He heard the dogs race out of the kitchen and feared he had seconds before they came after him. No longer caring about any noise he made, he fumbled at the latch on the steel gate, got it open, and yanked it back. The coins weighed him down as he wiggled through the opening; he thought of abandoning them. They were worth a fortune, but more than that, Chase wanted him to do this and he wouldn't let him down. He hauled himself onto the fire escape and looked down at the street six floors below. He turned and banged his knee painfully against one of the iron railings. ‘Shit!' He grabbed the banister and hobbled down, going as fast as he could, the iron slats rattling and squeaking with every step.

One flight from the bottom, he heard the cop shout out the window. ‘Stop! Police! Stop, or I'll shoot.'

Yeah,
he thought,
like that's going to do it. Don't turn around, just keep going.
He hit the bottom flight and looked down at the street; a twelve-foot drop and he was carrying eighty pounds on his back, not to mention the brick of house dope. He saw the hanging ladder, but how the hell did it work? There was a latch, but it was old, rusty, and his fingers couldn't get it to move.

‘Marky!' the cop shouted.

He whipped his head around.
How the hell does he know my name?
He shucked off his knapsack and dropped it to the ground. It landed hard and he followed, dangling off the edge to lessen the fall. He let go, dropped, and rolled on the sidewalk. His knee shot red-hot pain where he'd scraped it. He got to his feet, and wondered if he'd broken anything, but his legs seemed to work. He spotted the pack; it would hold him back. But Chase would be so disappointed. He'd be angry. ‘Fuck it!' He hoisted it into his arms and then over one shoulder. He heard the cop coming fast, the steps rattling overhead. Pushing as fast as he could, he hauled ass across the street, around the corner, and into the subway.

Hobbs rushed to catch the blond-haired kid before he dropped to the street. But he had too much of a head start. There was no clear shot at him, and even if there were, without knowing what was going on, Hobbs could never shoot a man in the back. More than that, and why he didn't give chase, was there was something very wrong in Janice Fleet's condo. The dogs locked in the kitchen, a burglary going on, and the front door open with no sign of its having been forced. Where was Janice Fleet? He'd called out Marky as a hunch, and while it was hard to see, the kid had turned around. ‘Made you look,' he whispered.

He pulled out his cell and called in the burglary and the fleeing suspect. ‘Caucasian male, blond, early twenties, about five eleven, dressed in jeans, leather jacket, red sweatshirt. Last seen heading south on Second.' He then added, ‘His first name is possibly Marky.' Through the open window he heard the dogs; they weren't letting up, and it was more than barking, they sounded as if they were clawing at something.

He climbed back up and through the window. He thought of Barrett's comment – too many coincidences with Commissioner Janice Fleet. He followed the frantic yapping toward the front hall closet. The shih-tzus were in a frenzy, their black noses pressed in the crack of the door, their hard nails scraping off the white gloss paint and splintering the wood around the bottom.

He reached for the handle and one of the dogs stood up on its hind legs as he pulled it open. The little dog pushed its muzzle into the opening and let out a howl that sounded like a baby's cry. Hobbs couldn't quite tell what he was looking at – a closet in disarray, a stack of women's coats on the floor, some large cardboard boxes along the back. But then he saw a bit of light blue chiffon that seemed out of place, and something that looked a lot like skin with freckles.

All three dogs clamored inside. They pulled at the coats, and one had tunneled its way under the jumble, only its curved tail visible.

‘Commissioner Fleet … Janice?' Hobbs said, his stomach in knots as he pulled off the coats. He lifted off a red-wool poncho and knew, even before he'd checked for a pulse, that the woman staring at him with a fresh exit wound on her forehead – the blood still shiny and moist – was dead.

He backed away from the closet and pulled the protesting dogs out. He heard a cruiser pull up outside. After nearly twenty years on the force, most of those working major crimes, his actions were automatic. Call in homicide and don't let anyone screw up the crime scene. He checked the time – just after eight – and let his senses drink in all of the ethereal bits of evidence that would soon be lost: the smells of Dr. Fleet's condo, the cast of the lights, the pitiful cries and whimpers from her dogs. He stood in her hall and tried to picture what could have happened, letting the images find him. The young man with the knapsack, presumably filled with stolen goods. Entered through the front door, no sign of force. Had Dr. Fleet known him? Did they have a relationship? He couldn't have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Was he someone she'd known from the DFYS, or from one of the drop-in centers … an old patient? His thoughts flew to Barrett, out on her date. Doctors weren't supposed to have relationships with their patients outside of the office, so why did she bring Jerod home? It was a chilling thought, what if the kid with his sad ‘I'm a schizophrenic junkie' routine was just playing them? He'd be with Ruth … and the baby. Of course, he was pretty damn certain Ruth Conyors didn't have a wall safe filled with …

He walked back to the bedroom, and pulled out a pair of disposable gloves. He looked at the safe, and the closet floor littered with gold coins, but his thoughts kept going back to Barrett. She'd be sitting down with her hunky social worker, the one who'd been a patient of the now-dead Dr. Fleet. Hobbs had blown off her concerns about the guy's connections with Janice. Why'd he do that? Everything here felt connected, and if Blondie was Jerod's Marky …

He pulled out his cell. ‘Barrett, can you talk?'

‘Not really,' she said.

Hobbs heard sitar music and pictured Barrett and her date at one of those cozy Indian restaurants in the Village, fabric-draped walls and candles in red glass holders. ‘Janice Fleet is dead. She's been murdered in her condo.'

‘Oh my God, when?'

‘Looks like a robbery. I came in in the middle; I think the perp was Marky; he fits the description. Where are you?'

‘Bengali East,' she said.

‘Your date?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Barrett, you were right; Fleet's somehow tied up in this mess with Jerod and the dead kids. I don't know how yet.' He glanced around the bedroom, trying to push down a sudden sense of panic. Nothing added up, the wall safe filled with God knows how much gold – pounds of it – and whatever else might have been taken, the dead commissioner with her legacy of drop-in centers, kids just out of foster care getting set up to sell dope to college kids, or getting overdosed when they decide to clean up their act … lots of organization. Not a one-person organization. ‘Barrett, I'm coming to get you. I've got a bad feeling about your date.'

‘You're not alone,' she whispered. ‘Please hurry,' and the line went dead.

B
arrett's date with Chase had started with promise. His cab pulled up to the red and gold restaurant facade just as she did. ‘What a day,' he said, as he handed the driver a twenty, ‘keep it,' striking a small but first wrong note of the evening.

She waited on the sidewalk. He was still dressed in the clothes he'd had on at the conference … only the shoes were different, not the Prada boots but equally nice, and far more practical, black leather walking shoes. ‘You look like you just came from work,' she said, wondering why something about that seemed over-obvious, like why bring a briefcase to a date? And if he'd taken a cab, why the switch to comfortable shoes?

‘Horrible day,' he said.

‘That call you got?'

He let out a slow breath. ‘Got to shake it off. It's no wonder why half the counselors are burned out and the other half just don't give a shit. You look really nice,' he said, letting his eyes do a thorough once-over. ‘And I promise not to spend the whole time bitching about work.'

Unlike Chase, she had managed a quick, and necessary, change at home, ditching her navy suit for a pair of form-hugging black jeans, gray silk scoop-necked T-shirt with an empire waist that did wonders for her still-nursing breasts while concealing the barest hint of belly, a pair of low-heeled trendy black boots, and a mannish black sport coat worn open. She'd even put on makeup, and not just the usual dab of neutral-pink lipstick she wore for work, but smoky gray eye shadow, mascara, and lips painted a deep, almost fresh-blood red. ‘Shop talk doesn't bother me,' she said, as she stepped down the few steps to the restaurant.