Over My Live Body (17 page)

“What
was
he charged with?”

“Aggravated sexual assault.”

“Oh…”

“It was a gray case to begin with. One of the guys who worked it was there when I picked up the pictures, and he gave me some background. The girl met him in a bar. He was drunk and she was even drunker. He was in a
uniform
. She
trusted
him.”

“He was posing as a security guard even back then?”

“He was a cadet in the academy back then.”

“The
police
academy?” I recall that assembly line of bobbing heads bouncing under the fluorescent lights late this afternoon.

“He didn’t last too long. The assault charges may have been dropped, but it got him noticed downtown, and
not
for commendation. Too many questions were raised about his conduct. There were apparently some psych problems.”

“Apparently,” I whisper.

“The return address on some of the mail sent to him at his old address was One Police Plaza. So based on this bundle of mail the landlady brought in, the Thirteenth got interested in him as a suspect in some of these other crimes and issued a want card on him.”

“Is that the police equivalent of issuing a
contract
on somebody?”

“It means if he gets picked up for anything anywhere else in the city, we get notified. And it turns out his name
really is
Curtis, A variation of it, anyway.”

“Curtis
what
?”

He shakes his head. “I want you to just keep calling him Curtis. I don’t want him to know that you know any more than you did before I picked you up tonight.”

“So I get to die in ignorance…”

“You’re
not
going to die and you’re by no means ignorant.” The sudden declaration of admiration in his eyes and his voice enthralls me. “If it weren’t for you and your drawing, we wouldn’t have a make on this guy,” he reminds me, as if I need reminding. “We’d still be dragging ass talking about disorderly conduct
charges and not doing anything about it.”

“You’d
still
be looking to pin Vittorio’s murder on
Morgan
.”

“I still need to talk with Morgan, Delilah. In case he saw something.”

“
He
doesn’t know where Curtis is.”

“Do you happen to know where
Mor
gan is?”

I nod. “He showed up at my doorstep this morning and walked over to West Eighth Street with me. He’s probably still in his studio.”

Quick pulls his notepad out of his pocket and clicks his pen into ready position. “Do you happen to know where he’s staying?”

“With his friends Gary and Abel over on Wooster Street. They have a landline. It’s an unlisted number. I believe you
have
it.”

“Give it to me, just in case I
don’t
.”

I grope around in my bag for my address book and hesitate before handing it over to him. “Under ‘W,’ I tell him. “It’s the only one there. Aside from the dry cleaner.” Quick takes his time flipping through the pages to get to the end of the alphabet like he has
every right
to. My life has become an open book to him. He finally jots down the needed phone number and hands the book back to me without bothering with X-Y-Z. I drop it back in my bag.

“Do you have someone
you
can stay with?” Quick asks me. “A friend or relative, preferably in another part of town?”

I shake my head. My ‘closest’ female friend Sachi has been inaccessible for so many days now that I’m beginning to wonder if this latest guy of hers who moved in with her turned out to be a space alien who not only swept her off her feet but also off to some distant planet. My gay male friends may not be friends of mine any more after they figure out that I share at least some of the blame for what happened to Vittorio and aided and abetted the police to boot. A trip to see the old folks at home outside Frankfort and hear about how it
serves me right
, I
should have stayed home and made someone a good Kentucky farm wife
is out of the question. I imagine I
could
call Heidi. She’d be more than willing to provide bed and breakfast and bullets. I shake my head again. Staying with her, even just for an overnighter, would make me look like I’d just leapt out of a Munch painting. “No, I tell Quick, “there’s no one.”

Except for you. You live in another part of town.

The scream of a siren outside makes me flinch. Living in this constant state of anxiety may do me in before Curtis even has a chance to lay his hands on me. Quick stands up and signals me to follow him into the squad room.

“I knew her when I worked the seven-five,” one detective says, flipping through a newspaper. “I mean, knew
of
her. When you heard the boys were going down the block for some hot Toddie, you
knew
it wasn’t for a drink.”

“Like mother, like daughter.”

“Don’t know. Seems to me she was
trying
to keep the girl
straight.
Sent her off to live with an aunt when she was open for business, then picked her up when she was
through
for the day. Kid turned out all right.”

“Yeah, right. Kid turned out
dead
.”

The first thing I see when I walk in behind Quick is the front page of the
Post
masking a detective’s face with the picture of a beautiful young black woman wearing a tiara and an equally dazzling smile. She looks like a queen. Alongside the photo, the headline announces DEATH OF HER MAJESTY in big bold print. I get it. It’s the window display artist who was murdered, who I heard was IDed late last night, and I lean over the desk to try to read more. Quick notices and guides me away. The pressure of his fingertips on my arm lingers even after he successfully maneuvers me where he wants me, boxed in, unable to read any more distressing headlines. I notice that the drawing I did of Curtis is indeed tacked on the wall above Quick’s desk. So are a lot of pictures of other perps. So is a Sierra Club calendar with dates circled, with indecipherable jottings flowing out of several boxes.

Quick picks up the phone on his desk. “I’m going to notify the Sixth to keep an eye on your place,” he tells me. “Actually, as many eyes as they can spare. They’ve got a make on Curtis. That’s all that I can… yes, hi, this is Patrick Quick, First squad, who’s on for Rubenstein? Yeah, I’ll hold.” He drums his long, elegant fingers against the side of his desk. I watch as the detective across the aisle folds the
Post
and discards it in the waste paper basket with the ease he probably wishes it took to clean out his docket of cases. When Quick begins mumbling in earnest and I’m sure that somebody on the other end has garnered his full attention, I reach in the waste basket and pull the paper out, flipping to the full story spread on page five. A reporter got the mother’s side of the story. Majesty was her only child, a go-getter who grew up and out of East New York and moved on to Cooper Union and the showrooms of Fifth Avenue stores before someone went and got her. As far as
who
got her, the official police wonk they’ve quoted would only say
several leads are being investigated
. No specifics about a belligerent boyfriend, though Margaret Toddie, the mother, “expressed remorse over some of her daughter’s social blunders.” A wrong turn down a one-way street is a
blunder
; I’d use a bit stronger terminology to describe sticking with a man who put her in the hospital twice, as Sauer told me Majesty’s boyfriend had done. There is
no mention whatsoever
made of display items.

“Has anyone found out who did this?” I ask.

Both of the other detectives in the room look right over my head at Quick. He reaches over my shoulder and takes the paper out of my hands. “Not yet,” he says. “Come on, I’m getting you a ride home.”

I follow him into the narrow corridor. “Was any of that mail you said the landlady found addressed to Majesty Moore?”

He turns around at the top of the stairs. “
Most
of the mail apparently was pulled from addresses in his immediate neighborhood, near Gramercy Park. That’s how the Thirteenth caught
that
end of it. They’re still going through it. Months of
his
accumulated mail and then these
souvenirs
of his.” He pauses. “Have you been aware of any mail
you
should have been receiving but haven’t?”

I shake my head and follow him down the stairs. I almost trip trying to keep up with him. “You said you were
getting
me a ride home. Does that mean
you’re
not…?”

“Can’t tonight. I’m going to be tied up here for a while. You’ll be all right.” He stops short in front of a bank of black and tan filing cabinets, across from a desk that reminds me of a judge’s bench. A banner hanging above it announces THE FIRST PRECINCT IS PROUD TO BE AT YOUR SERVICE. I imagine that most civilians who have had occasion to stand before this desk have little reason to be proud and have not done their community a service. “Wait here a sec.” Quick gestures to a row of blue plastic chairs lined up against the wall. I remain standing. Two uniformed officers swagger past the front desk on their way to the candy machine. Quick stands in front of it. “Got a big favor to ask of you,” he says, motioning them to one side. The two uniforms turn toward me and grin, nodding like bobblehead dolls. “Sure, sure,” I hear them reply.

Quick comes back over to me. “These two officers are going to drop you off at your place and make sure you get in all right.”

“What about once I’m in? Will I be all right
then
?”

“If you have any problems, call the Sixth first. They’re going to have a car cruising around Waverly; they’ll be able to respond right away. Let me know too, if anything happens. If I’m not here, use my cell number. Is there anyone in your building who you think might keep an eye on things?”

I nod, picturing Mrs. Davidoff leaning against her door, squinting through the peephole. “Yes, I have a neighbor like that.”

“Good,” he says. “In
any
case, I’ll be in touch,” he promises, and does touch me, lightly, on my shoulder. I walk away from him wanting him to be more in touch. “Oh, and Rodriguez,”

The two uniforms escorting me turn around. I wonder if
both
of them are named Rodriguez.

“Be sure to radio in the
minute
you complete your assignment,” he barks at them.

“
Ten-four
, Detective,” they shout back.

When I get out of the radio car in front of my building, A. Rodriguez smiles tersely, his hand already grabbing his radio transmitter to notify Quick that he’s done his duty. Z. Rodriguez, no relation to A., walks me up the stairs while I fumble in the dark for the right key and try to keep from dropping it. The Z stands for Zixto, he told me on the way home; he was so named because he was the sixth of seven sons. “In that case you should have been called
Sex
to,” A. Rodriguez quipped. “Guess your parents figured that would make you too sexy for your own good.”

“The seventh was supposed to be lucky,” he said, pretending to ignore his partner. I wondered about the others’ names, not his use of the past tense. “Some lucky. He got blown away by a drug dealer when he was thirteen.
Just thirteen
! That’s how come I became a cop.” He brushes his knuckles against his silver shield. “
I
gotta be the lucky one
now
.”

I decide to let Zixto try his luck with my key because my hands are shaking so bad I can’t fit it in the lock. He gives the door a shove and steps aside for me to enter, handing me my keys. He climbs up the stairs behind me and waits while I fumble with the array of locks. I hear a door open and it isn’t mine. And then
my
door springs open
too easily
. I realize it was unlocked to begin with. “Somebody’s
been
here!” I gasp.

“You
sure
? You didn’t just forget to lock up on your way out or…?” Zixto Rodriguez looks at me for confirmation, all the while blocking my way, making sure I can’t dart past him and go in.

“There’s
no way
!” I cry. “There’s
no way
I’d do that with what’s been going on.
No way
!”

Zixto runs his hand along the side of the door and frowns. “Little bit of chipping here.”

The door next door slams shut. “Mrs. Davidoff….”

“That your neighbor?”

I nod and try to squeeze past him to take a better look at my apartment. He pushes me to one side. “Stay here,” he says and taps his transmitter. “Alonzo, we got a possible ten-thirty-one here.” He reaches for his gun and I slink further back and get pushed to the other side by A. Rodriguez as he gallops to the top of the stairs. Both officers advance into my apartment with their guns drawn. I lose sight of them as they split off into different rooms. When they come back to the door, it’s in alphabetical order, A. followed by Z., and their guns are tucked back in their holsters. It’s okay to start breathing normally again. “Okay, you can come in now; whoever was here is gone now. Fire escape window’s locked, so that’s out as point of entry, unless he’s Houdini. Must’ve pried the door or had some help. Alonzo, check out the neighbor.” Zixto points his thumb toward the wall Mrs. Davidoff is probably leaning her ear against. “You,” he signals me to come in, “take a look around. The place doesn’t
seem
to have been tossed much. Notice if anything’s missing?”

“Not offhand.” I start a slow tour, aware of Zixto watching. I wonder if he still suspects that I carelessly forgot to lock the door. I can hear Mrs. Davidoff in the hallway being interviewed by A. Rodriguez. “Not hard to believe it would come to this, what with all the men parading in and out of here at all hours,” she says too loudly, for my benefit. Zixto looks at me like he’s wondering if he indeed could get lucky, even if he
isn’t
the seventh son.

“Have you seen anyone other than the other tenants in or near the building
today
?” A. Rodriguez asks her. “Delivery man, mailman, FTD florist?”

I cringe, thinking about the mums I have yet to replace. “
Police officer
?” I suggest, picturing the former cadet who was kicked out of the Police Academy wearing a fake badge on his cap, probably carrying a fake search warrant. If no one was around to present it to, he probably jimmied my door open with the box cutter he keeps in his pocket, the best place to keep the tools of one’s trade
.
A. and Z. Rodriguez glower at me.

“I was out all day. I came home after seven,” Mrs. Davidoff says. “I didn’t hear or see anyone or anything then. I turned on the TV in time for the rest of Jeopardy and then I watched Wheel of Fortune. There was no banging on the door.
That
I’d
hear
. That and what goes on when she’s
with
them.”

“So it could have been
before
she came home,” I say softly to Zixto to try to take his mind off banging noises. A. Rodriguez is advising Mrs. Davidoff to be sure to keep her door locked at all times. “This is a safe neighborhood, but you can
still
get something like
this
. You never know.”

“I know I don’t keep
her
kind of
company
,” Mrs. Davidoff sniffs, looking over her shoulder at the TV during a break in commercials. “There was never any kind of trouble in this building
before
. You never know
what
you’re going to get with sublets.”

“You’re subletting this apartment, Mrs. Davidoff?”

“No,
she’s
the temp.”

“This is pretty nice. How long you been living here?” Zixto asks me, stepping inside again, looking around.

“A little over a year. I’m living out the rest of the tenants’ two-year lease. They’re in Japan. I’m in hock.” I laugh nervously. “Actually I’m doing better than I was when I
first
moved in. I inherited their rent control. I’ve been doing
okay
. That is, okay until now.”

“Anything missing that belongs to them?”

I suddenly notice a dustless space on the floor that was formerly occupied by a plaster bust I had done of Ivan. He didn’t sit for it. I did it from a series of pictures we posed for in a photo booth at Coney Island in the early days when we had fun together. The sculpture turned out to be a bust; the head was disproportionately huge and hardened too fast, and I kept it as a reminder of failure on all fronts. “
I
van,” I say. “Ivan’s missing.”
Indeed he is
.

“A dog? A cat?” Zixto looks down at his feet. “You’re not gonna tell me it’s a
snake
, are you?”

“It’s inanimate. A sculpture I did. A plaster bust.” Zixto’s eyes suddenly fixate on the straps of my coverall. “Probably the
worst
piece of work I ever created,” I admit. I start to feel queasy wondering about the fate of some of the best work I’ve ever created, Glad-bagged and locked up in the clay studio at West Eighth Street. I count to ten. The building is secured, there’s a guard on duty.
Who’s on duty tonight
?
A guard who maybe likes to play with knives
?
I have visions of heads rolling, not all of them plaster. When my cell phone suddenly rings, I jump and go to pieces like overbaked terra cotta.

“Go ahead and answer. We’ll wait,” Zixto Rodriguez says, still looking around the room nervously, anticipating the appearance of an imaginary snake.

“Are you home?” Quick asks. “Are the officers still there?”

I hand my phone to Zixto. “We had some trouble here,” I hear Zixto explain as he retreats to the bedroom so I can’t hear everything he says. He returns after only a couple of minutes. “He wants to talk to you.” Zixto holds the receiver out to me.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says without asking if I am. “He must have gotten in
long
before I called the Sixth. They know who they’re looking for now and they’ll be patrolling on and around Waverly all night. He won’t be able to get close. Did he
take
anything?”

“Just a piece of sculpture,” I mumble. “A head I did of Ivan a long time ago.” I pause to wipe away a tear.
I never shed a tear over Ivan. Except when he hurt me
. “I’m worried about my
other
sculptures. The ones over at West Eighth Street. If he can get in
here
, he can get in
there too
. He can get in
anywhere he wants
when he’s wearing a
uniform.”
I take a deep breath and announce, “I’ve got a show to think about. I’ve already put a lot of work into this. I want to go see if my sculptures are all right.”

“No,” Quick snaps, “Not tonight you’re not. Wait until morning. I’ll pick you up at your place and take you there. Ten o’clock all right?” He doesn’t expect me to say no. “Put Rodriguez back on.”

I hand the phone to Zixto and wonder if Quick knows which one he’s talking to. Zixto does a lot of nodding and uh-huhing, looking up at me from time to time. Alonzo comes back in the apartment. “No one saw nada,” he re- ports dismally. Zixto mumbles this information into the mouthpiece and nods again. “Okay, okay, we’re on our way.” He hangs up. “Guys from the Sixth are gonna be taking over for us. Quick
said to tell you, just stay put, you’ll be okay.”

I lock the door after them and turn on the radio. “All news, all the time,” I’m promised.
None of it good
, they might as well add as a disclaimer. I start to undress.
Double shooting in the Bronx
. Off comes the coverall. I take the sculpting tools out of my pocket and lay them out on my bedside table.
Twenty-nine year old man stabbed in front of ATM on Madison Avenue
,
robbery believed to be the motive
. Off comes the jersey.
SWAT team called to hostage situation on Linden Boulevard
. I unhook my bra.
Baby thrown out of a fifth story window into a dumpster, fifteen-year-old mother being sought for questioning
. I reach behind the bathroom door for the oversized T-shirt I’ve been wearing to bed the last couple of nights. It isn’t there.
I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay.
At least there are no messages on my answering machine for a change. I turn the radio dial to a Spanish station where the
only
word I understand at the top of the hour is
noticias
, then pick up my cell phone to call Morgan. I’m a friend of his,
I
want to be the one to tell him the latest before the police get in touch with him, but
how
am I going to tell him
this
?
I have good news and bad news. The good news is the police know who killed Vittorio and know it wasn’t you. The bad news is he’s after me and anyone who comes near me and that’s why Vittorio got whacked.
Gary answers the phone on the fourth ring. “Morgan just stepped out,” he says when I ask for him. There’s a serrated edge to his voice that could cut through metal. I guess Quick beat me to the punch. I feel guilty for having given him Gary’s unlisted number.
I
had to. He’s the police
. Gary must
feel
like he was punched. Morgan too. I begin to worry about what sort of dessert is on his menu tonight.

“Would you have him call me when he gets back? Please?”

“He may not be back until late,” Gary says. “I don’t know where he went. He may not be back tonight at all.”

“When he
does
come back…”

“I’ll tell him,” Gary says, and hangs up.

I turn up the volume and peek under the shade at the street below. I see a blue-and-white down there, cruising around to make sure I’m safe. I don’t see anyone
else
. I pull the covers over my head, muting the sounds of a soothing salsa beat and the sirens in the distance that always seem to be there, barely audible but
there
, like white noise. I consider calling Quick with an updated inventory of what’s been stolen as a pretext to hear some comforting words, but the only ones that I know would make me feel better are
I’ll be right over
.