Silent Victim (19 page)

It was just another Sunday night for Roberto Rivera—like all the countless other Sundays he checked into work, thermos under his arm, to work his way through the Midtown office building to clean up the detritus of the past week before everyone arrived back at work Monday morning. It wasn’t a bad job—union pay plus benefits, and he could turn his mind off while he worked, dreaming of his native Guatemala, of the fishing boat he was going to buy in a couple of years. He imagined Carlita’s face when he showed her all the money he earned in New York—nothing like this kind of job existed in his country. He did odd jobs around the building, too, and they sometimes paid him under the table for those—he was handy with mechanical things, and proud of his ability to learn to fix almost anything with a motor.

He plugged his earphones into his iPod—a Christmas gift from his eldest son, who was doing very well working at a fancy Upper East Side restaurant—slung his mop and cleaning utensils into the metal bucket on wheels, and took the elevator to the second floor. He liked to work his way up the building, starting on the lower floors and finishing in the office suites in the sky, where he would pause to look at the lights of the city below. It was sweet: his work finished, he would sit in one of the fancy chairs in the big corner office, and lean back with his feet up on the desk. Carefully he would unscrew the lid of his thermos and pour himself a steaming cup of café con leche, sweet and dark and hot, and sip it dreaming of the green forests and sandy white beaches of Guatemala.

He always started with the men’s room in the back of the second floor, and he flipped through the songs on his iPod trying to find the right one to get him in the mood. He pushed open the door, pulled the bucket in after him, and stood, head down, fiddling with the dials.

Then he looked up. He could see a pair of legs protruding from one of the stalls—it looked as though someone was praying in front of the commode. His first thought was that it was a man being sick in one of the toilets.

“Hey, mister, you okay?” he called out, removing the earplugs from his ears.

His voice echoed through the tiled chamber and came back to him, and then there was nothing—nothing but utter stillness, complete silence.

The quality of the silence told Roberto something was very wrong. As he turned to go get help, his eye was caught by something on the bathroom mirror. Trembling now, he took a step into the room for a closer look. What he saw made him drop the mop handle. Leaving the bucket where it stood, he backed out of the doorway, his legs carrying him out of the room and down the hall as if they had a will of their own. Later, he had trouble even remembering making the phone call to 911 from the security desk in the lobby.

“I think
all
crime is
fascinating,”
Meredith declared, stuffing another French fry into her mouth as the girls helped to clear the table.

“I think crime is
scary,”
Angelica said.

Kylie rolled her eyes and looked at Lee, as if to say,
See, these are the idiots I have to endure.
Already she was acquiring some of her grandmother’s disdain for the common run of humanity.

“Can we please be excused?” Kylie said. “I want to play with the Ouija board.”

Even though dinner was over, no one had been formally “excused,” a ritual Fiona still insisted on.

“Ooh, yes, can we please be excused?” Angelica repeated, jumping up and down.

Meredith rolled her eyes. “Those things aren’t
real,
you know.”

Kylie made a face at her. “What
ever.”

“Yeah,” Angelica chimed in. “What
-ever!”

“Yes, you may,” said Fiona as she brushed crumbs off the linen tablecloth. Even in the summer, she set a proper table: linen cloth and napkins to match, candles, polished silverware—as if by clinging to these proprieties she could stave off disaster and loss.

Kylie dashed off to the living room, followed by Angelica. Meredith strolled after them, careful not to appear the least bit eager or interested.

“I had one of those when I was a kid,” George said. “Where’d you get it?”

Fiona dabbed at the edges of her mouth with her napkin. “Kylie found it in the attic. It belonged to …” She looked away, chewing on her lip.

“It was Laura’s,” Lee finished for her. “I remember playing with it when we were kids.”

“Uncle Lee, do you want to play?” Kylie called to him from the living room.

He looked at his mother, who had gained control of herself, and was calmly finishing clearing the table.

“Let me give you a hand,” he said.

“No, go ahead and play with her—George can help me,” she answered.

George rose hurriedly from his chair, almost knocking it over, and grabbed a couple of plates, sending a fork clattering to the floor.

“Go on,” he said, bending down to pick it up. “I’ll give her a hand.”

Lee took his wine and went into the living room, where the girls had set up the Ouija board on a low coffee table in front of the wide stone fireplace.

He sat on the floor next to Angelica, who was perched on a couch cushion. She leaned over the board, her dark hair falling over one eye. Her hair was just a shade darker than Laura’s, and the way it fell across her forehead reminded him of Ana, on her last visit to him….
Christ,
he thought,
does everything have to remind me of death?

“Okay,” Kylie said, “everyone ready?”

Angelica nodded eagerly, squirming on her cushion, her dark eyes shining with excitement. Meredith compressed her lips and gave a little shrug, but Lee noticed that she too rested her fingertips on the pointer.

“Come on, Uncle Lee!” Kylie said, and he placed his fingers next to theirs. It was an odd feeling—he was propelled back to his childhood as though he had been sucked through a time warp. He looked down at the pointer, at the delicate young fingers resting beside his much larger hands, which looked crude and rough next to theirs.

“Okay,” Kylie said. “I’m the birthday girl, so I’ll ask the first question.”

“Okay,” Angelica agreed, her voice tight with anticipation.

“Are—you—real?” Kylie said, with a look at Meredith, who rolled her eyes.

The pointer shot off to the far side of the board so quickly Lee could barely keep his fingers on it.

It stopped at the word
YES.

Kylie gave Meredith a superior shake of her head, but Meredith ignored her.

“Are you
sure?”
she asked.

Once again the pointer took off and began spelling out words so quickly Lee could barely keep his fingers from slipping off it. He looked at the three girls to see who was controlling the pointer, but couldn’t figure out who it could be. They all looked equally surprised when the pointer finished spelling out a brief sentence.

Q-U-I-T S-T-A-L-L-I-NG.

“Quit stalling?” Meredith murmured. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You said a bad word,” Angelica said, her eyes wide. “Oh, get over it,” Meredith muttered. George Callahan wandered into the room.

“Whatchya doing?” he asked, peering down at them.

“Come join us, Daddy,” Kylie said. Lee winced at the sound of the word—he had noticed she rarely called him that, and had several theories as to why. George and Laura had never been married—George wanted it, but Laura didn’t—and while Kylie did share his last name, he knew that Fiona thought of her as a Campbell through and through. He had experienced his mother’s subtle but relentless propaganda all his life, and knew that when Fiona wanted something, she usually got in the end.

“Yeah, Mr. Callahan, come on!” Angelica said, sliding over to make room for him.

“Okay,” George said, lowering his bulky body down to the floor. He sat cross-legged between Angelica and Meredith, sweat gathering on the back of his neck as he settled down. He folded his thick legs stiffly under his body, joints creaking, hunching awkwardly over the table. He reminded Lee of a bull elephant trying to hatch an egg.

“All set,” George said. “Now, what shall we ask it?”

He had barely placed his fingertips on the pointer when it flew off across the board again, even faster than before.

Lee stared at it as it zipped from letter to letter.

A-S-K A-B-O-U-T T-H-E R-E-D D-R-E-S-S

The walls of the room began to close in on him, and he didn’t hear the phone ringing in the other room. When his mother appeared at the doorway, phone in her hand, she had to call his name twice.

“Lee!” she said, holding out the phone. “It’s Chuck Morton. They need you right away. There’s been"—she hesitated, looking at the girls—"a development.”

Miguel Rodriguez, the man on the front security desk at 545 Sixth Avenue, really did want to help. It was clear from his body language that he had nothing to hide. Sitting in the lobby chairs opposite Lee and Butts, he leaned into them, his face expressing a willingness—even eagerness—to cooperate. He was fidgety, but Lee knew no one is completely at ease when being questioned by the police, no matter how innocent they are.

Butts had already asked him who came into the building around the time of the crime, and so far, he hadn’t come up with much. After all, most of the offices were closed, though he did say people came and went even on the weekends.

“Now, Mr. Rodriguez, can you think of anyone unusual who came
into
the building in the past twenty-four hours?”

Rodriguez clenched his hands tightly and leaned forward even more, rocking a little in his chair. He was young—maybe late twenties, with an earnest, open manner and a light Puerto Rican accent. He wore a gold wedding ring and a tiny gold cross around his suntanned neck.

“Wait! We did get a UPS delivery around six on Saturday.”

He seemed pleased to have thought of this, and looked at Butts like a schoolboy who has done well. “Is that unusual?” Butts asked.

“Not really. We usually get a few UPS deliveries on weekends—it’s easier to find parking, for one thing. Sometimes they even come twice a day—once in the morning and once in the late afternoon.”

“Was the delivery guy someone you’d seen before?”

He pursued his lips and twisted the gold wedding band around his finger. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No, not really. He wasn’t the usual guy, though—I know that.”

“How come?”

“Most often it’s Jimmy—he’s from Jamaica,” he said, with a glance at Lee.

“Yeah?”

“Jimmy’s black. This was a white guy.”

Butts looked at Lee and raised his left eyebrow just a bit.

“You sure about that?”

“Oh, yeah—definitely.” Again Rodriguez looked pleased with himself, and glanced at them for signs of approval. “Can you describe him at all?”

“Well, it’s kind of hard, because he’s not the kind of guy who would stand out in a crowd. I didn’t really study him or nothin', you know?”

“Height, weight?”

“Average. Maybe five-ten, not built big, but not skinny either. Just average.”

“Can you tell me anything else about him?”

He chewed on his lower lip, his face set in concentration. Finally he shook his head. “Naw, sorry, man. Oh, wait, yeah: he had a real soft voice—that was kind of unusual, I thought.”

“Unusual how?”

“Breathy, like … well, this is silly, but—”

“But what?”

“Well, it kinda reminded me of Marilyn Monroe. I mean, it was definitely a dude, no question about that, but the voice … it was kinda weird, now that I think of it.”

“Do you think you’d recognize it if you heard it again?”

“I don’t know—maybe.”

“Okay, thank you, Mr. Rodriguez—you’ve been very helpful,” Butts said, closing his notebook and standing up.

Rodriguez looked at them. “If there’s anything I can do,” he said, lowering his voice, “anything at all, just let me know, okay?”

“We will,” Lee replied. “Thanks again.”

He leapt up and accompanied them out, shaking both their hands before they headed through the revolving glass doors.

“Man, I wish every interview was like that one,” Butts said when they were outside on the street.

“As the song says, wouldn’t it be nice?” Lee agreed.

“What song’s that?” Butts said, starting to walk down Sixth Avenue toward the subway entrance.

“The Beach Boys.”

“You like that stuff?”

“Some people think Brian Wilson is a genius.” “I don’t know about genius, but I do know those guys sing like girls.” “What’s wrong with that?”

Butts looked at him, frowning. “C’mon, Doc, you pullin’ my leg?”

“I’m just asking.”

Butts stopped walking and pointed to a street vendor selling Middle Eastern specialties. “I’m starving—want a sandwich?”

“Sure.” He followed Butts over to the vendor’s cart, which had a sign that read
HALAL FOOD.
That was the Islamic version of kosher—it meant there was no pork and the food was prepared according to religious standards, though exactly what those were he wasn’t sure.

The vendor was Middle Eastern, slight, and very dark-skinned, and wore a white smock and a simple white turban. Not all the vendors of halal food were orthodox, or even religious, Lee suspected, but in the wake of 9/11 he worried about anyone who looked as though he might be an Arab, or—God forbid—a Muslim. He hadn’t seen any ugly instances of racism directed against them in New York, but he had heard of it elsewhere. Although the city was a place where most people got along with people from other cultures, there was no predicting the emotional fallout from something like this. It had shaken them all deeply, though in different ways.

The vendor gave them a shy but friendly smile, and Lee smiled broadly back at him. Maybe he was overreacting to the political tension in the air, but he felt protective of these people. They too were citizens of this city, and probably as horrified by the events of that terrible day as everyone else—or so he liked to think.

They ordered chicken sandwiches on pita bread, and sat down in front of the fountain at 666 Sixth Avenue to eat them. People dressed in summer clothes strolled past them in the mild August evening. The sidewalks still held the heat of the day, but the air blowing in from the river was cooler now. Yellow cabs rattled uptown, their transmissions taking a beating from potholes that pockmarked the broad avenue.

“Oh, man, this is good, isn’t it?” Butts slurped, his mouth half stuffed with food.

The sandwich was delicious—hot, spicy, with grilled onions, a suggestion of cardamon, and some kind of curry powder.

“Oh, man,” Butts said, wiping sauce from his mouth. “What do they put on these things? It’s amazing. I gotta get the wife to try and make somethin’ like this sometime.” “What does she usually make?” Lee asked. “Corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage—that kinda thing. She’s Irish,” he said apologetically.

“I like a good Irish breakfast,” Lee said. “Yeah, but it’s all downhill after that.” Butts looked at his sandwich and sighed. “Man, sometimes I think she’s allergic to spices, you know?”

“Hey, listen, my family is Scottish, and that’s even worse.” Butts stared at him, a piece of grilled onion clinging to his chin. “Really?”

“They say that all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.” “'Zat so?” Butts murmured, plunging his face deeper into his sandwich.

Lee thought the detective’s unself-conscious enjoyment of food was a way of keeping his sanity amid the constant barrage of death and destruction he dealt with in his line of work.

“We’re meeting first thing tomorrow in Chuck Morton’s office to report on what we have.”

“Okay,” Butts said, licking sauce from his fingers. “Shall I call Krieger and tell her, or do you want to?” Butts snorted. “Oh, be my guest, by all means. I got a few leads of my own to track down tonight.” “Great,” Lee said. “Thanks a lot. “You asked,” Butts said, wolfing down the rest of his sandwich. He got up stiffly, stretched his pudgy body, and brushed crumbs from his clothes. “Okay, I’m off—see you tomorrow.”

“Right,” Lee said, and watched the detective shoulder his way through the crowd of people swarming up Sixth Avenue. But his mind was not on them, nor on the unfinished sandwich in his hand. He kept turning the words over and over in his brain:

Ask about the red dress.

If only there was someone to ask,
he thought. Of course his unconscious mind must have been controlling the pointer—that was the obvious explanation for what happened. But he was so tormented by the idea that he found himself wishing the answer were somehow buried in the wistful promise of a children’s game.