The Graving Dock (26 page)

She wondered if Jack and his colleagues might figure that she had really bailed out due to simple cowardice—to fears about becoming a cop’s wife. (Especially, the wife of a cop who seemed prone to getting shot, dunked, etc.) She wished she could explain: That wasn’t it at all. The fact was, it would have been all too easy for her to slip into that familiar role, the supportive wife. And it wasn’t about Steve McCleod; not really. No, the reason she couldn’t talk to Jack was that she simply didn’t know what to say. There was no single obvious reason why she had done what she’d done. Things just hadn’t felt right. Life was messy sometimes; you couldn’t always put everything into words.

She pushed herself back into the sofa cushions and hugged herself, picturing Jack’s stunned face in the restaurant, the last she’d seen of him. Her own face contorted, thinking of it now.

No.
She had done the right thing, the only thing she
could
do. She was sure of it. Ninety-nine percent sure.

Ninety percent…

J
ACK DROVE. A FEW
blocks from the bar, he stopped for a red light on Henry Street, dense trees obscuring the streetlights above, nobody else around except a late-night dog walker disappearing down a block of elegant Cobble Hill brownstones. Casually, Natalie rested her hand on his thigh. There was nothing coy about it: They knew where they were going and what would happen when they got there. Jack glanced up: The light was still red. He glanced over: Natalie’s half-open shirt gave him a view of her firm breasts.

A memory: his second date with Michelle. They were sitting on a picnic bench in his backyard, after lots of food and wine, and she leaned back against him. He inhaled her soft scent, slid his hands over her blouse…

Natalie shifted in the car seat, opening her legs; she wore dark, silky stockings. Her nipples pressed against her blouse like ripe berries. Jack was flooded with brilliant desire—it pushed everything else out of his mind, all his memories, all his worries. This was what he wanted: to be right here, right now, drowning in something sweet. To hell with Michelle; maybe
she
didn’t want him, but
this
woman did. The light on the dashboard shifted and he looked up: green. Natalie kicked off her shoes, leaned back, legs open wide, one of her hands busy down below. He had to work hard to keep his eyes on the road.

Two minutes later, the woman directed him into the parking lot of what looked like an old factory. Judging by the careful renovation job and the expensive cars in the lot, he guessed that it had gone coop. Natalie stepped out of the car in her stocking feet, carrying her high-heeled shoes with two fingers. Before he got out, Jack took off his pager and threw it, along with his cell phone, into the glove compartment. To hell with it: He was off duty and tonight he didn’t want to be bothered.

There was a bright chrome elevator inside. Even before the door closed, Natalie pressed up against him and stuck her tongue in his mouth. She tasted gritty of cigarettes and booze, but he was too worked up to care. He reached down, lifted her skirt, grabbed her silky ass, pulled her close.

“How about a little nightcap?” she said as soon as they got inside her apartment.

Jack nodded. He needed the drink. She probably didn’t, but that was her business. He watched her zigzag over to a glass sideboard covered with bottles.

He sat down on a big expensive-looking sofa in the middle of her big loft living room, but then he got up and walked over to the picture window that dominated the back wall. Three stories down, the Brooklyn Queens Expressway channeled through south Brooklyn, separating this fancy brownstone neighborhood from working-class Red Hook; the highway was a river of streaming lights. The Seven-six house was just a few blocks away, with all of those detectives scrambling around their desks. Even closer was the hospital, where Maureen Duffy was probably in the middle of a shift. Farther west, over the dark rooftops, he could see New York Harbor, with the tiny lights of Jersey shimmering on the far shore. The apartment probably cost a fortune, but then he remembered that this woman was in real estate: She must have held on to a sweet deal. It was twice the size of his own apartment but it reminded him of the way his place had looked before Michelle came into his life: neat and sparse. The brick walls were almost bare and there was little furniture, as if the woman had just ordered the basics from a catalog and then called it a day. It was a workaholic’s crash pad, not a home. A framed photo stood on a side table next to the couch; he bent down for a look. A smiling young man in a black graduation gown. Did Natalie have a son, too?

“Here we go,” she said, coming at him across the white shag carpet. She leaned down to square a coaster against the edge of the glass coffee table. As she set down his drink, her freckled breasts almost spilled out of her top.

Another memory: how gentle Michelle had been with him that first time when he had just gotten out of the hospital…

Natalie planted her hands on his knees, leaned in closer and gave him a big sloppy kiss. She stood, unsteady on her feet, and went over to a stereo in the corner. Put on an old Motown record. The Supremes: “Where Did Our Love Go?”

“Come on,” she said, coming back and grabbing his hands. “Let’s dance.”

He resisted, thinking of Michelle again. He scowled at himself. He could do any damned thing he pleased, and who was Michelle to say boo?

“Come
on
,” Natalie said, pouting in a way that was supposed to be cute.

He let her tug him to his feet and he halfheartedly pulled out some old ballroom moves. As soon as the song ended, he sat down and picked up his drink. Natalie scooted in next to him. Her skirt was half open. She hoisted her gin-and-tonic and drained half of it.

She leaned over to kiss him again, and then she nuzzled his neck. Her hand slipped down between his legs.

All he could think about was Michelle. What the hell was he doing? Did he believe that this woman could be a substitute for her, that any other body would do?

“What’s the matter?” Natalie said. “Are you married or something?”

“No. It’s just…I’m kind of tired.”

She was clearly let down, but did her best to cover it up. She didn’t look so wild anymore, just tired and lonely, hoping for a little human contact at the end of the day.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, and he meant it. He leaned back into the soft cushions and closed his eyes. He heard ice cubes clinking in her drink. He wanted to get up and head out, but didn’t know how to make a graceful exit. He kept his eyes shut, embarrassed to find himself playing possum.

“Thanks a lot, tiger,” he heard Natalie mutter. Her breathing grew slow.

Jack lay there in her apartment, still feeling the terrible weight of Michelle’s disappearance in his chest, strong as ever despite the alcohol, despite this stranger’s desire. For some reason, he thought of the little nun at the Tibetan center, of the way she had kept calm even after hearing of her friend’s sudden death. Was it just some callous malarkey, or did she actually know something about how to deal with pain?

A minute later, Natalie began to snore.

“D
ON’T TAKE YOUR COAT
off,” was the first thing Gary Daskivitch said when Jack walked into the Seven-six squad room early the next morning.

“Why not?” he asked, glancing toward the coffee maker in the far corner.

Daskivitch frowned like a bear whose porridge had just been eaten. “It’s our
G.I.
head case—he struck again. I tried calling you last night, and I paged you twice.”

Jack felt a jolt of adrenaline, and then he winced as he thought of his pager buzzing away in the glove compartment of his car.

UN-FREAKING-BELIEVABLE.

He shook his head, then shook it some more. Half a block—that’s how close he had come to the hideout of Robert Dietrich Sperry, just the night before. Life was so weird sometimes. If he had known, he might have prevented the latest attack. He might have caught the
G.I.
killer.

If.

The narrow, lopsided old row house was just down the street from Tony B’s. The latest victim, one of the tenants, had the great good fortune to still be upright and breathing. Jack badged the uniforms who had cordoned off the front of the house, and then he and Daskivitch went inside to interview Jerome Konetz.

The first thing Jack noticed was a red smudge on the old man’s forehead. Konetz had a belly the shape of a beach ball, with an ancient plaid wool shirt stretched over it. He also wore a pair of grubby khaki pants and some battered leather slippers. He squinted at the bright winter light like a nocturnal animal peeping out of its burrow. Jack sensed that he didn’t get visitors very often. He seemed cheerful, though, you had to give him that, despite the blood-stained compress bandaged to the side of his head.

Jack rubbed his hands together as he stood in the tiny vestibule. He had been hoping for some heat inside, but was disappointed. He frowned at Konetz. “Are you sure you should be up and about?”

The old man shrugged. “I took worse than this in WW Two. And I’m not stayin’ in no hospital. I could buy a car for what it costs for one day in there.”

You could afford some heat, too,
Jack thought, but he kept the observation to himself.

Daskivitch stepped forward, his bulk taking up most of the entryway. “Would you feel up to showing us where the attack took place?”

“It’s back this way.” Konetz led them down a poorly lit hallway, his slippers scuffing on the cracked linoleum floor. From a side table he picked up a black metal flashlight the size of his forearm. “Watch your step,” he said. “I don’t wanna get sued, especially by the goddamned City.”

Jack and Daskivitch followed him down a steep staircase. A strong musty smell hit them and Jack thought of another basement, in Red Hook…and yet another one, on Governors Island. He was tired of basements.

Konetz’s flashlight swung circles ahead, and then the old man reached up and tugged a chain. A dim bulb went on overhead, barely illuminating a narrow, wood-paneled hallway, floored by a moth-eaten white carpet. Jack sneezed; the place was thick with dust, compounded by plenty of fingerprint powder brushed on by the Crime Scene techs. He noticed a faint smell of urine.

“You own the house?”

Konetz turned. “I already told those cops last night. Don’t you guys put your information on a computer? My grandson is a real whiz at that crap.” He snorted. “The kid’s got one of those little metal pegs in his tongue. I can’t believe my daughter let him get away with it. You can get diseases from that crap, you know, some dirty biker tattoo joint…” He shook his head, then winced in pain and pressed his hand against his bandage.

The old man’s rambling talk made Jack wonder if he was suffering some residual shock. He tried again. “Are you the owner?”

Konetz snorted. “Who, me? Not goddamned likely. I just rent the top floor. And I look after the place—the owner lives in Jersey.” He shuffled halfway down the hall and stopped again. “You understand that this is not an apartment down here, right? I was just doin’ the guy a favor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack said. He figured the tenant was pulling in a little cash on the side, renting out a basement room with no
Certificate of Occupancy.
No taxes, either. He noticed a red stain on the carpet. “This is where the man attacked you?”

Konetz nodded. He looked pale, all of a sudden, and Jack worried about his ability to stay upright.

“How did you meet him?”

The little man frowned. “It was a few days ago. I was at the bar down the street. Tony B’s.”

Jack’s eyes widened. Sperry had the nerve to appear in public? What if he had sat down next to the man by accident last night, when every cop in the five boroughs was hot on his trail? “Did you talk to him much?”

Konetz squinted. “He said he was new in town, lookin’ for work and a place to kip. He told me his name was Rogers. Bruce Rogers.” He made a face. “Jesus, if I had known he was some kind of
psycho killer
…”

Daskivitch held a pen poised over a notepad. “You didn’t recognize his face from the newspapers?”

“I don’t read much; my eyesight isn’t so hot. They could invade the country or somethin’, and I wouldn’t find out about it till three weeks later…”

“Why did you come down to the basement last night?”

Konetz gestured toward a closed door. “I was gonna look for a sled in the boiler room here. A Flexible Flyer. You remember those?” He brightened. “They made a great old sled. You ever see that movie, black and white, with Orson Welles? What did he call that thing?
Rosebush
, or somethin’?”

“You were looking for a
sled
?” Jack asked, steering the little man back on track.

Konetz nodded. “Yeah. For my grandkid. My daughter says he’s too old, wouldn’t be interested in something like that, no batteries, no computer screen. I say to hell with it—if I wanna give him a sled, I’ll give him a goddamned sled.”

Over the old man’s shoulder, Daskivitch smiled.

“So you came down here. Then what?”

Konetz shivered. “It was quiet, and I didn’t call out or nothin’, ’cause I didn’t think the guy was around. That’s his room, down at the end there. I was just about to open this door, and
Bam!
Next thing I know, I’m seein’ stars. When my eyes cleared up, there he was, holdin’ a chair leg or somethin’. He had this crazy look, like he didn’t even recognize me.” He grimaced. “I was about to ask why the hell he hit me, when he clocked me again.”

“Did you fight back?”

The old man raised the big metal flashlight. “I got in one good lick, with this. I think I caught him on the arm. Then he hit me again, and I passed out.”

“When you came to, he was gone?”

Konetz put a hand against a wall to steady himself. “No. I woke up because I felt somethin’ on my face. I didn’t know what the hell he was doin’, so I kept my eyes shut.” He reached up and touched his forehead. “It wasn’t till they brung me to the hospital that I found out that he had
written
on me. Creepy bastard.”