The Next (36 page)

She lifted the painting from its propped position in front of the television and exited, leaving the apartment empty once again. The landlord had been too focused on money to notice the painting had been there, let alone that it was no longer there.

And that was it.

All stretchers gone. All ambulance lights ceased their flashing. The stir of the courtyard had stilled. The snow fell heavily. The night dimmed. Our long day was finally coming to a close.

Marzoli whispered, “Aren’t you tired?”

“Not a bit.”

“You need to sleep more than you realize.”

He pushed me toward the bed and collapsed on top of me.

It would be hours before we managed to catch Z’s.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The sun through the new, uncurtained window woke us up twelve days later on a Sunday. Marzoli had remained with me the entire time, save for a couple trips back to his apartment to collect some 2(X)ists and deodorant. His involvement in the Layworth case was not considered exemplary by the pencil pushers, in spite of the fact that forensic analysis of the Layworth apartment revealed blood droplets belonging to Nathan. Marzoli’s method of catching Layworth’s double-homicide was labeled a poorly documented, unsanctioned sting operation of an unassigned case, resulting in two weeks unpaid suspension.

Marzoli didn’t care.

His pals pawed him when they came over to congratulate him, slapping him on the back, roughing up his hair, and boxing him on the shoulders. Each of them assured Marzoli they all had his back. Each in their own way told the pencil pushers who put Marzoli on suspension to go fuck themselves. I was in no way surprised Marzoli was as well liked personally as he was highly regarded professionally. He was obviously an integral part of the clan. Over the course of those twelve days, we quickly learned that maintaining the tight inclusion of the clan was far more important to its members than maintaining its straightness.

The most moving moment took place during Lieutenant Torres’ visit. Instantly I could tell Torres and Marzoli had a closer working relationship than the rest. Torres had Marzoli’s alpha-male toughness, but he was much less apt to smile or resort to charm. After Marzoli introduced us, Torres shook my hand and looked me squarely in the eye.

“About time,” he said as he brought his other hand up to cup the top of our grip.

About time Marzoli came out? Or about time he found someone?

It touched me to know this stalwart character held his colleague’s personal well-being, fulfillment, and happiness as important. I was grateful for the approval, and so was Marzoli. Marzoli’s hand inched his way towards mine during Torres’ visit, until, by the time the bottles of beer were downed, his hand rested squarely on mine right in front of Torres. Torres smiled in acceptance.

But I could tell Marzoli’s true satisfaction came from having defiantly face-planted the term “inconsequential” in a pile of shit. Solving Nathan’s murder had consequences. It led to the solving of Ruben’s murder. It led to justice. It proved compassion could run a successful course in this hard metropolis. My esteem for Marzoli grew even greater for him being so proud of this particular element of the success.

As the sun grew stronger, someone knocked on the door. I left Marzoli in the bed and opened the door.

Johanna entered.

She looked around the apartment and smiled. “You’re coming around at last. That’s good.”

“Johanna…” I hesitated.

“I assume you’ve given some thought to…” she paused in midsentence as Marzoli entered, a sheet wrapped around his waist.

He was something to worship in the sunlight—segmented abdomen, the overhanging boulders of his chest, his massive shoulders, his sexy roughed-up dark hair crowning that gorgeous chiseled face with the dark shadow of stubble. The sun bounced up from the floor and made large portions of the sheet somewhat translucent.

Johanna caught her breath.

I couldn’t help relishing the bittersweet richness of waiting for her response.

“You’re all over the news. Both of you,” she said, “but…I…I didn’t realize the investigation was ongoing.”

I honestly couldn’t tell if she being facetious or just biding time as she acclimated to this new information. She was expressionless, drained of blood.

“It’s not,” I replied.

Marzoli mercifully kept quiet. His appearing that ridiculously sexy in a mere sheet was causing enough trouble. Johanna opened her mouth, and then shut it. Opened it again to speak, and then edited herself once more.

“I…umm…I owe you both a drink,” she finally began, bravely sublimating her emotions. “I’m in the running for Sophie Layworth’s position. I’ll get it. I know too many people in her company not to, and they’re looking for someone…”

She paused. Did she suddenly become aware of how callous she was coming across?

“…someone younger. Honestly, a lot of people she worked with want to buy you a drink.”

She managed to smile, but it strained with disappointment and anger and sadness. She sharply flicked the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder.

“Let’s talk later?” she asked crisply, refusing to acknowledge that the elephant in the room was, in fact, an elephant with one hell of a trunk.

She turned and hightailed it out of my apartment, shutting the door behind her so gently that she might as well have slammed it shut. To me, as well as to Marzoli, Johanna’s rising up the ladder by stepping over the body of a woman who’d been killed only twelve days ago spoke volumes about her as well as the industry she elected to devote her life to. Marzoli’s peers came by one-by-one to embrace him even tighter into the circle, while Mrs. Layworth’s peers might as well have pulled the trigger themselves. We were grateful not to be entrenched in any such battlefield, and I was grateful to Marzoli for helping me steer clear of Johanna’s artillery.

Marzoli and I looked at each other, walked to the window, and absorbed the warmth of the sunlight. We looked across the courtyard. Our neighbors seemed so much closer to us in proximity than ever before. Both Couch Potatoes sat on the sofa, spooning large bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios into their mouths, eyes glued to Sunday television. I couldn’t help but smile in relief. They sat no closer together on the couch, nor farther from each other. They behaved as if no massage table had ever been thrown into the courtyard; as if their passions had never rocketed to operatic melodrama. Did the comforts of their routine erase the drama? Or merely neutralize it? I no longer viewed their relationship as ideal, but neither did I view it disdainfully as domestically slothful either. Their partnership survived. Did the band-aid they selected to repair it really matter in the end?

Beneath them Schlongzilla slept in his bed, flanked by what appeared to be one woman with long blond hair and one muscular ginger with a military buzz. If I had my guess, the fucker picked up a couple last night. Gotta love walking coat hangers doing what they do best. Gotta love this island.

The Broadway Dancer carefully and slowly chewed on highly specific portions of protein, carbohydrates, and fiber. He sat upright on his couch, voraciously studying passages of a script. Obviously he’d gotten into a show. Congratulations Twink-Twink Toes. You can pay the rent without Daddy and Mommy’s help. You can keep chasing that dancer dream this month.

The Layworth’s apartment was still roped with yellow police tape. After all that bustling family life, salacious sextastics, and red-splattered violence, the rooms now sat in sad vacancy. We’d not seen the children once. We assumed child services had called Hunter and Felicity to the principal’s office on that deadly day and whisked them to a relative’s home…for good.

In our race for justice, it never occurred to me that we’d have to leap over two small people who’d never reap its rewards. One could assume that parents who had the capacity to kill and plot a cover-up could never have the capacity to raise children properly, and thus the children were saved. But then, one could also pray that, in spite of any parents’ faults, they still had the capacity to raise children properly. The Layworth children were a handful, but, ultimately, good kids. Wasn’t the proof in that rambunctious but well-adjusted pudding that good kids can come from killers?

One of the Layworths’ windows had been left open a crack, and a breeze caused the yellow tape and curtain to flap in a silent wave. That chapter for that Architectural Digest apartment was over. In the trial it would be revealed that, after being asked to resign from his law firm, Nicholas Layworth’s involvement with the Tea Party Fundamentalist Coalition not only provided him a half million annual salary, but that amount was about to be tripled. In addition, Sophia Layworth’s conservative classic designs were causing a mutiny within the company, and her tenure was looking more and more tenuous. The prosecution for the state used these two possible eventualities to present a convincing scenario for their motivation to hide any of the husband’s homosexual indiscretions by murdering Ruben and Nathan.

Mrs. Abraham was, of course, vindicated entirely for her actions, as was I. But as I watched the Layworths’ curtain blow irregularly in the breeze, I realized how reactive the Layworths’ crimes had been. Unpremeditated. Driven by the moment and fueled by passion, lust, jealously, and, ultimately, self-preservation. Unforgivable, but totally relatable. Evil had landed across the courtyard like a flitting, opportunistic bird, and then flown off with the next draft from the sky, looking for its next brief perch. There were seventy-two thousand blocks of apartments in this city. Which would it choose next?

The Princess pulled open her curtain. In her bed was another woman—tattooed and largish with cropped strawberry blond hair. I was slow on the uptake, but I realized as the Princess dressed herself in Levi’s and hooked that chain to her belt loop that Marzoli had known exactly what cropped hair and a long metal key chain signified. Was she biologically attracted to women, or had her experiences with men put her on any course that led to comfort? It probably made no difference in the end. We shared a similar story, and I could only hope that the Princess’s switch gave her the same relaxed bliss that I was feeling right now as Marzoli wrapped his arms around my chest and stomach in the sunlight.

The Beached Whale was awake and propped on her side as always, her pendulous breasts once again stretching down to the futon. Her eyes were fixed forward facing…

Fucking perfect!

She’d placed the Little Old Man’s painting in front of her television, so, once again, Marzoli and I could only see the back of it. Her eyes were alternately full of…of sadness…of wonder…of hope…of regret…of revelation. Her expression was similar to that of the Little Old Man’s last one. Marzoli and I were transfixed by this woman who was outwardly positioned as most of America on any given moment, but whose emotional journey was stratospheric. Where was she going? Where did she dream of going?

The sun gleamed on the gold frame and blinded us for a split second.

“Come here,” Marzoli said, pulling me back.

He walked to his pile of clothes and picked up his jeans.

I sighed. “I guess you’ve got to return home sometime.”

“You do too.”

What does that mean?

He pulled out of the pocket of his jeans an envelope and handed it to me. I opened it. In my hand was a printed United Airlines’ itinerary. He’d purchased two tickets to Sacramento, California.

“Sacramento’s an hour from Placerville,” he explained. “We’ve got to be at JFK at seven p.m. Tonight. Not a direct flight. Sorry. Unless you’ve got something better to do?”

I was stunned.

“Why?” I asked.

“A bag full of ashes. I’m ready to read my next book. And there’s an old man in a trailer who needs as much closure from you as you need from him,” he stated with that Marzoli definitiveness. “I think.”

“I can hardly make it to the stairs let alone to Placerville.”

Marzoli tossed my sweatpants into my arms and danced to the door. He opened it and tiptoed past Mrs. Abraham’s door to the head of the staircase.

“Come to me,” he mouthed in silence.

I looked at that beautiful Puerto Rican Sicilian in all his enthusiasm and encouragement and was flooded with a rush of realization. Yes, I want my brother’s ashes! Yes, I want our Valley of Adventure, our Castle of Adventure, and our Mountain of Adventure! Yes, I want Paul with me always! Yes, I want Palmer to know how much gratitude I have for his silent concern all these years! Yes, I want to listen to my Grandfather’s records and find wherever he rested to tell him I understand in the face of everything I knew he’d allowed to happen! Yes, I want our old red Swiss Army knives as well as all the secrets of our childhood with me, fully acknowledged and fully owned! And most of all, yes, I want to share all of this with this one phenomenal Puerto Rican Sicilian standing fifty feet away at the head of the stairs.

A few minutes later, I heard Minnie sounding the alarm with all her puppy perniciousness. For once I was absolutely elated to hear the sharp yelps of that little spitfire on paws, for this time Minnie was yapping for me.

There was a vast world out there. It was time to be part of it.

Yappity yap yap yap.

THE END

Trademark Acknowledgement

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