Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (13 page)

“Everything will be fine,” he told me.

“I don’t have insurance,” I said. He didn’t let this worry him. He just smiled at me sweetly.

“I can't afford this,” I tried to explain.

“Just rest.” But I couldn’t do that, so I pulled myself up again. They both moved out of my way as I put one foot in front of the other. Carefully, deliberately, I made it out onto the street. The warmth of the sun felt good on my bruised face. I stood for a moment with my eyes closed, collecting my thoughts. The long walk to the subway seemed unbearable. I wished for a “beam me up, Scotty machine“ to zap me into my bed. Instead, I climbed onto a cross-town bus.

I’d never fainted before. I hardly thought that women of my generation did such things. I mean, sure, if I wore a corset and was prone to hysterics like women who wore hoop skirts and became overwhelmed by short walks and loud bangs, then I could explain the episode, but this was a new millennium. My mother’s generation burned their bras and freed us from, among other things, the need to faint from emotional distress.

Later, on the phone, James was adamant that I should go to a doctor. ”I fainted. You don’t have to go to a doctor about fainting.”

“Yes, you do. What if you have a tumor? he insisted.

“It’s not a tumor,” I replied in my best imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger from Kindergarten Cop.

“I can’t believe you still quote that movie. You should see a doctor about that.”

“That one I will give you.” I flicked on the TV. “I’m going to watch the news now.”

“To see if your case is on?”

“Mhmm.”

“I’ll watch with you.”

I heard his TV zap to life. Betty Tong smiled out at us, then quickly frowned when an image of a darkened New York skyline appeared above her right shoulder. “Our top story tonight: Does New York City have enough power to survive the summer? John.” The camera cut to John Schoop, Betty’s co-anchor.

“Also, new developments in the Saperstein slaying. Betty.” Back to Betty.

“And what kind of park has the mayor singing its praises? All that and more after the break.”

“Do you think the city has enough power?” I asked James.

“Probably not.” The news came back. Betty introduced us to an expert who assured us that if we had a heat wave, we would have a blackout.

“That’s not good,” James said.

“That’s bad,” I agreed.

“Mayor Kurt Jessup returned from a visit to Long Island today with praise for a new park— an underwater park, the first of its kind,” John Schoop announced. The screen showed the mayor on a boat, leaning over the edge, shaking hands with a man who bobbed in the water. “The main attraction in this Shipwreck Park is the H.M.S. Culloden, a 74-gun frigate that sank over 200 years ago.” The screen cut to the mayor in his press conference room.

“I was very impressed by the park,” the mayor stated. “I love to dive—the adventure, the freedom to breathe underwater. And not only do I think it’s great to be introducing more people to the sport of scuba diving, but this park is also providing protection for the artifacts resting at the bottom of Fort Pond Bay. People I’ve spoken to joke that everyone with a boat and a wet suit has some part of her history.” His face turned serious. “And that has got to stop. We can’t have people looting our history. I am overjoyed by Albany’s decision to fund this park.”

John Schoop appeared again. “The Culloden sank in 1781 while in pursuit of French vessels assisting the American colonists. Betty.”

Betty was laughing when the camera cut back to her. “Mayor Jessup does love to dive.”

“Do you think he’s running for governor?” James asked.

“I don't know.”

“I wouldn’t want to face him. Scary.” Kurt Jessup won the mayoral election three years earlier after his Democratic opponent, the incumbent, lost his mind. He ended up in an upstate facility so drugged up that all he does is drool. After Jessup’s landslide, rumors of poisoning spread. But most people agree the guy just snapped, that Jessup got a lucky break.

Mrs. Saperstein’s mug shot filled the screen. She looked exhausted and dumbstruck. “A new development in the Upper East Side slaying of Joseph Saperstein.” The screen cut to footage of Mrs. Saperstein being led out of her apartment building. “A doorman at the victim’s co-op claims to have spent the morning with the accused widow on the day of the murder.” Jackie is shown stepping into an unmarked black car. “Police say that his claim is unsubstantiated, and they have witnesses who saw Jacquelyn Saperstein leaving the scene of the crime.” Back to Betty Tong. “Action News Live Alert: Now Channel 7 has learned that the doorman was having an affair with the widow, and this is one of the reasons the police find his story suspect.”

Mulberry, in front of a bunch of microphones, said, “I believe that Julen Valquez would say anything to help Mrs. Saperstein, and therefore I am not taking his statements seriously.” Mulberry turned to leave as the crowd of reporters yelled unintelligible questions at him.

“We will have more on this story as it progresses. John.” I turned off my TV.

“Joy, I have to admit. She looks really guilty,” James said.

“I don’t know. I just don’t think she did it.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know yet.” I chewed on my lip and stared at the blank TV screen.

“Joy, you there?”

“Yeah, yeah, just thinking.”

“You’re not going to faint are you?” James asked with a note of fear in his voice.

“No. I’m fine. I just, I need to figure this out.”

We didn’t say anything for a while, but I could hear James breathing on the other end.

“I’ll figure it out,” I said.

“I bet you will,” James said.

George and Michael

I woke up early the next day. There was a bruise on my cheek from where I’d hit the marble. It was sore and slightly puffy but not too colorful. I applied some concealer and headed uptown. If I hurried, I would have time to see both Michael, the mysterious man without a phone, and George Chamers, the man Philip at Ten House said I should talk to.

I usually avoid the hours when the majority of humanity squeezes onto the subway. It’s hot, it’s too tight, and it makes me feel like a sheep, like one of them. I don’t like being “one of them.”

As I stood holding onto the bar, there was a man wearing a suit with a bluetooth in his ear on the one side, and a pregnant woman with sweat dripping into her eyes on the other. I thought about what Hugh said. Directly across from me, her hand gripping less than an inch below mine on the center pole, was a soulful-looking woman in her fifties. I looked directly into her face. She wore a glazed expression, and, though I stared into her eyes, she did not react.

I shook my head, whipping my ponytail against the bluetooth-wearing male and the pregnant female. They both gave me more space, but neither of them looked my way. I took a breath of humid air and sighed. Could Hugh be right? Did humans just see what they wanted? Were we really blind? “FUCK!” I yelled.

The woman across from me jumped a little but did not glance in my direction. “Excuse me,” I said to her. She did not respond. I touched her arm, she just backed away. “Excuse me, can you see me right now?” I asked. She squeezed back into the crowd behind her—a mass of people who I didn’t really see, just the colors of their shirts and the difference in their heights.

I gave up and spent the rest of the subway ride looking at my shoes.

At Eighty-Eight East End Avenue, a heavyset woman with a unibrow had replaced the white-haired man from the day before. She phoned Chamers for me, and several minutes later, the freight elevator arrived carrying a good-looking man in his late forties.

“I’m George,” he said offering a calloused hand.

“I’m Joy. Philip suggested I talk to you. Is there anywhere we can talk in private?”

“Yes, Philip said you’d be stopping by. It’s your friend Charlene who is missing. I don’t know if I can help you but I’m happy to try.” I didn’t bother correcting him. If Charlene being my friend helped him talk to me, then so be it. George led the way to the freight elevator. It was quilted in blue fabric meant to protect the walls. George inserted a key, and the doors swooshed closed with a well-oiled swoosh.

“Philip said that you saw something the morning Joseph Saperstein was killed.”

The elevator carried us past the basement to the sub-basement. George sighed. “Yes. I did.”

The doors opened onto a clean, white hallway lit by florescent lights. Our steps echoed around us as we followed the hall to where it ended in a T and took a left, followed by a right and then another left, which brought us to an unmarked door that George opened with a key that hung on a ring with about a hundred others. He motioned me inside and pointed out a chair facing an old wooden desk. He sat behind the desk and ran a large hand through his dark hair. “Why do you want to know about this?” he asked.

“I’ll be honest,” I said, and then bit my lip. “I found his body, my friend is missing, and I don’t know what else to do but try and figure out what happened.”

“Really?” He frowned. “I guess this is kind of a mess, and maybe you should just leave it alone.”

“What do you know about it?”

He looked up quickly, “Nothing. I just know what I saw, and I barely know that.”

“Will you please tell me.”

He sighed again. He studied me with deep brown eyes set in a lean and handsome face. “It was around 7:30 in the morning,” he started. “I was in here when I heard the emergency exit alarm go off. I hurried to hallway N11. It’s a bit of a hike, and it probably took me five or seven minutes. I was very surprised to see a woman standing in the exit. I called out to her, and she ran down the hall. I followed, but she was quicker than me. I’ve got a bad knee.” He reached under the desk and rubbed the knee, his eyes unfocused. “She could have gone in so many different directions.”

“Where does the emergency exit lead to? The one you saw her standing in.”

George shook his head. “It’s where the body was.”

“You didn’t look out the door?”

“No one did.” He shook his head again. “I called the police. They wrote up a report, but no one thought to look out the door.”

I wondered for just a flash how different my life would be if someone else had opened that door. If someone else had found him lying there in his own blood, missing his face. “What did the woman look like?” I asked.

“Blond hair under a blue baseball cap. She was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt.”

“Do you think her hair was dyed or natural?”

He smiled and cast his eyes to the floor. “I’d say it was bleached.”

“Did you see her face?”

“Only for a second, and it was dark. Because of the energy crisis, we’ve only been keeping every third light on in certain sectors.”

“Was she carrying a gun?”

“Not that I saw.”

I thought about how Joseph’s face was obliterated. It must have been a big fucking gun. “Do you think it was Jacquelyn Saperstein?” I asked.

He didn’t look at me but instead concentrated on a spot above my head. “I’ve spent many hours trying to reconstruct her face in my mind. It was only a flash you understand?” He looked at me, and I nodded. “I can’t for sure say it wasn’t, but I’m not going to testify in court that I saw her there. I told the police that.”

“Did they try to pressure you?”

He laughed. “Not in so many words. Of course, they want it to be all buttoned up, but I just can’t say I saw someone I didn’t. She had a similar build, and the hair was about the same I guess. But she got away from me, and I’ll never know without her confession that it was Mrs. Saperstein.”

“How big is this place?” I asked.

He smiled again. His teeth were crooked in a charming way. “It’s the biggest place I’ve ever worked. I mean, these passages lead all over the place—to the parking garage, other exits to the street, deeper sub-basements. Before the Second World War, this place extended straight to the river. It had a yacht club. People used to sail right off the back of the building.”

“Wow.”

“Sure. Before the East River Drive was built, these buildings went right up to the water. There are so many different hallways around here, and because of all the construction and changes over the years it’s not easy to find your way around. I even heard rumors there are secret passages leading to the park.” He laughed easily. “William Franklin is probably the only man in this city who knows the whole building.”

“William Franklin?”

“He’s the manager here at Eighty-Eight East End Avenue, has been for 30-some-odd years.”

I made a mental note of the man’s name and thought I’d try to get a hold of him later. “How do you think the woman got in through the emergency exit?” I asked. “Would she need a key?”

“She would, and I don’t know how she got it. I’ve got a copy, Franklin’s got one, and there is one kept at the front desk.”

“What about a skeleton key?”

“There is one, but it wouldn’t work for that door. The skeleton is only for the apartments and the tenants’ storage rooms.”