Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) (15 page)

We walked past Charlene’s building. I looked up at her window. It was dark. I kept going until I was standing at the bottom of the drive leading to Gracie Mansion watching a fancy dress party come to a close.

The mansion—with its yellow exterior, tall windows accented by green shutters, and wraparound porch—is a country estate in an urban landscape. Women in long gowns and men in tuxedos dripped down the steps into waiting limousines. The mayor waved from the porch with one arm around his wife’s slim waist.

Sometimes Men are Disgusting

“Haven’t I seen you before?” a man asked me as I waited for the elevator with Snowball. He was tall and good-looking in that stockbroker, American Psycho kind of way.

“I don't think so.” The elevator dinged, and we stepped in. “What floor?” I asked him as I pushed my button.

“Seventeen.” The elevator doors closed, and we rose skyward.

“Wait. I know. You were outside of Gracie Mansion last night with that incredible creature.”

“Yeah, that was me.” I smiled and felt my face color.

“So you have two dogs?” He pointed to Snowball.

“This one isn’t mine. I’m a dog-walker.”

“Ah, the oldest profession.” He smiled at me with big teeth too white for his age.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“I have a dog you could walk.” His smile made me feel like meat.

“You have a dog?” I tried to make it sound as if I were really talking about a dog, as in the four-legged, furry creature.

“I most certainly do.” He moved closer to me. The elevator dinged and opened on my floor. I stepped quickly out. “Do you have a card? I really would like to continue our conversation.” The elevator tried to close, but he stuck out a loafer-clad foot and stopped it.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re not looking for new clients? How do you expect your business to grow?” The elevator dinged impatiently.

“Sorry. I have to go.” I turned and hurried away.

“I'll see you around,” he called to me.

And Sometimes They’re Dead

The next day, that guy was dead. His name was Tate Hausman, but now he was dead (found hanging from his coveted exposed beams), and I was having another awful conversation with Detective Mulberry.

“You were one of the last people to see him alive.”

“That makes me the killer? Then I guess Michael killed Joseph Saperstein.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Everyone who lives or works in this neighborhood.”

Mulberry wrote something angrily on a piece of paper.

“Have you spoken to Michael?” he asked.

“Sure, he’s the doorman at a building I work in.” I tried to make it sound casual.

“You two don’t work the same shift, do you?”

“Not exactly. But I’ve been coming in early to walk Snaffles, since Mrs. Saperstein’s arrest.” He tapped his pen against his palm.

“Do you think she did it?”

“Jackie? No, I don't think so.”

“So who do you think it was?”

“I have no idea.”

“But you’re interested?”

“Is there anyone around here who isn’t interested?”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“A walk?” He stood up from behind his desk and came around to where I was sitting. I stared up at him.

“Come on, let’s go.”

I stood up and let him lead me out of the police station and onto the street. The sun had set, and a cloud cover moved in. The sky hung low and red above us. I followed the detective away from the station.

“You need to be careful,” he told me, gripping my arm more than was necessary.

“What?”

“You don’t know what you are getting into.”

“I’m not getting into anything.”

“You weren’t in anything, but now I get the feeling you have put yourself in it. I know that you spoke to Julen and Michael, and, yes, I even know about Chamers. I don’t know why you are talking to all these people. This has nothing to do with you.”

“A minute ago I was the killer. Now it has nothing to do with me.”

“Look.” He spun me around to face him.

“Ow,” I yelled, a shooting pain vibrating down my arm and back, but he ignored me as did the people passing us on the street.

“You need to stop what you’re doing.” I struggled against his grip, but it was like struggling against an iron shackle. He shook my arm, sending new pain through it. “Are you listening to me?”

“It’s hard with all the pain,” I said through clenched teeth. He loosened his grip, and I took a breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” He shoved his face up into mine. “You have to stop, or you are going to get yourself and those around you hurt or even killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is bigger than you. Bigger than me. I can’t protect you. No one can protect you if you figure anything out.”

“Figure what out?”

“This is what I’m talking about. You have to stop asking questions. Do you understand?”

“OK, OK.”

He looked at me. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“OK.” He started to let go and then pulled me back toward him again and whispered, “Get a weapon.” He let go of me, turned on his heel, and melted into the crowd.

This Situation is Extreme

I went straight to James’s and Hugh's house. They ooed and ahhed over my bruised face. We sat in the yard, and I told them about my completely deranged conversation with Mulberry.

“So the two killings are related?” James asked.

“I mean, the police have not said that officially, but obviously they are. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“You need a weapon,” Hugh said. “I happen to have a weapon.” James and I both turned to stare at him.

“What? Like one of your kitchen knives?” James asked, trying not to laugh.

“Actually, it’s a state-of-the-art Taser." I nearly choked on my wine.

“You have a state-of-the-art Taser? How did I not know that?” James asked.

“Oh, I’ve had it forever.”

“Then I guess it’s not that state-of-the-art,” James muttered. Hugh ignored him.

“My mother gave it to me when I told her I was moving to Brooklyn.” James and I both laughed. “I think you should start carrying it,” he said to me.

“You guys don’t think this is just some ploy to try and get me to leave the whole thing alone?”

“Whether it’s a ploy or not, you should leave the whole thing alone and start carrying the Taser,” James said.

“That’s extreme.”

“And this situation is—” James said with his eyebrows raised and his palms up, leaving me to fill in the blank.

“Two people are dead,” Hugh pointed out.

“What time is it?” I looked around for a clock.

“Almost ten,” Hugh replied.

“I want to watch the news. See if there’s anything on about it.” A Live Action News Alert opened with a digital American flag waving across the screen. Betty Tong, wearing garish red lipstick and a bright-pink suit, told us, in her best impression of a news anchor, that there was a serious terrorist threat against the subway system of New York City. They cut to a clip of the mayor giving a statement. His thinning blond hair was plastered to his scalp, his tie, a brilliant blue, brought out his eyes.

“We are taking this threat with all seriousness. We will be doing random searches of bags at major subway stations. There will be an increase in uniformed and plain-clothed officers on the trains and platforms.” It cut back to Betty, who told us that federal officials had received intelligence about an attack over the next few days, but they did not think it was credible. The mayor, however, was taking no chances.

“I don’t understand how searching random bags at subway stops is going to help. I mean, if you were carrying a bomb, and you saw the cops searching bags, wouldn’t you just leave and go to the next stop where they weren’t searching bags?” Hugh and James nodded and made agreeing noises.

The news cut to a “man on the street“ piece where a young blond woman asked subway riders how they felt about the searches. A heavyset black woman told the camera that she was sick and tired of terrorism. A young white guy at Union Square station said he was just going on with his life and wasn’t taking the threat too seriously.

“Only a week after Joseph Saperstein’s brutal murder, another death in Yorkville,” said Betty, setting up the next story.

“This is it,” I said, leaning toward the television. Hugh turned up the volume. A young, clean-shaven reporter stood in front of Tate Hausman’s building.

“Tate Hausman, a successful investment banker, an avid scuba diver, a well-liked man, took his own life late Tuesday night. He hanged himself in his home.”

“What? His own life?” I said.

“A close friend of the mayor’s, Hausman had struggled with depression for years.” The screen showed the mayor and Tate in wet suits, face masks pushed up on their foreheads, wind playing with their hair, smiling as their boat pulled away from the shore. “His body was found this morning by his cleaning woman. The police refuse to comment on the existence of a note but say that there is no doubt it was suicide.” The news cut back to the mayor.

“Tate was a good friend of mine. He introduced me to scuba diving. He helped me through law school,” the mayor sighed. “I just wish I could have helped him through this. Depression is a horrible disease but treatable. I urge depressed New Yorkers to call 311 for help.” He looked straight into the camera. “There is help for you. You just have to ask.”

“He’s good,” James said.

“Yeah,” Hugh agreed.

“His own life?” I said.

Betty moved on to a story about a cop being fatally shot in Flatbush. The bullet slipped between two of the protective plates of his vest and struck him in the armpit. The brave officer pursued the shooter for a half-hour, arrested him, and then died. The mayor was back:  “It struck him in just the wrong place. This is a tragedy.” Then it cut to the chief of the fallen officer’s precinct, who called for reinstatement of the death penalty. The chief was obviously holding back tears as he yelled at a sea of blue on the hospital steps to bring justice back to New York. The cops cheered him on.

“Yeah, the death penalty; that’s what we need,” Hugh scoffed. “I'm gonna roll a joint. I can’t watch this shit sober.” James and I nodded and made agreeing noises. By the time we were smoking, a man named Storm Jenkins was telling us about the heat wave on its way to the tri-state area.

“Great,” James said, lungs full of smoke. He exhaled. “That should just about blow out the power grid.” Hugh started laughing, then I started laughing, then James started laughing. As Storm finished off the five-day forecast, we were all laughing so hard we weren’t making any sound. We just rocked back and forth trying to breathe.

A Hanging

“What happened to your face?” Marcia stared at me as I entered the run.

“Oh,” I brought a hand up to the bruise, touching it lightly. It hurt. “I fell down.”

“Are you OK?” Elaine asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Better than Tate Hausman, anyway.”

Fiona picked up the ball that a French bulldog named Chompers had dropped at her feet, and threw it.

“Do you really think he killed himself?” I asked. Chompers flew after the ball.

“I seriously doubt that,” Fiona told me. “The man was a complete egomaniac. As far as I know, egomaniacs aren’t exactly the suicidal types.”

“Maybe he was confident on the outside but really scared and sad on the inside,” Elaine suggested. Chompers got hold of the ball, despite its best efforts to bounce off his nose.

“If you ask me, he was murdered,” Fiona said.

“What makes you think that?” I asked. Chompers, tail high, ears perked, made the rounds of the run showing off his ball.

“I think he was killed by one of his many women,” Fiona said, turning to me. “He was a total slut.” Snowball noticed Chompers satisfied look and launched herself at him, trying to wrest the ball away. “The way he treated women, he deserved what he got.”

“That’s harsh,” Elaine said.

“Not everyone is as sweet as you, Elaine.”

“And not everyone holds onto a grudge as long as you, Fiona,” Marcia said.

“What did he do to you?” I asked Fiona. Chompers was not giving up the ball, and Snowball began to bark in an attempt to intimidate him.

“I dumped him,” Fiona said.

“You two dated?”

“Hardly,” Fiona forced a laugh. “We hooked up one night, but that was it. He was too much of a slut for me.”