Unleashed (11 page)

"You are acting totally insane," I said.

"Loco," added the other man.

"First you tell me that I cannot stay in here, and now you tell me I cannot leave. What do you want from me?" He turned back into the lounge and threw his hands in the air.

"Where was Jacquelyn when her husband was killed?"

The question caught him off guard. "Why do you want to know that?"

"Because I want to help her."

"Why? Why do you want to help her?" I didn't have a ready answer. I hadn't even known that I wanted to help her until I said it. Why did I want to help a woman who very well could be guilty? Was, in fact, more than likely guilty?

"I don't know, but I do. Do you know where she was?"

"She was with me." He hung his head in either exhaustion or shame or maybe both.

"Where?"

"At my house, in Queens. I already told the police this. But, of course, they don't believe me."

"Did anyone see you two together?"

"No, we were very careful. Careful." He laughed a mirthless laugh and sat down, more like collapsed, onto a small, battered love seat. "Nothing matters now...now that I have lost her."

"What do you mean, lost her?"

"She ended it with me." His eyes filled with tears.

"She dumped you?"

"She told me—" A lump rose in his throat and cut off communication. "She told me that she didn't want to see me anymore, that she didn't love me, that she never had." A tear ran down his smooth cheek. I realized how young he was. No more than 22.

"I'm sorry, Julen." He let his head fall into his hands again. Soft sobbing rocked his frame. "Why are you so desperate to help her if she has hurt you so much?"

His head sprang up. "Just because she no longer loves me does not mean that I will abandon her."

All of our heads turned at the sound of the revolving door.

"Julen, get out there," I whispered sharply. He jumped up and hurried into the lobby, wiping his face with his sleeve. I closed the lounge door most of the way.

"Hello, Julen." It was Detective Mulberry. All I could see was the back of Julen. "I just have a couple more things to clear up with you."

"Of course, Detective, but I am working now. Could we talk later?"

"I think we should talk now." The door revolved again. "I think you should come for a chat at the station."

"Sir, I could lose my job."

"Come on, let's go." I heard the sound of two men wearing hard-soled shoes walk toward Julen. A hand wrapped itself around Julen's arm and moved him. I was suddenly facing the detective. Ducking behind the door, I hoped he hadn't seen me. I heard the door revolve several more times, then silence. The maintenance man sharing my hiding place shook his head and clucked his tongue against his teeth.

I waited a couple of seconds, holding my breath, listening. When I was sure the lobby was empty, I walked out of the lounge. Mulberry was waiting for me. He smiled, enjoying the mix of fear and surprise on my face.

"What are you doing here?" he said.

"None of your business." It was his turn to be surprised. I walked past him toward the elevators.

"I asked you a question." Mulberry ran a couple of steps to catch up.

"And I gave you an answer." I pushed the up button and prayed for the doors to open.

"I'll ask you again. What are you doing here?"

The doors opened and I saw myself reflected in the mirrored walls of the elevator as I said, "none of your business." I stepped inside.

"Don't push it, Miss Humbolt."

I turned to face him, then pushed the button for the Sapersteins' floor. The detective didn't try to stop the doors from closing, nor did he take his eyes off mine.

###

A
short, plump, clean-faced woman opened Jacquelyn Saperstein's door. "Hi, I'm—"

"Who is it?" came a voice from inside; it was strong with an accent born out of shit loads of money. The woman in front of me winced.

"Hi, I'm Joy, the dog-walker." I held my hand out to the woman in front of me. Tentatively, she laid her soft hand in mine. I squeezed and shook. She watched. I let go and her hand slipped out of my grip and back down to her side.

"I'm Cecelia."

"Nice to meet you," I said. "I know this is a difficult time and—" A rail-like woman, her face encased in cosmetics, brushed Cecelia aside and started talking over me.

"You must be the dog-walker. Cecelia, why do you have her standing in the doorway? Please excuse my sister. She forgets herself," the woman said, looking at a point above my head. Cecelia melted away from the door and onto the couch in the living room with her eyes downcast and her hands clasped in front of her.

"That's all right. As I was saying to your sister, this is—"

"Come inside," she said, cutting me off again. She closed the door behind me. "There is no reason for us all to be standing around like a bunch of idle ninnies," she said in the direction of her sister, who flinched.

Snaffles was in the kitchen. He was awake, but he looked much older. His snout sported gray hairs, and he walked with the air of an animal that had lived too long, dragging his left back leg and wheezing with each labored step. "What happened to Snaffles?" I asked the thin sister.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. You just have to walk him. I think just about anyone could handle that responsibility." She lit up a very long, white cigarette and looked down her sharp nose at me. "I mean, even a trained monkey can walk a dog." She laughed at her own joke, and gray smoke plumed past her perfectly white capped teeth and into the air.

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Mrs. Point."

"I understand that this is a hard time for your family, but there is no reason to talk to me like that."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." She blew a long stream of smoke in my direction.

"I just want to know if Snaffles is ill."

"Just shut up and walk the dog." She started to leave the room.

"Excuse me?" I said.

She whirled around and glared at me. "Who do you think you are? You are my employee, and you will do as I say."

"I'm not your employee, and I feel bad for anyone who is."

"Then I guess you will find other employment."

"I guess I already have it." I started to leave but couldn't help myself. "This was a young and healthy dog only days ago, and now he looks like he is in death's doorway. I asked what happened to him, because I care about the well-being of the animal—something any person would do. Perhaps even a trained monkey would have the heart to find out what happened to a defenseless creature." Mrs. Point looked down at me, her cigarette gripped tightly between long, claw-like fingers.

"How dare you speak to me this way," she sputtered. "Get out." She stamped out her cigarette into an ashtray and pointed to the door. Cecelia walked into the kitchen.

"What's going on here?" she asked with a tremor in her voice.

"I fired the dog-walker."

"Mildred, we need someone to walk the dog," Cecelia said.

"Do you think she is the only dog-walker in New York City? Now get out," she said to me.

"No," Cecelia said. Her hands balled into fists at her side. "You stay right where you are."

Oh Jesus, I thought, these bitches are crazy.

"Mildred," Cecelia started, "this young woman is right. You're heartless."

Mildred's jaw dropped, but she picked herself up quickly. "Where would you all be without Harold and our money? Where?" Mildred almost screeched.

"Maybe we would be happy. Maybe we would all get along," Cecelia said, her words harder than her voice.

"You live in a fucking fairy tale, Cecelia, and I'm sick of looking after you." She lit another one of her long cigarettes, leaning against the kitchen counter, positive she would win this one.

"Sick of looking after me? Who was there when you got kicked out of Elexer Prep School? Who convinced father not to throw you out of the house?" Cecelia's face flushed pink.

"That's ancient history. I've been saving your ass for years," Mildred said.

"You are an embarrassment. The way you treat people is horrific and disgusting." Cecelia took a step into the room. She was looking up at her sister with eyes as hot as the ember at the tip of Mildred's cigarette.

"Whatever, Cecelia, I don't need this shit from you or anybody else." Mildred stormed past her sister. I heard the front door slam behind her. Cecelia stood in the kitchen doorway.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." She pulled a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and wiped at her eyes. "She is the youngest, you know. They are always—well, never mind."

"Would you like me to walk Snaffles for you?"

"Very much so. I'm going to lie down for a nap."

I put Snaffles' leash on. He looked up at me with unfocused eyes. Outside, he peed on the closest tree, then sat. "Come on, boy," I said in a high, happy tone. He stood up and followed me around the block, wheezing and panting. After only 20 minutes of exercise, I took him home.

The house was quiet. I put Snaffles in the kitchen. He slumped onto his bed and began snoring softly. I took a moment to thank a God I don't believe in for my brother and his kindness, then let myself out of the apartment, locking the door behind me.

I headed over to Eighty-Eight East End Avenue to find George Chamers who, according to Philip, had some information about the morning of the murder. The lobby of Eighty-Eight East End seemed vaguely familiar, like something out of a dream. I walked up to the block of marble that served as the front desk and asked a white-haired, deeply lined man if George Chamers was around.

"Well, now, I'll have to check." He brought out a large binder from under the desk filled with phone numbers, which he muttered over. "Here it is." He dialed, checking the binder several times. "Hello, Chamers? Is that you? Oh, Wilson," he laughed. "Yes, you two do sound alike. Listen, Wilson, I have a lovely young lady up here"—he smiled at me, I smiled back—"who wants to speak to Chamers." He listened for a moment. "Uh-huh, I see. OK. Thank you." He hung up. "Sorry dear, but he is not in today. Tomorrow he goes on at 7 a.m."

"Thanks. I'll come back."

"You're welcome." As I turned to leave, I noticed a paisley couch and realized I was in the lobby that Declan had brought me to. I tried to take a step, but my foot didn't want to listen to me. The room whirled. The paisley was everywhere. The marble looked cold and foreboding and was getting closer. I hit the ground hard. I stayed there.

###

W
hen I woke up I was back on that paisley couch, and the white-haired man was leaning over me, his brow wrinkled. A woman dressed all in black with burgundy lipstick watched me from over his shoulder. "An ambulance is on the way," she told me.

"I don't want an ambulance." She looked surprised. "I'm fine. I just, I don't know, but I don't need an ambulance."

"But you had a spell. You should go to the hospital to find out what's wrong with you."

"I don't need to go to the hospital." I sat up and felt my brain swimming inside my cranium. It felt light and delicate. "I'm fine. I just need to go home." I stood up. My feet felt very far away. I put my arms out to steady myself. The woman touched my elbow. I pulled away from her and fell back onto the couch. I tried to get up again, but the white-haired man put a hand on my shoulder and told me to wait. "Wait for what?" I asked stupidly. He was nice enough to just smile at me.

"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 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.