Unleashed (5 page)

"Go on."

"When he dropped it, that's when I saw it was a toupee." I looked up at Doyle. He nodded for me to keep going. "So I dragged Toby to the lobby where the doorman worked and used his phone to call the police. And then I went outside and waited for you guys to show up."

"OK," Doyle said. "I just want to double-check a couple of things." I nodded. "So you didn't touch anything in the alley besides the toupee touching your leg?"

"I might have put my hand on the Dumpster; I'm not sure. But the doorman—I know he touched the wall when he was throwing up. That's all I can think of."

"OK, and do you know if Toby touched anything besides the toupee?"

"I didn't see him."

"The detective in charge of the investigation may want to contact you again. Also, I'm going to give you my card in case you think of anything else." I put his business card in my pocket.

"Can I ask you something?" I said as he stood to leave.

"Sure."

"You ever see anything like that before?"

He nodded sadly and then gave me a crooked smile.

"But what kind of person would do that?"

"I don't know."

"But doesn't it seem awfully hateful to blow someone's—" I stopped to push a lump back down my throat, "—to just wipe away someone's face like that?"

"I would just try not to think about this anymore. Go home, take a nice hot bath, and forget about it." I nodded absently. "Work's another good way to forget."

"I don't think I'll be forgetting anything about this day anytime soon."

"It will probably stay with you for a while, but you'll figure out a way to cope. Everyone does."

He smiled at me. "You want me to walk you back to his place?" He pointed at Toby.

"I'll be fine. Thanks, though. I appreciate you being so nice." I picked myself up off the couch and was surprised to see how strong I actually felt. We started to leave the lobby together when O'Conner came in.

"Doyle, Detective Mulberry is here." O'Conner said the name Mulberry as if it were a dirty word.

Doyle turned back to me. "Ms. Humbolt, thank you for your help. I hope you feel better real soon."

"I already do, thank you."

B
lue greeted me at the door and danced around as I put down my bag and flipped off my shoes. Bending down I gave him a good petting, ruffling him behind the ears and scratching his chest. Then I noticed the feathers. There were a couple at my feet, but as my eyes moved down the hall, the number increased. I walked tentatively toward my living room, feathers swirling around my ankles. Blue's claws clicked on the floor as he followed.

Light from the street illuminated the front room. My red mohair down-cushion couch was leaking. One of the seat cushions was ripped open, and feathers spread onto my coffee table, across the floor to the tangled nest of wires below my TV, and over to where I stood. "Destroyed the couch, huh, boy?" I asked. Blue gave no response. "Well, it was a shitty couch, anyway."

I fed Blue his dinner, bypassing my blinking message machine, and took him out for a walk. We wandered down side streets, avoiding people and bright lights. My exhaustion turned into nervous energy, and soon I was craving a drink.

When we got back to my apartment, the door was open. Blue growled and raised his hackles. I felt the same. Marcus poked his head out. Blue let loose a barrage of barks and growls. I just stared.

"Jesus, Joy, can't you do something about that thing?" Marcus yelled over Blue.

"Fuck you," I responded, brushing past him into my apartment and dragging Blue with me.

"Did you get robbed, or did that darling creature destroy my couch?" Marcus asked.

"It was my couch, remember? You gave it to me. Quiet now, Blue. Would you just leave?" Blue's barking lowered to a deep growl.

"Have a drink with me. I want to talk."

"About your couch?" It sounded dumb the minute it came out of my mouth.

"Come on, one drink." He smiled, and I had a flash of him naked and on top of me. "Please." Marcus was tall, hard-bodied, and bad for me. He smiled with a twinkle in his eyes—the same twinkle that mothers tell their children was in their dad's eyes. Marcus took a step toward me, and I wanted to wrap myself in his arms. I took a step back. We'd broken up for good reasons. Marcus didn't trust me. He thought I was cheating on him, which made me think he was cheating on me. A year and we couldn't trust each other. A year of his accusing me of being someone I wasn't. He took another step and I could smell him. Marcus smelled good. He might be a jealous, paranoid jerk, but he smelled damn good.

"Fine, one drink."

###

W
e had a drink. And then another. We fought, and then we laughed, and then I was drunk. I didn't tell him about the body until we had left the bar, and he was walking me home.

"You want to hear something fucked up?" I asked him.

"What, you gonna tell me about our relationship?" He snorted at his own joke.

"I found a dead body today." Marcus's drunk eyes swiveled in their sockets.

"What?" he asked.

"Yeah, a dead body. It was really fucking weird. His face was missing, and he was wearing a track suit." I stumbled and Marcus reached out and caught me.

"Wait, you found a dead body?" he asked, his voice quiet, eyes intent.

I looked up at him. "Yeah, I don't really want to talk about it anymore," I said looking down at his hand on my forearm. "I don't want to think about it. But I can't stop." I looked up at him. He licked his lips. And then I kissed him. He reacted quickly. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he moved me up against the closest building and pinned me. I let my hands wander from the back of his neck down his chest.

Marcus pulled away and hailed a taxi that was speeding by. He held me tight and kissed me so that I could barely breathe as the cab raced through empty streets to his apartment. Marcus threw money at the cabby and we rode in the elevator entangled. He smelled so good and he kissed so well. And dear Jesus did the man know what to do with his hands.

Marcus opened his door with one hand, keeping the other on the small of my back. Inside, I pushed him up against the wall and pressed myself against him. He lifted me up, and I wrapped my legs around him. I bit his lip, he pulled my hair, and then I was on the floor, on my back. I was right where I wanted to be—there wasn't a thought in my head. I was barely even human.

###

T
he moment it was over I knew I had made a massive mistake. We were on Marcus's floor, his arms wrapped around me. Usually when we lay like that, I felt that nothing could hurt me, that Marcus would protect me. But tonight I felt that he was holding me too tightly, that he was a danger to me, that I was a danger to myself. I had to get out of there. I needed to be alone. "I've missed you," Marcus said.

Crap. I tried to move away, but he pulled me into him tighter.

"Is something wrong?" Marcus asked, and then lightly kissed my ear. I cringed at the intimacy in his voice.

"Marcus," I paused, trying to figure out how to phrase it. "I need to go home."

"Hang out for a minute. Let's just lay here."

"I can't." I tried to get up again, but he held me close. I started to feel as if I couldn't breathe. "Marcus, let me up."

"Come on, just stay for a little while."

"No, Marcus. I have to go home." I wrenched myself free and started to look around for my clothes.

"What's your rush?" Marcus asked, watching me.

"I just need to get out of here. I need to go home."

"But why?"

"Because this was a mistake, Marcus," I said as I looked into his eyes trying to make him understand.

"A mistake? But it was great. Didn't you think it was great?"

"Yes, Marcus, it was great sex, but that's all it was." I found my underwear under his jeans and pulled them on.

"Just a great fuck?  It didn't mean anything to you? What about us?" Marcus sat up and looked at me.

"There is no more us," I said, turning away from him.

"Then what the fuck was that?" Marcus gestured to his floor.

"That was sex. I needed to not think. Look, I'm sorry if you thought it was more, but do you really want to start seeing me again? We don't even like each other. You're constantly accusing me of cheating on you. You think I'm the kind of person who fucks strangers in bathrooms, which I'm not. You don't get me at all." I looked around for my jeans in the dark hallway.

"Well, you have to admit it was odd when you and Jeremy went to the bathroom at the same time at Mitch's barbecue."

"Jeremy! Jeremy!" I screamed at him. "You think I fucked your coworker in the bathroom of your friend's house. That is just fucking insane."

"I didn't say you fucked him. I just said it was strange. A strange coincidence."

"All right, I'm leaving now." I found my jeans flung into a corner.

"You know how you are Joy."

I paused in my clothes-gathering search to look at him. "What do you mean, how I am?"

"You know, how you are in bed."

"How
am
I Marcus?"

"You used me for sex. This is so like you." Marcus puffed out his chest. I pulled on my jeans, falling against the wall when my foot got stuck for just a second.

"Look, we can talk about this later, when we're not both still drunk." I spotted my T-shirt and grabbed it off the floor, my pants still undone. I did not want to deal with another conversation about how my being good in bed proved I was a psychopath. Just because I was a woman who didn't need to cry after every fucking orgasm.

"Oh sure, everything is on your schedule. Well, not this time." Marcus picked up my flip-flops and held them over his head. "We're going to talk about this now." He looked ridiculous—butt-ass naked holding a pair of bright green flip-flops above his head.

"I need to go home now. Please give me my flip-flops." I pulled my shirt on and held out a hand.

"No." His lips pursed and his eyebrows set against me.

"Stop being childish and give me the flip-flops."

Marcus faked a laugh, throwing his head back so I could see the hairs in his nostrils. He stopped abruptly and looked down at me. "No. Now, what're you gonna do about it?"

"Look, I had a really fucked-up day, and I just need to go home." I felt suddenly on the verge of tears.

"Right after you rip out my heart?" he screamed at me.

"You are acting like a child. I didn't rip out your heart. This is bullshit. Give me my shoes." He just smiled, proud that he was taller and stronger and didn't have to give me my shoes if he didn't want to. "I'm the one who had the traumatic day and you are trying to make this whole thing all about you. Now can you see why maybe, just maybe, I want nothing to do with you, you asshole!" I stood in front of him, breathing heavily.

"No," was all he said.

"Fine! Just fine!" I screamed at him and then ran out the door, down the steps, and onto the street, leaving my flip-flops and Marcus behind. I started to cry as I stomped down the street. Big heaving sobs that made it hard to walk. I was angry and crying, and I didn't have any shoes.

###

I
arrived home to my feather-covered house around four in the morning. "What a day," I told Blue as I sat on my bed, using a spoon to eat peanut butter directly from the jar. I jumped when the phone rang, and Blue took the opportunity to lick my peanut butter spoon. I didn't want to answer. It was probably Marcus. My machine picked up, and I heard James's voice.

"Where are you!" he yelled. I picked up. "Joy, Jesus. What happened to you? I've been calling your cell and it's been going straight to voice mail. The last thing I heard was you scream and your phone crash. I've been worried."

"Sorry I didn't call you back. My phone got slightly destroyed. Don't worry. I'm fine. I just had a really fucked-up day."

"What happened?"

"Listen, I'm exhausted. I'll come over tomorrow and tell you all about it."

"You're fine, though?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Ok, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Don't do that again," James said.

"I won't."

"OK, goodnight."

I hung up the phone, put my peanut butter aside, and slept.

I dreamed that my mother was drunk and hitting James with a dead hand covered in congealed blood. I woke up sweating and screaming.

T
he next days
Post
gave Page One coverage to the
Upper East Side Slaying
. They used a picture of the body bag, black and lumpy, being loaded into the coroner's van. I bought the paper and a cup of coffee at my corner bodega before getting on the subway.

On page three was a picture of the victim in happier days, his loving wife and devoted dog. I instantly recognized not only the dog but also the man and his wife, even the photo itself. I had seen it only yesterday hanging on an apartment wall. The caption, "Joseph Saperstein with his wife and dog at the Grand Canyon," confirmed what I had feared—the man whose dead body I had discovered was my client.

I couldn't believe it. Not only had I found a dead body, but I knew him. Well, not him so much as his dog, but I had been in the man's house. I devoured the rest of the article and learned that Mr. Saperstein was an accountant with the recently disgraced firm Pilfner & Brown. He and his wife had been married for ten years. He was 43 years old. The police had several leads but couldn't comment on them at this time. He had been shot in the face at close range.
The Post
hinted at the possibility that his marriage was rocky, that his job was more dangerous than it sounded, and that a serial killer could be on the loose. I vowed to pick up the
New York Times
as I approached my stop.

Everyone at the dog run was talking about the murder. Clustered into small groups, they gossiped away their fear. In one corner, the dog-walkers were huddled around Marcia and her fanny pack. A silence fell over the group when Snowball and I entered the run. It wasn't until the gate squeaked shut behind us and Snowball sprinted off to hump a pug that the buzz of conversation resumed.