Unleashed (7 page)

"If you don't stop calling me Missy, I'm going to—" I could feel my face flushing red.

"You won't do anything. All you will do is answer my questions." I had been sitting across from this machine of a man for over an hour already, answering the same questions. His voice remained even. His green eyes held onto me. I was pretty sure he hadn't blinked since my arrival. I pushed my thumbnail into my palm, trying to calm down. "You said that you met Mrs. Saperstein for the first time yesterday, and yet you are her dog-walker. How is this possible?"

"I told you already. I just started this job. I got it from a woman named Charlene Miller. Mrs. Saperstein is the only client I've met. I walk people's dogs because they are at work. Hence, them not being home and me not meeting them." I rolled my eyes and threw my hands in the air to point out how obvious an observation this really was.

"Tell me again about Charlene." The Detective looked down at a piece of paper in the center of his crowded desk.

"She was a friend of my friend Nona's friend, whose information I've given you. Charlene left town on business. I already gave you her address. What more do you want?"

"Mrs. Saperstein was distressed when you saw her, correct?" He didn't take his eyes off the paper under his face.

"Distressed and drunk," I told the top of his head, then stuck my tongue out at it.

"Did she mention her affair?" Mulberry made a quick mark with his pen and then looked up at me. I sucked my tongue back just in time.

"Yes. I already told you this."

"And do you know who she was having the affair with?" He asked.

"Yes."

"And could you tell me his name, please?"

"I already told you," I said.

"Yes, and I want you to tell me again." No anger, just fact.

"Julen," I answered.

"And his occupation?"

"He is the doorman at her building." I felt like I might start crying.

"You know Mr. Saperstein was having an affair, too."

"Yes."

"And how did you come to know this?"

"Mrs. Saperstein told me." I shifted in my chair. It was old, wooden, and creaked with my movement.

"Why would she tell you that if you just met her?"

"I already told you she was drunk."

"Do you know the name of the woman that Mr. Saperstein was seeing?"

"No."

"Don't you find it strange that she would mention her own lover's name and not her husband's?" the Detective looked back down at the paper.

"I already told you she was wasted. She probably doesn't even remember our conversation," I said.

"I guarantee you she does." He shuffled the paper around a little, then pulled out a pencil and erased something. I sighed loudly. Mulberry stopped erasing and asked: "How long have you had this job?"

"Three days."

"An exciting three days."

I wanted to hit him. "That's not how I would describe them," I said.

He looked up at me, his face blank and his eyes empty. "Do you like excitement?"

"What?"

"Did you know Charlene Miller socially or professionally?" he asked.

"Seriously, I meet her 15 minutes before I took over the dog route. I would hardly recognize her on the street."

"She was a beautiful woman. Recognizable for sure," Mulberry said.

"Oh yeah, did you know her?"

He sat back and cocked his head. "How long had you known Mr. Saperstein?" he asked.

"I told you I never met him."

"Yes, and I don't believe you."

"Well, it's the truth," I said.

"Did it occur to you that if you are mixed up in this, you could be next?"

"Whoa, what the fuck are you talking about?" I jumped out of my chair and backed up toward the wall. "I'm not mixed up in shit, OK? I just walk dogs."

"Did Mrs. Saperstein seem like a jealous woman to you? Please, sit down."

"What?" I looked around the office. Its glass walls were covered by dirty white Venetian blinds. The institutional gray filing cabinets piled with manila folders seemed close, and getting closer.

"I asked that you please sit down," Mulberry said.

"No," I put my hands out palms forward. "What are you talking about me being next? Are you just trying to scare me? Is that your thing? You like scaring young women." I was pressed up against the wall now, my weight bending the blinds, causing them to crackle and snap.

"Mrs. Saperstein was arrested for assaulting Mr. Saperstein not three months ago. Did you know that?" I had a flash of Mrs. Saperstein hurling a pot of something boiling at Mr. Saperstein, him ducking and the pot smashing onto the wall behind where his head had just been.

"Why don't you answer my question?" I asked.

"I think if you would sit down and think for a moment you might understand my point."

I didn't sit down. "I get your point. You're implying that Mrs. Saperstein killed her husband and is going to kill me next. But that's bullshit. I don't even know these people."

"I'm just letting you know that Mrs. Saperstein is not the woman you think she is."

"You have no idea what I think of her. You don't know anything about me."

"I know you have a short temper. You have proved that this evening."

"Yeah, well, I learned you're a dick." Fuck, I should not have said that. But the detective just smiled and looked down at his paperwork.

"You are free to go, Ms. Humbolt. Get home safe."

I grabbed my bag off the chair and flew out of his office onto the street and into the subway. My adrenaline was pumping hard as I waited for the train. This guy was clearly insane. I mean, what kind of psycho implies that a woman you only just met is plotting your death? He obviously had no leads and was lashing out at whatever made a remote amount of sense according to his deluded understanding of the case. Then it occurred to me that I had forgotten to clean Oscar's litter. "Dammit," I said out loud. No one even glanced at me. The glassy stares of my fellow passengers continued to deny their surroundings. "Fuck," I said a little louder. Nothing. I love this city, I thought to myself as the train clacked and squealed me back to Brooklyn.

I
was running late when I got to Charlene's apartment the next day. Snowball had escaped the dog run through a hole in the fence and then evaded me by hiding in some shrubbery. At Charlene's, Oscar followed me into the bathroom where his litter was and meowed purposefully as I cleaned it out. "What, boy? You want more food or water?" He released a meow, arched his back, and puffed his tail. I rubbed his head. He took the pettings gladly and encouraged me by flopping onto his back. "I'd love to hang out and scratch your belly all day, but I've got to get back to work." He just purred with his eyes closed. When I stood up, Oscar's eyes opened, and he rolled back onto his paws.

I left the bathroom. He got under my feet, moving between my legs in a figure eight, purring, and tripping me. "Oscar, come on, I've got to go." He just rubbed himself against my leg, begging for a little more attention. "Poor guy, you must be lonely here all by yourself." He meowed in agreement. "Listen, buddy, I'll come back later, all right? I have to go now." I passed the open bedroom door and about ten steps later realized I was almost positive there had been a man in there. I stopped mid-stride, filled instantly with fear, the same kind I get at night when I'm alone, and I can't sleep, and I swear I hear something, or someone, creak outside my bedroom door. Oscar took my pause to mean that I wanted to pet him, so flopped onto his back, wiggling his belly and stretching his paw toward me.

My ears fought through the buzzing sound of my fear to hear. My brain told me to move toward the door—it screamed for me to walk out the door. But my ears didn't want the distraction. I held my breath and listened to the beating of my heart, Oscar's purr, and the undeniable sound of a footfall on the carpet behind me.

"Hello, Ms. Humbolt." I spun around. Detective Mulberry was standing in the hallway behind me, looking amused. He was shorter than I remembered, only about three or four inches taller than me, but he was stocky.

"What are you doing here?" I felt relieved, but adrenaline was still pumping through me. He pulled off a pair of white rubber gloves, the latex snapping in the air.

"Just looking into a lead."

"Have you gotten ahold of Charlene yet?"

"No, I have not." He shook his head looking at the inside-out gloves in his hands.

"Do you have a warrant to be here?"

His green eyes flashed yellow with anger. "Your little friend could be dead, and you want to know about a warrant." He moved down the hallway at me. I stood my ground, fighting against a powerful urge to flee. He stopped six inches from my face. "Do you understand the gravity of the situation here?" Intense green eyes was all I could think.

"What?" I said straining to keep eye contact.

Mulberry shook his head then brushed past me to the front door. "Try not to touch anything in here. This could be an official crime scene before too long." He left, using his sleeve to protect the doorknob from his fingerprints.

Oscar, unfazed by the stranger, curled his body around my left leg and purred. Could Charlene really be dead? Why was he convinced that I was involved in this mess? I found myself wandering through Charlene's place. The bedroom was a mess, but there was no sign that a person had been murdered there. I opened her closet. It was jammed full of clothing. But so was mine at home. For all I knew, she had packed half her wardrobe and left with it. Or she had been forced out of her apartment with nothing. Could Detective Mulberry know any differently?

I walked into her bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Day face cream, night face cream, makeup remover, body lotion, hand cream all sat neatly next to each other. But there was no toothbrush, so she must have packed to leave. Or maybe she needed a new toothbrush and had thrown the old one away. I looked in the trash. It was empty. So maybe she had taken the trash out when she left. Then she definitely would have been leaving of her own free will. Kidnappers do not allow you to pack a toothbrush and take out the trash—unless they don't want it to look like you've been kidnapped. I noticed the clock on Charlene's bedroom wall. I was officially late.

###

I
picked up Snowball for his afternoon walk and headed over to the dog run. The regular crowd was there, milling around the pen. I nodded to them and sat on a bench in the far corner facing the river. Why would Detective Mulberry insinuate that Charlene was dead? How was she connected to this case? What did he know that I didn't? I found myself wanting to go back to her apartment. What was he looking for? Or what had he found?

I was surprised to see the detective striding purposefully along the esplanade talking on his cell phone. His thick arms pushed against his summer-weight suit jacket with each step. His brow was furrowed and his face red. The sun caught glints of gray in his short, dark hair. I watched him walk into the park toward Gracie Mansion and out of my sight.

"Hi."

I looked up and saw Marcia standing over me. "Hi," I said.

"You know him?" she asked.

"Who?"

"I know him, you know. I know everyone in this neighborhood."

"You do?"

"Of course. I've been walking this neighborhood for 25 years. I know everything that happens around here," she said.

"Really?"

The other dog-walkers started to move toward us. "This is Fiona," she gestured to the mousey-haired women who had approached me the other day. "And this is Elaine." A young woman with long chestnut hair and thick glasses smiled at me shyly.

"Hi," I said, nodding at them.

Marcia turned to me. "You're all mixed up in this case now, huh?"

"Yeah. Well, no. Wait, what are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"You are certainly more mixed up in this case than most people," Fiona said. They had formed a circle around me now.

"Were you scared when you found the body? I would have been really scared," Elaine said. She looked like the type of girl who was scared of squirrels.

"Yeah, I guess."

They all nodded.

"That makes sense," Fiona said. "I could see how that could be scary." She picked at a hangnail on her left index finger, digging into it absently.

"Did you throw up?" Elaine asked, her eyelids fluttering in a series of blinks that had to be a tic. "I'm sure that I would have thrown up."

"I didn't throw up, but the doorman did."

"Willy threw up! We didn't know that," Marcia said, delighted with the new detail. "He said that you threw up. But then again, you can never quite trust Willy for the truth." The other dog-walkers murmured their agreement. "Philip said that he thought Willy was the one who threw up." Marcia stated proudly.

"Who's Philip?" I asked.

"You don't know who Philip is?" Elaine asked, her eyes wide.

"Philip is the manager of Ten House," Marcia boasted.

"Oh, where the Maxims live?" I asked.

Fiona snickered.

"Am I missing something?" I asked.

"Stop it," Marcia silenced Fiona. "The Ten house is more than just where the Maxims live. It is a very well-known building. It is a GB," she said, her tone the same as my kindergarten teacher's when she explained to me what story time was.

"A GB?"

"A Good Building," Marcia told me patiently.

"Oh."

"Only certain types of people are allowed to live there," Fiona said, her hazel eyes following an unattractive mutt as it raced past us.

"Wealthy families with the right last names," Marcia finished.

"Oh. I see," I said.

"Eighty-Eight is a GB, too," Elaine told me, trying to be helpful. I nodded and smiled so she'd know that I appreciated her gesture.

"Julen, Mrs. Saperstein's—" I trailed off.

"Mrs. Saperstein's lover," Marcia said. "Don't worry; it's not a secret. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that Jackie was using him to get back at Joseph."

"Do you guys know who Mr. Saperstein was sleeping with?"

"Only rumors," Fiona told me.