Aphrodisiac (4 page)

Benita shook her head. “I can’t believe how much you just revealed to Darryl, Ms. Motormouth.”

“Ms. Motormouth? That’s your nickname not mine.”

“It’s one thing to pump him for info, but it’s another to go blabbing about our investigation.”

“So what if Darryl knows what we’re up to? He’s Gwen’s brother.”

“Saylor, you just don’t have a criminal mind.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

She tilted her head, giving me a narrow-eyed look. “You really think the hard drive was missing from her computer? Maybe there’s stuff on that computer he doesn’t want anybody to see. For all we know, Darryl was the one who snuffed Gwen.”

“Gimme a break. Why would Darryl want to kill his own sister?”

“Oh, come on, you’re the psychologist. When it comes to sibling rivalry, twins are the worst. Competition starts right in the birth canal with who’s gonna squeeze their way out first.”

“So much for all those biogenetic studies that suggest just the opposite.”

Benita kicked off her shoes. “Actually, Rob’s the one I’d like to bring in for questioning. He was Gwen’s last live-in beau.”

“Really, Binnie, just because the name of his rock group was Bullet 4U doesn’t mean he’d act out. Besides, I ran into the group’s drummer last month, and he told me Rob’s living in Germany with a French lighting designer. And what about the guys Ti-Jean saw in Gwen’s loft?”

“There are always vandals and crackheads breaking into empty warehouses.”

“Except his description of them made me think of the men who chased us.”

“All this talk,” Benita said. “Time to go real. What say we head over to Gwen’s loft tonight and see what’s up?”

“Let’s do it.”

FOUR

The July night carried stagnant remnants of week-old humidity. A full moon hung, lethargic, above the rooftops like an oversized dinner plate. Our Camry sailed down Columbia Street on our way to “the Back,” Red Hook’s desolate west side; a timeless place where at four a.m. the ghost of Marlon Brando’s Terry Malloy might be seen, jacket slung over his shoulder, ambling slowly toward those once famous Brooklyn docks.

A red light nabbed us at the corner of Dwight and Verona. On the sidewalk to our right stood an unshaven elderly man in an undershirt and baggie pants with a crotch that practically hung to his knees. He was a sad sight and could have failed the Breathalyzer from a hundred yards. Benita and I made the mistake of allowing brief eye contact with him. Now he stumbled his way toward the car while unzipping his fly. Oh no. Not tonight. Good thing we had the air conditioner running so the golden arch of urine merely pattered against my closed window.

My verbally gifted roommate opened the car door and jumped out. “
¡Huelebicho!
” That meant dick smeller. “
¡Me cago en tu madre!
” I shit on your mother.

“Binnie.” Time for therapeutic intervention. “Remember, it’s not personal. Get back in the car. The light is green.”

She reclaimed her seat and slammed the door shut in disgust. We left the human carwash tottering in the street, still wagging his droopy dog.

As we rounded Van Brunt and made our way up Beard we saw a light coming from inside Gwen’s place. JMC Heating and Cooling occupied the first floor of the three-story red brick warehouse.

“Let’s park up the street, so we don’t look obvious.” Benita pulled the Camry to the curb a healthy distance away from Gwen’s building. We got out and walked the length of the block. Beard Street had turned into an endless construction site, leaving parts of it torn up and covered with planks, piles of debris and broken cobblestones. Streetlamps made us easily visible. We decided to hide behind the hulking red Dumpster diagonally across from Gwen’s door.

Crouched and huddled together, we watched for activity on the third floor. After twenty minutes of staring at blank windows, I whispered, “How long do we have to stay all bent up like this? Or are we aiming for the Beavis and Butt-Head award?”

“This is surveillance. You gotta be patient."

“Well, I’m getting a cramp in my thigh.”

Benita glanced at me. “You white chicks are so stiff. Get into a deep squat.”

“Can’t. My jeans are too tight.”

“Why didn’t you wear running pants like me?”

“I hate running pants. They make me look chunky.”

“So, unsnap your jeans, piggy.”

I gave it ten more agonizing minutes. “I bet nobody’s there, and they just left the light on. I say we call it a night. Tomorrow I hire a pro.”

“No way. We’re going inside. I’ve got my camcorder.”

“Great. And if we run into these gonzos we just say, ‘Don’t mind us. We’re making a documentary on lowlife scum.’ ”

“No. We shoot and run with the evidence.”

“You call that evidence? We can’t just…” My words trailed off. Benita was already making her way across the street. I confess, my cowardly first impulse was to let her be the scout while I held down the fort, so to speak, here in the shadows of the Dumpster. But my keys to Gwen’s place were inside my handbag.

I scuttled after Benita, my eyes glued to the window just in case there was someone in there who could look out and see us. At the door I was half hoping they’d changed the locks. I slid the key in the tumbler. It clicked open.

We bypassed the gray steel freight elevator. The stairwell was lit by one feeble bulb and stank of mold. I winced with every creak our feet made on the old wooden steps. We reached the second-floor landing and stood with our ears pressed against the door to Gwen’s loft.

“Nada,” Binnie said.

I turned the key. “In we go.” As soon as I opened the door I was struck by the barrage of scents still present from the fragrances Gwen made here. And by the undeniable reality that something was wrong. Several floorboards had been torn up all across the room. Sheetrock that covered the brick walls had been busted and torn, leaving large holes and craters.

“Somebody’s looking for buried treasure,” Benita said.

Whoever the pirates were, they had defiled sacred ground. For years this had been a very special place to me. Half shutting my eyes, I could still see Gwen’s jammed but neatly organized workspace. A series of cluttered tables and shelves. Beakers and flasks of perfumes being made in her home laboratory. Fossils, shards and other artifacts were usually scattered about. A microscope used to mark the table where she analyzed ancient plant remains.

Gwen had been an archaeobotanist—an archaeologist who specializes in ancient plants and agriculture. But since her layoff from Columbia’s faculty last year, she’d become engrossed in the making of perfumes and aromatic oils. Instead of looking for another teaching or research position, Gwen had decided to start her own home business selling her fragrances. Benita used to say her place smelled like Nefertiti’s burial chamber.

“Okay, let’s do some video action.” My roommate swept the space with her camcorder.

I walked the length of the room. The place was empty, as expected. Darryl had cleared out all of Gwen’s things. I had no idea what I was looking for.

Suddenly the building’s front door slammed. Men’s voices. Sounded like a battalion coming up the stairs. Benita and I exchanged a silent glance.

“Quick,” I whispered. “The fire escape.”

Trying not to trip on littered floorboards and the holes they left behind, I darted for the window. I was straddling the sill when I heard a voice right outside the door saying, “How many more times are we supposed to search this place? That fuckin’ bitch pussy probably hid it somewhere else.”

I tossed words over my shoulder while racing down the fire escape. “Did you hear what he said?”

“Zip it and keep moving, Saylor.”

Scurrying to the bottom platform, I saw the rickety iron ladder that hung over the sidewalk. It looked like it hadn’t been used in a hundred years. I knew fire escape ladders were notorious for jamming, and of course, this one followed suit. Benita grabbed hold and gave it a solid jerk. Nope. I joined her efforts, trying not to fall, but years of rust had left it frozen. We stared up at the window to see if the men had a drawn a bead on us. No sign yet.

“Let’s jump,” she said.

“Wait.” I reached inside my bag and pulled out a plastic bottle of Do-Me-Good lime flavored personal lubricant. I poured it liberally up and down the stubborn section of ladder that was refusing to slide. “Now let’s try it.” We gave it another jerk. Swoosh. The ladder glided down to the sidewalk. Two more satisfied Do-Me-Good customers.

We hit the street and broke into a sprint for the Camry. Luckily I’d worn my Asics gels tonight. Even so, I could hardly keep up with Benita, who was way out in front. I’d puke if I had to run much faster. We dove into the car and took off.

“That was him,” I said. “The guy who taught Uncle Pete his new one-liner. Let’s go to the police.”

“Yeah, sure. Just tell them we met some creep who uses the same profanities as my pet mynah, and they’ll hop right on it.” She turned down Richards Street.

“Those men were trespassing on private property.”

“So were we. And we don’t need no donut-eaters butting in and asking us all kinds of questions.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “Anything to get them off their butts and back on Gwen’s case.”

“You are dreaming if you believe in that fairy tale. This is the big city, honey. Precincts have to wrap things up and show productivity like any other business. Just because we found some guys prowling around in a vacated warehouse won’t mean diddly as far as Gwen’s death is concerned. Not to the cops, anyway.”

She had a point. “Okay, forget the police. Only what the hell is going on here? First Gwen’s body is found in the Erie Basin. Next somebody ransacks our apartment. A pack of good ol’ boys chase us into a barren lot. And now it looks like the same dudes are tearing up Gwen’s floor. They’re hunting for something.”

“And either we have what they’re looking for, or else they think we do.”

“Comforting. Think they saw us?” I checked the streets to see if anyone was following.

“Doubt it,” Benita said. “We outslicked them.”

“I need a drink. Let’s go to Sunny’s.”

“We’re on.”

She turned south on Van Brunt. We parked at the end of Conover near the vacant, windswept piers of New York Bay. From the sidewalk I could see the waterfront in the distance. Tonight prevailing breezes carried a faint scent of garbage from marine transfer stations. Benita took her camcorder to the trunk. Wouldn’t want to tempt anyone. Before tossing my purse in next to it, I doused myself with Baby Phat Goddess and stuffed a few bills in my pocket.

We walked to a brick storefront with striped awnings and a sign that read only BAR. In the window a neon dolphin swam around a glowing anchor. It was a good-sized crowd for a Wednesday night. Down-home, definitely not Manhattan chic.

The scene here was more like Sunny’s private den than a commercial bar, and the decor was equally unpretentious: one of those old Schaefer beer signs above the bar, a pair of worn out boxing gloves on one wall and an abstract painting by Sunny. Before the death of Brooklyn’s shipping industry, longshoremen working the Red Hook docks came to this same bar in droves. Now it attracted a mix of artists, writers, carpenters, plumbers—and two frantic girls from DUMBO in need of alcoholic sedation.

As big as it is, Brooklyn can be a very small world. I immediately recognized the head and shoulders a few feet in front of me—shaggy hair and hawkish nose, granite deltoids bursting out of a burgundy T-shirt. Eldridge Mace. The sight of him standing at the bar in tight denims was all I needed to make my already four-star night complete. And no doubt Tara Buckley was lurking nearby. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t do this.” I turned to leave.

Benita held me by the arm. “All because of the Mace-man?”

“Of course not. I’m not interested in him. He’s probably just another obnoxious alpha male obsessed with
Monday Night Football
and topless dancers. Really, Binnie, you do have a way of jumping to conclusions.” Okay, so maybe I’d spent the last two days interrogating her on everything she knew about him. “I, um, are you sure we shouldn’t call the police?”

“Listen, Saylor. Those clues in Gwen’s good-bye note look like things only a close friend would understand. I don’t think we’ll be able to convince the police of anything until we figure it out ourselves.” She brought her mouth next to my ear. “I can tell he’s alone. That Tara chick isn’t here. Besides, you’re better looking than she is.”

Benita and I had been prodding, bickering and rescuing each other since our freshman year of college. Even though I earned a living analyzing relationships, I was always amazed at the way ours worked. She wasn’t really the huggy type, but she gave me one anyway. “Now, get your ass in here,” she said. “There’s a martini with your name on it.”

I combed my fingers through my curly flyaway hair and headed for one of the vinyl booths. On my way, I glanced at Eldridge and discovered he was watching us. I cursed myself for once again being caught in sneakers instead of high heels. At least my forest green scooped-neck jersey cinched at the waist so I didn’t totally resemble a tree stump. Or worse yet, a munchkin.

He tossed me a ruggedly handsome smile and tapped the empty stools next to him. The temperature between my legs shot up about a hundred degrees. Behold the laws of attraction in the human species. There are three stages of sexual response: desire, arousal and orgasm. Arousal and orgasm are physical. But, I reminded myself, desire is totally psychological. Then again, who cares? As long as it gets you to the next two.

Benita nudged me toward the long mahogany bar. “S’up, Mace-man.” She slid onto a stool, leaving the one next to Eldridge for me. “You remember my friend Saylor?”

“Sure do.” He held out his hand. “Sailor. Like on a ship?”

Wow. A handshake can be sooo nice with the right man. Thoughts of getting naked with him brought a sudden case of dumb-osis to my Phi Beta Kappa brain. It took me half a minute before I answered him. “Not quite. Saylor is a family name.”

He bought me a dirty martini, a Guinness for Binnie and another beer for himself. His being a boxer, I envisioned he might wear Everlast cologne, but instead he smelled like cinnamon and juniper.

“My friend Jerry is playing steel guitar tonight,” the Mace-man said, gesturing to a lone musician in the corner. Tall and gaunt-faced with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. Eldridge turned to me and I noticed a small gold hoop in each of his earlobes. “What brings you ladies to the Hook?”

I fidgeted nervously with my toothpick and olive. “We were just out looking for some murderers.”

Eldridge laughed. I doubt he intended it to be sexy, but believe me, it was.

Meanwhile, Benita flipped me one of her evil looks. What can I say? I’m a really bad liar. My fibs always come out sounding like those stupid things I told Eldridge at the gym. Speaking of which…“I apologize for ruining your workout on Tuesday.”

“Sorry I reacted the way I did,” he said. “Guess it’s because you’re the first person to dump me on my ass in over forty fights.”

Benita patted me on the back. “Way to go champ.”

My lips twisted into a pretzel. “Hope you don’t want a rematch, Ridge.”

“Call me Eldridge.”

“Tara called you Ridge,” I said.

“Tara’s got her own ideas about a lot of things.” He sounded annoyed.

Aha. Could it be the door was open? It certainly appeared that way. “Are you two seriously involved?” Eek. That was dumb. I felt like Doris Day after she blurted to Rock Hudson that oh-so-revealing conversation killer: “Are you married?”

“Nah,” he said. “I don’t do relationships. I’m a born loner.” At least the guy was honest.

“I’m pretty independent myself,” I mumbled.

Eldridge and I sank into an awkward silence. Benita chatted with some literary type guy on her left. I stared down at the reddish brown mahogany bar, distracting myself with the curvilinear patterns of grain running through the wood surface. It didn’t take a course in Freud to interpret the results of my impromptu Rorschach test. All I saw were erect penises and people copulating in various positions.