CONCOURSE (Bill Smith/Lydia Chin) (9 page)

S
EVENTEEN

A
fter that for a while I stuck to patrolling—just my job, in and out. The atmosphere in the Home was subdued, tension just below the calm surface like jagged rocks in still water. I rounded a corner, startled a stooped old man who was laboring his walker along the hall. I stopped, smiled; he snarled, “Be more careful!” though I’d come nowhere near him. The anger that fear creates is the most difficult to control.

I didn’t see Carter again that morning, but I let that be. If he was willing to do what I’d asked, he’d find me. I did the front door, then the back, at break time, and then, on my own break, I called Lydia.

“Hi!” she said. “I didn’t expect you to call so soon. Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” I said. I started to say more, but she cut me off.

“I’m sorry about before,” she told me.

“So am I,” I said. “You’re probably right. I probably should have called you.”

“And I shouldn’t have made a big deal out of it.”

“Why did you?”

“Later, Bill. We’re still having dinner?”

“Sure.” For a moment I didn’t know what to say, and the silence was heavy in the carpeted hall. Then I asked her, “Are you finding anything?”

“It depends what you mean by ‘anything.’ According to Mr. Moran’s files, Henry Howe was an ex-cop. Took his pension as soon
as he could and got out. For a while after that, he was an investigator for the Health Department. He had no family, lived by himself in a place called Norwood. It’s in the Bronx. Your Mrs. Wyckoff lives by herself too, by the way, in a sort of semiprivate planned condo community in Eastchester. One of those new places with redwood siding and curving walks and its own golf course.”

“What’s the ‘Mrs.’ for, and how do you know what the place looks like?”

“The ‘Mrs.’ is for the husband she divorced twenty years ago, and my brother Ted has a friend who’s a realtor in Westchester. Did you know Eastchester was in Westchester?”

“Uh-huh. Did you know you’re beautiful and I love you?”

“Bill, come on, knock it off.”

“Okay, sorry. Thought I’d sneak it in and you wouldn’t notice.”

“Hang up. I have work to do.”

“In a minute. Go back to Mrs. Wyckoff. ‘Semiprivate planned condo community’ sounds fancy to me. Do executive directors of nonprofit organizations make enough to afford semiprivate planned condo communities?”

“Funny you should ask. I wondered the same thing. I’m checking into her some more.”

“I hope you’re not doing anything illegal,” I admonished.

“No, you just hope you don’t find out about it.”

“That too. Listen, when I saw Arthur Chaiken this morning, he was having breakfast with a guy named Andy Hill. He works at the Bronx Borough President’s office. Put him on your list, too, okay?”

“Okay. Any reason?”

“He didn’t put any butter on his bagel.”

“My kind of guy.”

“Pervert. Shorty’s at seven?” Lydia liked to eat early.

“Eight. I have something to do before that.”

Something to do. “Okay. See you then.” I replaced the receiver gently in its cradle, stood by the phone a moment looking out into the autumn garden, thinking over the beginning of the conversation, thinking that I’d never before not known what to say to Lydia.

* * *

I had another call to make, to Bobby. I dialed the office number and he answered on the third ring, but that didn’t tell me anything: the office phone rang through to Bobby’s apartment.

“Moran.” His voice seemed a little weak to me, but I could have been wrong.

“It’s Bill. You okay?”

“You call to check up on me?”

“If I swear I didn’t, will you tell me if you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Why’d you call?”

“To check up on you.”

“Oh, Christ, kid—!”

“I’m lying. I called because I have an idea and I wanted to clear it with you.”

“Yeah? What?”

“If we don’t work here anymore, I don’t see much point in my being undercover. I want to let it out why I’m really here, just to see which trees it shakes, and what falls out of them.”

A brief silence. “You think that’s good, kid, do it.”

“If it’s all right with you.”

“Your case.”

“You’re the client, Bobby.”

“You always check with your clients on your moves?”

“When they’re smarter than I am.”

“So what are you asking me for?”

“Sorry, my mistake. I thought I was talking to Bobby Moran.”

“Kid—” I didn’t get the anger I expected, half hoped for. “Kid, I told you, I don’t know. I don’t have that … that thing anymore, whatever it is. I can’t smell it anymore, what’s going on. Nothing makes sense to me.”

I said, “It was never ‘that thing.’ It was never magic. It was years of experience, and guts and brains. That’s all it ever was, and you haven’t lost any of that.”

“Yeah,” he said wearily. “Yeah, maybe.”

The phone was silent against my ear.

“Another thing,” I finally said.

“Which is?”

“I want to go talk to Sheila. You want to be there?”

“Why would I want to be there?”

“You’re the closest thing she has to a father-in-law, or a father. If I were a stranger you’d want to be there.”

“If you were a stranger I wouldn’t let you near her.”

“Sure?”

“What the hell’s on your mind, kid? You afraid she’ll tell you something about Mike I don’t want to hear?”

“Bobby—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You want to talk to her, talk to her. There was something weird about Mike at the end, I told you that already. And I asked Sheila about it, the day after—” Bobby stopped. Then he went on —“the day after Mike died. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about. Maybe that’s true. And if it’s not, she already lied to me once, so you’re better off without me.”

“Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

“Ah, shit,” Bobby sighed into the phone. “Listen, kid …” He didn’t go on.

“Yeah, me too. Okay, Bobby. You want to meet me and Lydia at Shorty’s later?”

“Maybe,” Bobby said, sounding tired already, as tired as I suddenly felt. “Maybe.”

“Well, if you don’t make it, I’ll call you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks, kid.”

So that was Bobby, and that was Lydia. I hung up, crossed the sunny porch, strolled into the garden, and wondered which metaphoric tree to shake first.

Fate made a suggestion, in the well-groomed form of Mrs. Wyckoff. I had completed a circuit of the garden, the wall, the ground-floor windows, all tight and shipshape. The night’s hard wind had pretty much wiped out the last roses, and dry leaves were huddled at the feet of the trees, as if afraid to leave home. Their days were numbered, though: a man in coveralls like Carter’s was scritching them into mounds with a rake.

As I climbed the seven steps back up to the porch, where the residents were starting to spot themselves around to catch the morning sun, a tall brown-clad figure appeared on the top step, arms folded as if to bar my way. I stopped, because that seemed to be what she wanted, although as a power play it wasn’t very good: it was still
morning, and the porch faced east, so she was the one who had to squint.

“Good morning,” I said, smiled pleasantly.

“Good morning,” said Mrs. Wyckoff, and didn’t. She was wearing a suit of café-au-lait wool, not a color blondes wear easily, though it was a well-made suit. Her cream silk blouse had cuffs that stuck out below the jacket sleeves and one of those big floppy bows at the neck that men executives like because they make women executives look silly.

“I’ve just spoken to Mr. Moran,” Mrs. Wyckoff said icily, “and I’ve told Mr. Dayton. Wells Fargo has been engaged to provide security services here starting this afternoon. They will be sending a supervisor and crew for an orientation as early as they can manage, and they will be taking over immediately after that. As soon as they tell Mr. Dayton they’re ready, I expect you out of here.”

“All right,” I said. “But you can also expect me back.”

“What,” she asked through her teeth, “does that mean?”

I mounted the rest of the steps, stood next to her. “You asked me last night who I was,” I said. “We both know my answer was a dodge. I’m a private investigator and I’m looking into Mike Downey’s death.”

“You’re
what?
” she choked. Her high cheeks filled with color. “What nerve! Whose idea was this?”

“Is it a problem?”

“It certainly is! What do you mean, coming here and upsetting the residents, the routine, lying—”

“I haven’t done any of that, Mrs. Wyckoff. I’ve been working as a guard and I’ve been doing my job. I didn’t tell you I was here as an investigator but you didn’t ask. Now you know.”

She sucked air between her teeth. “If anything you do reflects badly on the Home in any way, Mr. Smith, you can be sure that you yourself, Mr. Moran, and his entire firm will answer for it. This is a police matter. The police will resolve it.”

“They’re doing well so far, aren’t they? They’re doing so well you had them back last night for an encore.”

She gave me a hint of a superior smile. “And just how well are you doing, Mr. Smith?”

“Actually,” I said, “I’m doing fine. Just fine.” I smiled, turned,
walked back across the porch into the building, leaving Mrs. Wyckoff staring narrow-eyed after me.

I went into the building, across the corridor and down the stairs looking for another tree to shake. At the bottom an inspiration hit me and I headed down the hall to try Dr. Madsen’s, but when I got there he wasn’t in his tree.

“Dr. Madsen doesn’t come in on Tuesdays,” said Elena, the nurse with the crimson lips. “I can let you see Dr. Reynolds.”

“Okay. That sounds like fun.”

“If it does,” she smiled, “you must be feeling better.”

It was near lunchtime. I called upstairs from her desk phone, cleared it with Dayton to take my break now. Elena took my chart into the other room. It came out again almost immediately in the hands of a large, genial man with gold-rimmed glasses. Curly white hair, like foam left by a receding surf, circled the back of his skull; age spots and a few diehard hairs speckled his bald head.

“Smith?” He stuck out his hand for me to shake. I did, and I was almost sorry. He had quite a grip. “I’m Dr. Reynolds. Come on in.”

We went on in together, to the examining room. Dr. Reynolds leaned back against a stainless-steel counter covered with boxes of tongue depressors, disposable syringes, plastic bottles of eyedrops and eardrops and nose drops. He folded his arms across his round belly. “Well, you look pretty good on paper. What seems to be the trouble?”

“No trouble. Dr. Madsen said to come back and get myself checked out. I don’t think he meant this soon, but this is my last day working here. I didn’t know he wouldn’t be in.”

“No, Tuesdays he’s over at Montefiore, at some clinic. I’ll be glad to take a look, if you want. Take off your shirt.”

He turned to wash his hands and I took my jacket, gun, and shirt off. Reynolds’s eyes followed the gun as I hung it on the hook.

“What do you mean, your last day?” he asked. “I thought you were the new guy, just started.”

“I am. Was. Moran Security’s being replaced.”

“Ah.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“No, me either.” I deposited myself on the paper-covered table. “I just hope it helps.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired pleasantly. Show an interest, put the patient at ease. His soft, rounded fingers probed my bruises very gently. I wondered if the residents here got to choose which doctor they wanted to see.

“I’m looking at this from a little different angle,” I said. “The police think it’s a local gang targeting the guards, but I’m not so sure.”

“No?” His voice was friendly. He cupped the business end of his stethoscope in his hand, then moved around behind me, placed it on my back. When it landed it was warm. “What else could it be? Cough.”

“I’m not sure.” I coughed, and again, as instructed. The stethoscope wandered my back. Reynolds came around front, smiled reassuringly, and we repeated the procedure on my chest.

“Dr. Madsen didn’t send you for X rays, did he?” Reynolds pulled the earpieces down around his neck, opened my file.

“He didn’t think I needed any.”

“Oh, probably he’s right,” he said casually. Never knock another doctor, the patient might lose his faith in medicine. “I’d just like to make sure those ribs aren’t cracked.” He pointed with his pen at the black-and-blue streaks on my right side, where Snake LeMoyne had kicked me. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but why don’t you go ahead and get an X ray anyway?” He scribbled something on his prescription pad. “Take this over to Samaritan Hospital, to the Diagnostic Clinic. Your insurance should cover it. Leave me your doctor’s name, since you won’t be back here, and I’ll forward the results.”

“I will be back,” I said. “I’ll pick them up.”

He looked up from his writing. “You said this was your last day …?”

“Last official day. As a guard. As an investigator, I’m just beginning.”

“You’ve lost me.” He smiled, to show he wasn’t mad that I’d lost him.

“There are people who think the killings here aren’t what they look like.” I stood, shrugged into my uniform shirt. “I’m working for them.”

“Doing what?” He tore the prescription off the pad.

“Damned if I know. Shaking trees.”

“But what else could the killings be?”

“People get killed for a lot of reasons, Doctor. They know something, or someone, or someone knows something about them.” I tied my tie. “They owe money, or someone owes them money. They’re in the way. Or they’re just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Are you saying you think—the people who hired you think—that these deaths are somehow related to someone here?”

“I have no idea. It could be Martians. I’m just paid to poke around.” Disingenuous, but there you are.

“Well.” Dr. Reynolds waited for me to pull on my shoulder rig, handed me the prescription. “That’s an unpleasant thought. I hope you’re wrong. Or they’re wrong, whoever hired you.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Listen, if you need any help … I don’t know exactly what kind of help I could be, but if you need anything …”