Lingering.
In her years as a police officer Sachs had delivered news of loss to dozens of family members. She was competent at it, vamping on the lines they were taught by the psychologists at the academy. (“I’m very sorry for your loss.” “Do you have someone you can turn to for support?” With a script like that, you had to improvise.)
But tonight was different. Because Sachs didn’t believe she’d ever been present at the exact moment when a victim’s electrons departed cells, or, if you were of a different ilk, the spirit abandoned the corpus. She’d had her hands on Greg Frommer’s arm at the moment of death. And as much as she did not want to make this trip, the pact had been sealed. She wouldn’t break it.
She slid her holster east of her hip, out of sight. It seemed a decent thing to do, though she had no explanation why. The other concession to this mission was to make a stop at her apartment, also in Brooklyn, not terribly far, to shower and change clothes. It would have taken luminol and an alternative light source wand to find a lick of blood anywhere on her person.
Up the stairs and ringing the bell.
The door was opened by a tall man in a Hawaiian shirt and orange shorts. Fifties or so. Of course, this was not the funeral; that would be later. Tonight the gathering was the quick descent of friends and relatives to support, to bring food, to distract from the grief and to focus it.
“Hi,” he said. His eyes were as red as the lei around the neck of the parrot on his belly. Frommer’s brother? The resemblance was jarring.
“I’m Amelia Sachs. With the NYPD. Is Mrs. Frommer able to speak with me for a moment or two?” She said this kindly, her voice cleansed of officialdom.
“I’m sure. Please come in.”
The house contained little furniture and the pieces were mismatched and threadbare. The few pictures on the walls might have come from Walmart or Target. Frommer, she’d learned, had been a salesclerk at a shoe store in the mall, working for minimum pay. The TV was small and the cable box basic. No video game console, though she saw they had at least one child—a skateboard, battered and wrapped in duct tape, sat against a far corner. Some Japanese manga comics were stacked on the floor beside a scabby end table.
“I’m Greg’s cousin, Bob.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened.” Sometimes you fell into rote.
“We couldn’t believe it. The wife and I live in Schenectady. We got here as fast as we could.” He said again, “We couldn’t believe it. To . . . well, die in an accident like that.” Despite the tropical costume, Bob grew imposing. “Somebody’s going to pay for this. That never should’ve happened. Somebody’s going to pay.”
A few people of the other visitors nodded at her, eyeing her clothing, picked out carefully. Calf-length skirt in dark green, black jacket and blouse. She was dressed funereally, though not by design. This was Sachs’s typical uniform. Dark offers a more uncooperative target profile than light.
“I’ll get Sandy.”
“Thanks.”
Across the room was a boy of about twelve, flanked by a man and two women in their fifties, Sachs estimated. The boy’s round, freckled face was red from crying and his hair tousled badly. She wondered if he’d been lying in bed, paralyzed at the news of his father’s death, before family arrived.
“Yes, hello?”
Sachs turned. The slim blond woman was very pale of face, a stark and unsettling contrast with the bold red of her lids and the skin around her eyes. Adding to the eeriness were her striking green irises. Her sundress, in dark blue, was wrinkled and though her shoes were close in style they were from different pairs.
“I’m Amelia Sachs, with the police department.”
No shield display. No need.
Sachs asked if they could have a word in private.
Odd how much easier it was to level your Glock at a stoned perp leveling his at you forty paces away, or downshift from fourth to second while turning at fifty, the tachometer redlined, to make sure some son of a bitch didn’t get away.
Steel yourself. You can do this.
Sandy Frommer directed Sachs toward the back of the house and they walked through the living room into a tiny den that, she saw once they entered, was the boy’s room—the superhero posters and comics, the jeans and sweats in piles, the disheveled bed were evidence of that.
Sachs closed the door. Sandy remained standing and regarded the visitor warily.
“I happened to be on the scene when your husband died. I was with him.”
“Oh. My.” Her look of disorientation swelled momentarily. She focused on Sachs again. “A policeman came to the door to tell me. A nice man. He wasn’t at the mall when it happened. Somebody had called him. He was from the local precinct. An Asian man? Officer, I mean.”
Sachs shook her head.
“It was bad, wasn’t it?”
“It was, yes.” She couldn’t deflate what had happened. The story had already made the news. The accounts were sanitized but Sandy would eventually see medical reports and would learn exactly what Greg Frommer went through in his last minutes on earth. “But I just wanted you to know I was with him. I held his hand and he prayed. And he asked me to come see you and tell you he loved you and your son.”
As if suddenly on a vital mission, Sandy walked to her son’s desk, on which sat an old-model desktop computer. Beside it were two cans of soda, one crushed. A bag of chips, flattened. Barbecue. She picked up the cans and set them in the trash. “I was supposed to renew my driver’s license. I only have two days. I didn’t get around to it. I work for a maid service. We’re busy all the time. My license expires in two days.”
So, her birthday soon.
“Is there someone here who could help you get to DMV?”
Sandy found another artifact—an iced tea bottle. It was empty and that too went into the trash. “You didn’t have to come. Some people wouldn’t have.” Every word seemed to hurt her. “Thank you.” The otherworldly eyes turned to Sachs briefly then dropped to the floor. She tossed the sweats into the laundry. She reached into her jean pocket and withdrew a tissue, dabbed her nose. Sachs noted that the jeans were Armani, but were quite faded and worn—and not in the factory-washed way of new garments (Sachs, former fashion model, had little regard for such useless trends). They’d either been bought secondhand or, Sachs’s guess, dated to an earlier, and more comfortable, era in the family’s life.
This might have been the case; she noted a framed picture on the boy’s desk—the young man and his father a few years ago standing beside a private plane. Before them was fishing gear. Canadian or Alaskan mountains crested in the distance. Another, of the family in box seats at what seemed to be the Indie 500.
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, Officer. Or Detective? Or—?”
“Amelia.”
“Amelia. That’s a nice name.”
“Is your son coping?”
“Bryan . . . I don’t know how he’ll do. He’s angry now, I think. Or numb. We’re both numb.”
“How old? Twelve?”
“Yes, that’s right. It’s been a tough few years. And that’s a hard age.” A tremble of lip. And then a harsh: “Who’s responsible for it? How could something like that happen?”
“I don’t know. It will be investigated by the city. They do a good job.”
“We put our faith in things like that. Elevators, buildings, planes, subways! Whoever makes them has to make them safe. How can we know if they’re dangerous? We have to rely!”
Sachs touched her shoulder, pressed. Wondering if the woman was going to dissolve into tears. But Sandy regained composure quickly. “Thank you for coming to tell me that. A lot of people wouldn’t.” It seemed she’d forgotten she’d said this earlier.
“Again. If you need anything.” Sachs placed one of her cards in her hand. They didn’t teach this at the academy and, in truth, she didn’t know what she could do to help the woman. Sachs was running on instinct.
The card disappeared into the jeans that had originally cost three figures.
“I’ll be going now.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you again.”
Sandy picked up her son’s dirty dishes and preceded Sachs out of the doorway.
Near the front hall Sachs once more approached Frommer’s cousin, Bob. She asked, “How do you think she’s doing?”
“Well as can be expected. We’ll do what we can, the wife and me. But we’ve got three kids of our own. I could fit out the garage, I was thinking. I’m handy. The oldest boy too.”
“How do you mean?”
“Our garage. It’s freestanding, you know. Two-car. Heated ’cause I have my workbench out there.”
“They’d come live with you?”
“With somebody and I don’t know who else it’d be.”
“Schenectady?”
Bob nodded.
“They don’t own this place? Rent?”
“Right.” A whisper. “And they’re behind a couple of months.”
“He didn’t have life insurance?”
A grimace. “No. He surrendered it. Needed the money. See, Greg decided he wanted to give back. Quit his job a few years ago and started doing a lot of charity stuff. Midlife crisis or whatever. Working part-time at the mall, so he’d be free to volunteer in soup kitchens and shelters. Good for him, I guess. But it’s been tough on Sandy and Bry.”
Sachs said good night and walked to the door.
Bob saw her out and said, “Oh, but don’t get the wrong idea.”
She turned, lifting an eyebrow.
“Don’t think Sandy regretted it. She stuck by him through it all. Never complained. And, man, did they love each other.”
I’m walking toward my apartment in Chelsea, my womb. My space, good space.
And looking behind me, of course.
No cops are following. No Red, the police girl.
After the scare at the mall, I walked miles and miles through Brooklyn, to a different subway line. I stopped once more for yet another new jacket and new head thing—baseball cap but a tan one. My hair is just blond and short, thinning, but best to keep it covered, I think, when I’m out.
Why give the Shoppers anything to work with?
I’m calming now, finally, heart not racing at every sight of a police car.
It’s taking forever to get home. Chelsea’s a long, long way from Brooklyn. Wonder why it’s called that. Chelsea. I think I heard it was named after some place in England. Sounds English. They have a sports team there named that, I think. Or maybe it’s just someone’s name.
The street, my street, 22nd Street, is noisy but my windows are thick. Womb-like, I was saying. The roof has a deck and I like it up there. Nobody from the building goes, not that I’ve seen. I sit there sometimes and wish I smoked because sitting on an urban outcropping, smoking and watching the city, seems like the essential experience of New York old and New York new.
From the roof you can see the back of the Chelsea Hotel. Famous people stay there but “stay” as in live there. Musicians and actors and artists. I sit in my lawn chair, watch the pigeons and clouds and airplanes and the vista and listen for music from the musicians living in the hotel but I never hear any.
Now I’m at the front door. Another glance behind. No cops. No Red.
Through the doorway and down the corridors of my building. The color of the paint on the walls is dark blue and . . . hospitalian, I think of the shade. My word. Just occurred to me. I’ll tell my brother when I see him next. Peter would appreciate that. The lighting in the hallways is bad and the walls smell like they’re made of old meat. Never thought I’d feel comfortable in a place like this, after growing up in green and lush suburbia. This apartment was meant to be temporary but it has grown on me. And, I’ve learned, the city itself is good for me. I don’t get noticed so much. It’s important for me not to get noticed. Given everything.
So, comfortable Chelsea.
Womb . . .
Inside, I put my lights on and lock the door. I look for intrusion but no one’s intruded. I’m paranoid, some would say, but with my life it’s not really paranoia, now, is it? I sprinkle fish flakes on the fishes’ sky in the tank. This always seems wrong, this diet. But I eat meat and a lot of it. I’m meat too. So what’s the difference? Besides, they enjoy it and I enjoy the mini frenzy. They are gold and black and red and dart like pure impulse.
I go to the bathroom and take a shower, to wash off the worry from the mall. And the sweat too. Even on a cold spring day like this, I am damp with escape sweat.
I put the news on. Yes, after a thousand commercials, a story fades onto the screen about the incident at the shopping center in Brooklyn. The escalator malfunction, the man killed so horribly. And the gunshot! Well, that explains it. A police officer tried to stop the motor and rescue the victim by shooting it out. Didn’t work. Was it Red who fired the futile bullet? If so, I give her credit for ingenuity.
I see a message on the answering machine—yes, old-fashioned.
“Vernon. Hi. Had to work late.”
Feel that tightness in my gut. She going to cancel? But then I learn it’s all right:
“So I’ll be closer to eight. If that’s okay.”
Her tone is flat but then it always is. She’s not a woman with spring in her voice. She has never laughed that I’ve seen.
“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll just come over. If that’s too late, it’s okay. Just call me.”
Alicia’s that way. Afraid something will break if she causes any disturbance, asks too much, disagrees even if to anyone else it’s not disagreement but just asking a question. Or wondering.
I can do anything to her. Anything.
Which I like, I must say. It makes me feel powerful. Makes me feel good. People have done things to me that aren’t so nice. This seems only fair.
I look out the window for Red or any other cops. None.
Paranoia . . .
I check the fridge and pantry for dinner things. Soup, egg rolls, chili without beans, whole chicken, tortillas. Lots of sauces and dips. Cheese.
Skinny bean, Slim Jim. Yeah, that’s me.
But I eat like a stevedore.
I’m thinking of the two sandwiches I had at Starbucks earlier, particularly enjoyed the smoked ham. Recalling the scream, looking out. See Red scanning the coffee shop, not turning toward the scream, like any normal human being would.
Shopper . . . Spitting out the word, in my mind at least.
Furious at her.
So. I need some comfort. I collect my backpack from its perch by the front door and carry it across the room. I punch numbers into the lock for the Toy Room. I installed the lock myself, which is probably not allowed in a rental. They don’t let you do much when you rent. But I pay on time so no one comes to look. Besides I need the Toy Room locked, so it’s locked. All the time.
I undo a strong dead bolt. And then I’m inside. The Toy Room is dim except for the bright halogens over the battered table that holds my treasures. The beams of light dance blindingly off the metal edges and blades, mostly shiny steel. The Toy Room is quiet. I soundproofed it well, carefully cutting and fitting sheets of wood and acoustic material over walls and mounting shutters on the window. One could scream oneself hoarse in here and not be heard outside.
