Читать книгу Embracing The Fool - Dawn Leger - Страница 5

Whatever good he was as an attorney, at least Phil had done something productive for my day by suggesting that the knife had value as a piece of evidence. I hurried to my second home, a storage unit on the West Side Highway that cost more than my rent but held the real contents of my former homes.

Unlike the sparse existence that I presented to Michael and my students, these boxes were filled with lush fabrics and mementos of my dark paneled brownstone in Somerville, collected during the years I spent in Cambridge completing my studies at Harvard and then researching abroad. I’d carefully boxed up and stored everything here as if I was waiting for another trip to be over, so unsure was I of my place in New York. Larger pieces were wrapped tightly in movers’ blankets or wrapped in thick plastic, and I dragged a loving finger over some of my favorite things for old time’s sake. I smiled at a memory of better times in my sleigh bed as I passed the curved wood of the headboard, and moved on to the business at hand.

I knew precisely where the photo albums were, and with them the cataloged boxes of pictures from my research, which was where I’d find the section on weapons. I moved to the wall where stacks of numbered bankers’ boxes were neatly lined up. It was astonishing to my deeply ingrained sense of order that several of my boxes were not where I had left them, however, and the presence of boot tracks in the dust indicated that someone else had invaded my privacy. I made notes of which boxes were missing, and took some quick photos with my cell phone of the interrupted stacks as well as the boot print.

I went back to the steel door and inspected the lock. It didn’t appear to have been tampered with, and probably had been picked open by a pro. No lock was impenetrable, I knew. But of all the things in this room, and there were many to take, why remove my photos?

I smashed the lock back in place and stepped into the elevator, punching the numbers of my cell phone as quickly as the floors dinged past.

“Father, dearest, are you still with Uncle Phil?” I asked. “Good, stay there and order another coffee. I’m coming back, and this time, I’ll be asking the questions.”

When I arrived, the two older men had moved on to lunch and were tackling club sandwiches with gusto.

“Geez, Dad, you’d think you hadn’t eaten for…hours,” I said, slipping into the booth next to him. “Did you at least go for a walk in between meals?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. “The High Line.”

I waited for him to complete his sentence, never before having heard such a fragmented utterance spoken by my father. I looked at Phil. “What have you done to him? He’s become, I don’t know, illiterate, in a single morning,” I said.

Phil laughed, mouth full. I cringed, putting up a hand.

“Please, Phil, don’t let me interrupt your enjoyment of your lunch. Let me talk. Miss, can I get a glass of unsweetened ice tea with lemon please? Thank you. So, Dad, and Phil, of course, after I left you, I went to look for a photograph of the knife I described to you earlier. And what I found was that my storage unit has been broken into. Yes, it’s such a coincidence, and the only thing that was taken is my carton of photographs cataloging those weapons of interest. I mean, what are the chances? And such considerate bandits, they didn’t disturb anything else in the unit at all. The only thing I noticed was a boot print. The lock on the door wasn’t even damaged. What do you think of that? Dad? Phil?”

My father shook his head and stuck an entire large potato chip in his mouth, averting his eyes from mine. Phil continued to take large bites of his sandwich, his watery blue eyes never leaving my face. The waitress brought my drink.

“You want anything else, hon?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“You guys all set? Okay, just holler if you need me.”

“Phil, did you arrange to have my photos taken while we were meeting here this morning?" I asked. "Why didn’t you just ask me to bring them?”

“Me?” he said. “I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know about the knife until you remembered to tell me just a little while ago, right, Les? You know, just ‘cause I come from Jersey don’t mean I’m a crook.”

“Of course not,” I said.

I turned to my father, who quickly stuffed a piece of sandwich in his mouth.

“Why didn’t you just say you wanted to see the photos, Dad? I would have brought them here, or you to them.”

We sat in silence.

“So, you think this is the family,” I said. “But why? And what does it have to do with me? Maybe it’s just a coincidence.”

He huffed, a sound like choking, but I got the message. In life, in that family, there were no coincidences.

I signaled the waitress.

“Can I order? I’d like a cheeseburger, medium rare, add a couple of pieces of bacon and a pickle. And fries, please,” I said.

I looked at the two men.

“What the hell,” I said. I pulled a moleskin notebook out of my bag and started sketching the knife.

After the burger, fries, and two Tums, I had a good sketch of the knife and a list of the jewels that I recalled from the handle.

“I still don’t know what this was doing in Neville’s throat,” I said.

“Murder,” Phil said.

“Helpful that is not,” I said, giving my father a fist bump. “If we assume that this was intended to set me up,” I began.

“Or warn you away from something,” my father inserted.

“Whatever that means, okay,” I said, continuing. “Then I have to admit that removing the photos from my storage unit may be wise, except of course that no one could tie that unit to me, but it still doesn’t remove me from scrutiny by the police, which is my most pressing problem at the moment.”

“No, we’ll be able to handle that,” Phil said.

“How?” I asked.

“Where was the knife? On which side of the neck?” he asked.

“Well, his head was on the desk like so,” I put my head down on the now-empty table, my left cheek resting on my left arm crossed under it. “And the knife was stuck in right here.” I indicated a spot on my throat, right over the carotid artery.

“Perfect!” Phil said.

“Really?” I raised my head. “Why is that perfect?”

“I’ve been observing you drawing the knife and you are obviously left-handed. This crime must have been committed by a right-handed person,” he said.

“Listen, Perry Mason, I don’t think it’s going to be that simple,” I said.

“No, simple it can be,” Father said. “Let simple be the way.”

“Jesus.”

They were beaming.

“All right, Simple Simons, let’s go with that as my defense. Now all we have to worry about is who’s trying to set me up to look like a murderer. Maybe that’s a simple ‘family affair’ as well. Any thoughts on that one, Dad?” I asked.

“Many thoughts I have,” he answered. “A call to nature I must first heed.”

“You’re not leaving this booth without putting a twenty on the table,” I said.

I looked over at Phil.

“He’s famous for the ‘nature’s call’ ditching the bill trick. Pony up, partner.”

I refused to move out of the booth until my father placed a bill on the table.

“A cruel woman you have become, tormenting an old man,” he said.

“You’re not old,” I said to his back as he hustled to the restroom.

“So, Phil, tell me, how well do you know my family?” I asked.

“I’ve known your father for years,” he said.

“I was referring to the maternal side,” I said.

“Oh, well, that’s more interesting, and ah, perhaps, we should talk about that another time, I’ve already exceeded my time today…” he said.

My father appeared and Phil was gone, down the same hallway.

“Why, do you have a curfew at the institution?” I asked his retreating back.

He nodded. “The calendar holds for us what next?”

“That is another excellent question,” I said. “Am I to assume that the box that was removed from my storage unit is going to remain inaccessible for a while, or might we be able to take a look inside?”

“Oh,” he said.

“Ah,” I said. “I guess we have to turn our thoughts in another direction. Okay. Not the most far-sighted decision you’ve ever made, Dad, but I give you credit for good intentions.”

He gave me a smile.

“We could call your mother and ask if there’s anything she wants to tell us,” he suggested.

“Seriously?” I asked. “Are you in touch with her? Don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. And no, I don’t want to call her.”

I saw his big brown eyes go soft again.

“No, Father, I do not agree that bearding the wolf in her den is a good idea, no matter how many times you try to tell me the story can have a happy ending. In my experience, the wolf always eats the visitor. And I am not in the mood to be anybody’s meal, thank you anyway.”

“But your mother loves you,” he said.

“Let’s move to Plan B, shall we?” I replied. “And where the hell is Phil? Did he ditch us?”

After my father checked the men’s room and determined that Phil was gone, we paid the check and started walking down 11th Avenue. It was a beautiful fall afternoon and we enjoyed the weather, if not the roar of cars and helicopters zooming past. Eventually we arrived back at the storage facility and rode up the elevator in silence, not resuming our conversation until we were seated in two chairs that I uncovered and moved to the center of the crowded space. With a couple of lamps strategically illuminated and the metal door almost completely closed, we were sealed in a fairly secure but very comfortable safe room.

“Go,” I said.

“Phil went to see what the cops have so far. He’ll call me when he has a report,” he said. He pulled a key out of his pocket and tossed it at me. “The box of photographs is in a smaller unit at the end of the hall, number 3319. No need to take it out of the building.”

“Good one,” I said. I gave him a thumbs-up. “But tell your guy he was sloppy on the boot print. That could cost him next time.”

I snuggled deeply in the plush upholstery of the armchair.

“God, I miss this chair" I said. "I’m going to bring it to my apartment soon. I hate the crap I have in there now.”

“Will you be staying here, in New York, then?” he asked.

I sighed. “I don’t know. I thought so, but now….It’s hard to say.”

I pulled out my phone and scrolled down until I found a list of people.

“So, here’s a list of people in the writing group. Should we go through the names and see what we come up with?”

“Do you really think it’s one of them?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Why not?” I asked.

“Well, I’m certain that you could probably find motive for one or two people to want to kill Neville in that group, but the issue is, who would want to implicate you as the killer? If you can find one person with the motive for both of those things, then you hit the jackpot.” He looked at me. “Does someone in the group have both of those motives? Have you made such an enemy in so short a time? Because then it really has nothing to do with your family, and the knife is…a coincidence.”

The silence of the room was broken suddenly by a loud boom followed by a whirring noise. I jumped.

“It’s probably the air conditioning, or maybe the elevator,” he said. We waited.

Eventually the sound stopped and we remained quiet in our respective club chairs. Dad shrugged. “Passed us by, it seems the danger has,” he said.

“We’ll see,” I agreed.

“Now, tell me more about this Neville person. What would make one want to stick a knife in his throat?”

I hesitated, then got up and quietly sidled to the door. In a swift movement, I bent down, grasped the handle and jerked the door overhead, revealing Detective Friday leaning against the jamb, notebook in hand.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Don’t mind me. Go ahead and tell your father what would make someone want to stick a knife in Neville Carstair’s throat.”

I glared at him. “Can I help you, Detective?”

“You can answer the question,” he said.

“I have no idea. Why don’t you answer it? I think that’s your job, not mine. Right?”

I pulled out my cell phone and punched in Phil’s number.

“Who are you calling?” Friday asked.

“My attorney,” I said.

“Why would you need to do that? We’re just talking here,” he said.

“I’m not talking to you. Do you have a warrant?” I asked.

Phil’s phone stopped ringing, and a helpful female voice told me that the voicemail box had not yet been set up. Who on earth did not have voicemail in this day and age? I thought.

“What is all this stuff?” he said, looking over my shoulder into the unit.

I tried to block his path, adopting a “power pose” with my legs apart and my fists on my hips, but that did not stop him from leaning into the shadows and snapping a photo with his cell phone. I grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it down behind me.

“I’m sorry. Did I not ask you if you had a warrant?” I said.

He looked at his watch.

“On the way,” he said. “Anytime now.”

“Well, let me know when you have it then,” I said.

I pulled up the door, and slipped into the room, quickly closing it off behind me.

“Dad, did you get that?” I hissed.

“Yes,” he said. “Help is on the way, worry not.”

“We don’t have much time,” I said.

“Cassandra, what is there to be concerned about? There’s nothing incriminating in this unit, is there?” he asked.

“Well, no,” I said slowly. “But still, I don’t want anyone going through my stuff. And finding out about, well, you know, my personal life. This is private. How did he find me here, anyway? Were they following us all day? Did you notice anything?”

“No,” he said. “Look, I know how you feel. We’ll have a short window of opportunity to move some of your things, but we can’t move all of them, there’s just not enough time. So whatever you want to move, figure it out fast, and we’ll put it into the other unit down the hall. But be quick…”

“How can we do that? Detective Friday is standing right outside.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Father!”

“Just go and separate what you want to be moved, and be quick about it. When I say go, get ready to move. All right?”

“I still don’t get how he found me….” I grumbled, but I turned and went over to my stacks of boxes. How was I supposed to decide which to move and which to leave? Everything was important, in one sense or another. This was impossible.

“I’m an art history major, not a murderer, for heaven’s sake,” I said aloud.

“Shhhh,” came the response.

Shortly thereafter I heard the whine of the elevator again, some scuffling and then the clatter of the door being raised. Two young men were ushered to the back of the unit by my father, who was flushed and disheveled.

“Which boxes?” he asked. “And I’ll be needing that key I gave you earlier, please.”

“I need all of them, so just start moving. Start here,” I said.

“There’s got to be fifty of them here,” Father said. “They may not all fit. Well, do your best, boys. I’ll get the door open, follow me.”

He grabbed a box and each of the hired hands took two and followed him out. I took one and almost tripped over the legs of Detective Friday, propped by the entrance. He seemed to be out cold.

“Should I ask?” I said when I saw my father on his way back for another box. He shook his head.

Phil arrived with a large moving dolly and soon the boxes were gone.

“Anything else?” he asked me, wiping sweat from his brow with a large white handkerchief.

“Well, if you have time, I’d really like that armoire and the hope chest moved, too,” I said.

He signaled the two lackeys and then spread his hands magnanimously.

“Is that all?”

“I guess…” I said.

“Fine,” he said. “Now, not to be crude, but, make yourself comfortable, just turn around and…”

Boom, I was out like a light. The next thing I knew, Detective Friday was shaking my shoulder and I opened my eyes to find the dimly lit room spinning around me.

“Oh, no, you’re not going to hurl again, are you?” He moved away.

“No, I don’t think so,” I croaked.I put my hand up to feel a large egg on the back of my head.

“Damn, what happened?” I asked him. “Somebody hit me on the head.”

“Me too,” he said. “Quite a coincidence. Looks like a lot of your stuff is gone.”

I tried to move my head but almost blacked out with the effort.

“Can you help me get up?” I asked him. “Did you call for back-up or anything?”

“Yeah, about a half hour ago,” he said, shaking his walkie-talkie. “I probably should go down to the car and call from there. It looks like the reception is bad in here. Do you think you need an ambulance or something?”

He pulled me up on one of the covered chairs.

“Can you focus your eyes on me?” he asked.

I tried to stop my eyes from spinning in my head, but it was difficult, and I wasn’t really motivated: although I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out—and truthfully, I was a little put out by the blow—I thought it might be helpful to give the gang some getaway time, so I decided to play up my infirmity.

“I might have a head injury, I really can’t see straight and things keep blacking out. In fact, there’s a loud ringing in my head right now,” I said.

“That’s the elevator alarm,” he said. “Looks like we might have caught a live one in there.”

He grinned.

“Mind if I leave you alone for a minute?”

He stood up and I grabbed his arm.

“Please, don’t leave me here all alone,” I said. “What if they come back? Maybe they’ll kill me, too. Or I could have a seizure or die while you’re gone. I’d really rather you stay here until someone else arrives. Please, officer. What did you say your name was again?”

“You know damned well my name is Friday, so don’t play games with me,” he said. “I have to go and pursue the perp, ma’am, and I can’t even call for help from in here, so my staying here with you is not going to help your situation at all. You just sit tight here and I’ll be right back.”

“But what if they come back and find out that I’m still alive, and they kill me?”

“I’ll catch ‘em before they get here, don’t worry,” he said, trying to pry my fingers off his forearm.

“But, but what if I die before you get here? What if there’s a giant hematoma in my brain that’s about to explode, or something like that?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said as he got the last finger off. “And believe me, I would be of no use to you if it does. The only thing I could do is watch it happen, and neither one of us wants that. So just let me run down to the car, call for help, and I’ll be right back.”

He was gone before I could launch another offensive, and I collapsed against the chair as soon as I heard his footsteps down the corridor.

“Ouch,” I said as my head hit the cushion.

That really hurt, Phil, I thought. I hope they got the other unit locked down before Friday regained consciousness, but it seemed like they had gotten away cleanly. I stayed in my seat, uncertain if Friday wasn’t waiting to spring a trap on me right outside the door.

I must have drifted off again. There were paramedics and cops swarming the room when I came to again, and soon I was on my way to Bellevue for a head CT.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked Friday when I passed him in the hallway.

He was holding a cold pack over his temple.

“Nah, I been hit harder than this before,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you later, so you can tell me what’s missing.”

“I can tell you right now,” I said. “It’s all the files of papers for my dissertation research, and I have no idea why anyone would want to steal that stuff. There’s absolutely nothing of value there to anyone but me. It’s all just paper!” I yelled as the gurney rolled down the hall.

I don’t think he believed me, but I would do my damnedest to make him.