I crossed Broome Street and looked west and saw the still-shuttered front of Siren. I thought about seeing Nina Sachs there yesterday, and about her parting shot. What’s the matter- you have nothing else to do? You have nothing else to fill your time? The words had been steeped in scorn, but I couldn’t say they were wrong. The prospect of empty time- of restless, dangerous hours filled with nothing but myself- was making me more nervous than usual lately. I wasn’t ready for it just then; in fact, I was afraid of it.
The city was wide awake by the time I reached 16th Street, and the sidewalks were full. I didn’t look for Victor Colonna in the crowd, and I caught no glimpse of him. I went upstairs and let some air into my apartment while it was still fresh. Then I changed into shorts and a T-shirt and went out for a run.
I was gone for over an hour, and there were messages when I returned. The first was from Lauren.
Hey, Johnny, it’s me. Liz told me about your little dustup with David. She said Ned was pissed as hell at him because of it. I know he really appreciates your help on this interview thing. Give me a buzz, will you? I shook my head and skipped to the next message. It was from Jane, and there was no hint of yesterday’s cool sarcasm in it.
I knocked on your door this morning but you’d already left. Can you believe I’m stuck here on a day like this? I’ll be back and forth between the office and the lawyers, but I’ll try you later. Maybe we can do something. There were muffled voices in the background and then Jane again. Okay, got to go. Then Irene Pratt’s voice came on the line.
March? Are you there? Pick up if you’re there. There was a long pause, full of nothing but Pratt’s breathing. All right, I guess you’re not in. Well, call me back- I want to know what’s going on. So
… call me, okay? I showered and pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and punched her number.
“Finally!” she said.
“Everything all right? Have you seen that car again, or that guy?”
“I haven’t seen a thing. Of course, I haven’t been outside today.” She sounded tired.
“You don’t have to hide, Irene.”
“Easy for you to say- nobody broke into your office. Did Tampon call you yet?”
“No.”
“He’s going to.”
“So I figured.”
“You’ll be… discreet when you talk to him, right?” Her voice was tinged with embarrassment.
“I won’t even say your name.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You find out any more about who’s been watching me- about who’s doing all this?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it, and now I’m not the only one. I’ve asked some people I know to give me a hand.” Irene Pratt made an affirmative noise and went quiet. She’d run out of things to say, but she was reluctant to get off the line. Nerves.
“It’s a nice day, Irene, you should go out and enjoy it.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said, without conviction. “But you’ll call me if you find something out, or if your friends do?”
“I’ll call even if I don’t, just to check in.”
Pratt’s voice brightened fractionally. “Talk to you later, then,” she said, and hung up.
I rummaged in my fridge and came out with a bottle of water and a container of yogurt. I took them to the table and switched on my laptop, and while I ate and drank I went over my final report to Nina Sachs. I read through it several times, and each time I did, the CONCLUSIONS section was stubbornly blank.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
21
“You really thought you could get away with it?” It was six-fifteen on Monday morning, and Dennis Turpin’s New England accent was grating even through the telephone. “You didn’t think we’d know it was you?”
I woke up enough to play along. “Who is this?”
“Turpin, from Pace-Loyette, and you haven’t answered my questions, March. What did you think you were doing?”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Jane was nowhere in sight. I went for confused and indignant. “I thought I was sleeping,” I said.
Turpin let out a disgusted sigh. “Go ahead, play games if you want. I’m just calling to find out why I shouldn’t report you to the police and start proceedings to have your license yanked. You’re making the decision easy. If you want a chance to explain yourself, this is it. I’d take it if I were you.”
I stifled a yawn and ran a hand through my hair. “You’re the one playing games, and it’s way too early in the morning. I have no idea what this is about, and I’m not going to guess.”
Turpin’s laugh was harsh. “You expect me to buy that when I practically witnessed your first breakin attempt?”
“Breakin attempt?” It was my turn to laugh. “That’s bullshit and you know it- and it’s old news besides. Why the hell are you calling about that now, at the crack of dawn, for chrissakes?”
“You call it bullshit; I say all that stopped you before was our security. But we weren’t so lucky this time.”
I gave him a dramatic pause. “What this time are you talking about?”
“You’re right, March, it is too early for games. So instead of playing around with you, I’m going to hang up and pour myself another cup of coffee and call the police.” He went quiet, but he didn’t hang up.
I sighed into the phone. “Let me go out on a limb here, Turpin, and guess that there was some kind of breakin at Pace and you think I had something to do with it.”
Turpin snorted. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you didn’t, and that you can account for your time.”
He was as subtle as a hand grenade, but I managed not to laugh. I worked something irate into my voice. “You’re damn right I had nothing to do with it. And what time am I supposed to account for, exactly?”
Turpin huffed, but his confidence was fading. “Screw around, then, but when you hear a knock on the door, remember that you had your chance. And tell your client the police might want to talk to her too. There are conspiracy issues, if she put you up to this.”
I sighed again, and this time I meant it. “For chrissakes, Turpin, give it a rest. I’m not the guy you want, and I think you know it. I’m still looking for Danes and I guess you are too, but we’re not the only ones. If you’d stop threatening me for five minutes, we might be able to figure out who else is working this.” Turpin thought about it for a while, but ultimately it was no sale.
“You had your chance, March,” he said, and hung up.
I put the phone down and pulled the covers up and tried to sleep and didn’t. After ten minutes I got into the shower.
I took myself to breakfast at the Florida Room, an airy spot around the corner from my place, and called Irene Pratt while I drank my orange juice. She was whispering and nervous, but relaxed a little when I told her that my conversation with Turpin had been brief and predictable.
“And he didn’t ask about me?”
“He didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.”
She sighed audibly. “Will he really call the police?”
“I doubt it. I’m pretty sure that was mostly for my benefit. Any sign of the mustache man or his car this morning?”
“Not that I saw. Have you heard anything from those friends of yours, the ones giving you a hand?”
“Nothing yet,” I said. I promised, again, to keep in touch and rang off.
I took a slow walk home, and the whole way I fought the urge to check my back. I was a couple of paces off the corner when I saw him. He was at my building, at the top of the short flight of iron steps that leads to the front door. He was smoking a cigarette and looking at his feet and swinging his backpack absently against the iron railing. His jeans were black and baggy, and his gray T-shirt bore a picture of a robot monkey wearing a gi and swinging a pair of nunchakus. Billy.