TUESDAY
1.
Alicia jumped at the sound of the chime.
After the robbery on Friday, the return of the toys over the weekend, and the molestation incident yesterday, she needed a day off. She'd made her rounds this morning, discharging a two-year-old girl who'd bounced back from a Pneumocystis pneumonia, and hoped to be doing the same with Hector soon. His fever was down, and his latest chest X ray showed partial resolution of his pneumonia. He was on his way.
She would stay in contact with the Center via Raymond throughout the day, and could rush in on a moment's notice if something arose that Collins couldn't handle, but she simply couldn't bring herself to go in today.
She wondered at the ferocity of her reaction yesterday. She'd been out of control—totally out of control—and that frightened her. And worse, the incident had left her physically and emotionally drained.
She needed some time alone, with no phone, no crises. Just her, in her apartment, tending to her plants and trees. They needed her too. She'd been neglecting them lately. Small wonder with the little time she was able to spend here.
She loved her top-floor apartment. Originally it had been designed as an artist's loft, with half a dozen skylights offering light from both north and south, so it perfectly suited the needs of her plants. And its West Village location on Charles Street—a street with trees—was convenient to the Center.
As the bell sounded again, she looked up from the pear sapling she'd been about to cut. Someone in the foyer downstairs, ringing the button to her apartment. She'd figured the first one to be an accident, but this sounded like someone here to see her.
Who on earth… ?
She hardly ever had company. Couldn't remember the last time someone had been here.
Alicia rose and stepped over to the door and studied the intercom panel on the wall to the right. How did this thing work again…? Two buttons—one labeled speaker, the other labeled buzzer. She pressed the one under speaker.
"Yes?"
"Miss Clayton?" said a male voice. "This is Will Matthews, the police detective from yesterday. Can I speak to you for a few minutes?"
Detective Matthews, she thought with a start. What does he want?
He was the one who'd taken her statement. Youngish, about her age, maybe a little older, he'd been kind and sympathetic yesterday, waiting patiently while she got over the shakes and adrenaline letdown that followed the incident.
But why was he here? And why now?
Irrationally, she feared he might have learned of her plans to burn down the house. She couldn't see how, but maybe they'd traced her movements, connected her to Jack or to the people she'd asked about contacting an arsonist. If—
"Miss Clayton?" he said. "Are you there?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I'm here. You just took me by surprise, is all. I didn't expect you. What's this about?"
"Can we speak upstairs… in your place?"
"Of course," she said. "Sorry."
She pressed the buzzer button and held it for a few seconds, then stood back and began to pace.
Be calm, she told herself. It's just about that creep yesterday. Has to be. This detective couldn't possibly know anything else.
She glanced down at her legs and gasped when she realized she was wearing only panties from the waist down.
She rushed into the bedroom and grabbed the bottom half of her sweatsuit. She caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dresser.
You're a mess, she thought. Look at that hair.
She grabbed a brush and tried to straighten out the sleep tangles. Not that she wanted to impress New York City Police Detective Third Grade William Matthews with her looks—far from it—but she at least wanted to look presentable.
Another glance in the mirror, then a shrug—What are you going to do? You can only work with what you've got.
She went back to the apartment door and opened it. She could hear the detective's footsteps on the stairs as he worked his way up. Finally his head appeared above the landing. His face was red, and his overcoat was draped over his shoulder. He stopped and stared at her.
"How many times a day do you do this?" he said, puffing.
"At least four."
He climbed the final steps and shuffled toward her.
"You must be in great shape."
Alicia smiled. "My personal stair master."
Living in a fourth-floor walk-up had its drawbacks—moving in had been utterly exhausting, and it was a pain when she had packages, but she wouldn't trade the studio area and its skylights for anything.
The detective stopped at her threshold. "May I?"
"Of course," she said, stepping back.
As he passed, Alicia saw how his blond hair was receding above the temples on both sides. She hadn't noticed that yesterday. Probably because he kept it cut so short. Even so, he still had a boyish look, especially when he smiled. Tall, good build, clear skin with ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes. Most women probably found him irresistible.
Not Alicia.
"What can I do for you, Detective?" she said as she closed the door and turned to face him. "Something wrong?"
Look casual, she told herself. Caaaasual… relaaaaxed.
"Yes, and no." He looked around, as if searching for a place to put his coat. Alicia said nothing. Don't ask him in. She didn't want him getting too comfortable.
"About yesterday?"
"Right. Floyd Stevens, the man you charged with molesting that child, he's making threatening noises."
"From jail?"
"Oh, he's not in jail. His lawyer got bail set, and he was home in time for dinner."
Damn! She'd hoped he'd have to spend at least one night in a cell with other lowlifes like himself. She'd heard jailbirds tended to get a little rough with child molesters.
"Great," she said. "So he's out on the street where he can make threats and hunt other little kids. What a system."
"Actually, he's not making threats—his lawyer is."
Alicia stiffened. "About what? About finding his pervo client with his hand down a little girl's pants? Fondling a four-year-old's genitals?"
"Well, of course, he says his client did no such thing, that you were completely mistaken and physically assaulted poor Mr. Stevens without the slightest provocation."
"Just what you'd expect a lawyer to say."
"Yeah, but…"
"Yeah, but what?" Alicia swallowed. Her tongue felt like crepe paper. "You're not buying that, are you?"
"No. But I gotta tell you, Kanessa Jackson is no help. That little girl is a ball of confusion."
"Well, what do you expect? She's only four, and she was scared out of her mind."
"And she's… not exactly…"
He seemed to be having trouble settling on the next word, so Alicia helped him out.
"'With it'? Is that what you want to say?"
"I wanted to say retarded, but I'm told no one uses that anymore."
"You were told right. 'Mentally challenged', is currently in vogue, but Kanessa's challenges go far beyond mental. She's not only HIV positive, she was also a crack baby. She got zero prenatal care. Before she was born she lived inside a woman named Anita Jackson who was stoned out of her mind most of the time; and when Anita wasn't high, she was having sex any which way you can imagine to get the cash for her next vial of rock. Finally, after seven months of abuse, her uterus spit Kanessa out into the world in an alley. We're not sure when—either during or shortly after she was born—Kanessa's brain didn't get quite all the oxygen it needed, leaving her in a state of bemused confusion most of the time."
She watched Matthews squeeze his eyes shut.
"Christ," he muttered. "Talk about child abuse."