The wind coming off the bay blew the tears off my cheeks, and I was filled with gratitude for the unexpected gift of his visit and the night ahead. I still had an unopened bottle of Courvoisier in the liquor cabinet. And massage oil in the nightstand… I thought about the delicious coolness of the air and how much heat Joe and I could turn up just lying together, before even reaching out our hands to touch.
"Why don't you come upstairs?" I finally said. "We don't have to talk on the street."
Something dark crossed his features as he came toward me and gently, deliberately, encircled my shoulders with his large hands.
"I want to come in," he said, "but I'll miss my flight. I just had to tell you, don't give up on me. Please."
Joe put his arms around me and pulled me to him. Instinctively, I stiffened, folded my arms over my chest, dropped my chin.
I didn't want to look up into his face. Didn't want to be charmed or swayed, because inside of three minutes, I'd ridden the entire Joe Molinari roller coaster.
Just over a week ago I'd steeled myself to break away from him because of this damned magic trick of his – now he's here, now he's not.
Nothing had changed!
I was furious. And I couldn't let Joe open me up only to let me down again. I looked at his face for the last time, and I pushed away from him.
"I'm sorry. Really. For a moment I thought you were someone else. You'd better go now," I sputtered. "Have a safe flight."
He was calling my name as I ran as fast as I could up the front steps of my building. I put my key in the lock and turned the knob in one movement. Then I slammed the door behind me and continued to run up the stairs. When I walked into my apartment, I had to go to the window, though.
I parted the curtain – just in time to see Joe's car drive away.
Chapter 99
MY PHONE STARTED RINGING before I dropped the curtain back across the glass. I knew Joe was calling from the car, and I had nothing to say to him.
I showered for a good long time, fifteen or twenty minutes under the spray. When I got out of the shower, the phone was still ringing. I ignored this call, too. Ditto the furiously blinking light on my answering machine and the tinny chime of my cell phone paging me from my jacket pocket.
I tossed my dinner in the microwave. I opened the Courvoisier and had poured out a tumblerful when my cell phone started up its damned ringing again.
I grabbed it out of my jacket pocket, growled, "Boxer," fully prepared to say, "Joe, leave me alone, okay?" I felt an inexplicable letdown when the voice in my ear was my partner's.
Rich said, "What's it take to get you to answer the phone, Lindsay?" He was annoyed with me and I didn't care.
"I was in the shower," I said. "As far as I know, that's still allowed. What's up?"
"There was another attack at the Blakely Arms."
The air went out of me.
"A homicide?"
"I'll let you know when I get there. I'm a couple of blocks away."
"Lock down the building. Every exit," I said. "No one leaves."
"I'm on it, Sergeant."
That's when I remembered the treadmill victim. How could I have forgotten about him?
"Rich, we forgot to check on Ben Wyatt."
"No, we didn't."
"You called the hospital?"
"Yeah."
"Is Wyatt awake?"
"He died two hours ago."
I told Rich I'd see him shortly and called Cindy – no answer. I snapped my phone closed, slapped it down on the kitchen counter so that I wouldn't throw it through a window. The microwave binged five times, telling me that dinner was ready.
"I'm going to lose my mind!" I shouted at the timer. "Going to fricking lose it."
Screw everything! I left the brandy untouched on the counter and my dinner in the microwave. I dressed quickly, buckled my shoulder holster, and threw on my blazer. I called Cindy and got her, told her what was happening.
Then I headed out to Townsend and Third.
By the time I strode into the lobby of the Blakely Arms, I was imagining my next conversation with Cindy. I wasn't going to take any guff from her, either.
She was going to move in with me until she had somewhere safe to live.
Chapter 100
CINDY WAS WAITING AT THE ENTRANCE to the Blakely Arms, her streaky blond curls blown every which way. Her lipstick looked chewed off.
"Jesus," she said. "Again? Is this really happening again?"
"Cindy," I said as we entered the lobby, "has there been any talk in the building? Any gossip? Any fingers pointed toward anyone?"
"Only thing I've heard is the nasty sound of people's nerves snapping."
We took the elevator together, and once again I was standing outside an apartment in the Freaky Arms that was bristling with uniformed cops.
Conklin nodded to Cindy, then introduced me to Aiden Blaustein. He was a tall white kid, about twenty-two, wearing black-on-black-on-black – torn jeans, Myst T-shirt, vest, a patched leather jacket, and choppy black hair that was short in back, falling across panicky brown eyes.
Conklin said, "Mr. Blaustein is the victim."
I heard Cindy say, "Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Would you spell your name for me?"
I exhaled. The kid was alive and unhurt but obviously scared half out of his mind.
"Can you tell me what happened?" I asked Blaustein.
"Fuck if I know! I went out for a six-pack around five," he said. "Ran into an old girlfriend and we got a bite. When I came home, my place had been totally trashed."
Conklin pushed open Blaustein's front door, and I walked inside the studio apartment, Cindy trailing behind me.
"Stay close -" I said.
"And don't touch anything," she finished.
The apartment looked like an electronics shop that had been trampled by a rhino on crack. I took a quick count of a desktop computer, three monitors, a stereo, and a forty-two-inch plasma-screen television that had been reduced to shards. Not stolen – destroyed! The desk was banged up, probably collateral damage.
Blaustein said, "It took me years to get all this together just the way I like it."
"What kind of work do you do?" Cindy asked.
"I design Web sites and games. This stuff cost probably twenty-five."
"Mr. Blaustein," I said, "when you went out, did you leave your door open?"
"I never leave my door open."
"Mr. Blaustein left the music on when he left the apartment," Rich said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but he didn't look at me.
"Did anyone complain to you about the music?" I asked.
"Today?"
"Ever," I said.
"I've gotten nasty phone calls from one person," Blaustein said.
"And who was that?"
"You mean, did he tell me his name? He didn't even say hello. His opening line was 'If you don't turn off that shit, I'm gonna kill you.' That was the first time. We've had these shouting matches a couple of times a week for a while now. All the time, cursing me. Cursing my children."
"You have kids?" I asked, unable to imagine it.
"No. He cursed any future children I might have."
"So what did you do?"
"Me? I know swearwords this dude never heard before. Thing is, I would've recognized the guy's voice if I'd heard it before. My ears are, like, good enough to be insured by Lloyd's of London. But I don't know him. And I know everyone who lives here. I even know her," he said, pointing to Cindy. "Third floor, right?"
"And you're saying no one else in the building complained about your sound system?"
"No, because A, I only work during the day, and B, we're allowed to play music until eleven p.m. Besides which, C, I don't play the music loud."